by Lynn Kurland
Alex looked at the young girl who stood nearby looking like she could really use a nap. "What's your name?"
"Frances, my lord," she said, bobbing.
"You're back on duty, Frances. Amery, I have to go, but I promise you I'll come right back." How much English Amery understood, Alex couldn't have said, but it was for darn sure he understood the tone in Alex's voice because he began to howl. Alex kissed Amery on the cheek, then extricated himself from the boy's clutching grasp. Frances took the screaming bundle; fortunately she seemed to be stronger than she looked. Alex swung up into the saddle. "I'll be back," he said, coming close to a shout to be heard over Amery's bellowing. "Amery, I'll be back!"
Well, logic wasn't doing any good. Alex turned Beast toward the gate and urged him forward. The sooner he made sure Margaret wasn't in over her head, the better he would like it.
Eleven
It was a perfect day for foul deeds. Not only was it cold as hell outside, it was drizzling. Alex hadn't ridden a mile before his jeans were soaked and his hair was plastered to his head. His leather coat was some protection, but what he wouldn't have given for a nice four-wheel drive with a good heater and functioning windshield wipers. Beast was anything but pleased with the weather and wasn't shy about letting Alex know as much. He had his hands full trying to control the spirited gelding. Just when Alex thought he couldn't become any more uncomfortable, a wind picked up out of the north. The arctic breezes left him feeling as though he wore nothing at all. He longed for a hot shower as he had never longed for anything else in his life.
Before long they were greeted by the sound of raucous laughter and coarse jests.
Alex threw George a look. "Wonderful."
"You have no sword, my lord—"
"I won't need one," Alex said as he thundered around a grouping of poorly made huts. He ducked as he saw a man lift a crossbow and point it at him. Margaret's knight behind him cried out in pain. Alex would have turned to offer aid, but he was too preoccupied with the horror before him.
Margaret's six knights were dead, along with a dozen of her peasants. Blood was everywhere; on the buildings, seeping into the mud, on discarded weapons. Horrible as that was, that wasn't what sent him into an almost mindless panic.
Margaret was currently trying to keep half a dozen men at bay while another half dozen looked on and laughed uproariously, shouting suggestions to her on how to defend herself.
Arrows started flying, and Alex's only thought was to get to the ground and take Margaret there with him. If he could just get to her, he thought he might be able to get her out of there. "Margaret!"
She whirled around to look at him. Alex's warning shout died in his throat. The largest and ugliest of Brackwald's knights grabbed her from behind and laid his sword across her throat.
The sounds of battle raged around him, but all Alex could do was stare at Margaret held captive by that hulking man and know that he was part of the reason she found herself there.
"Damn it!" he exclaimed, his eyes locked with hers. "George!" he shouted.
"Aye?" George called back. "I need help!"
"I'm a bit pressed at the moment," George said tightly. "See to it yourself, won't you? I'll save one of these for questioning. Bloody whoresons, who wants to live?"
Alex swallowed and looked back at Brackwald's soldier. The man pressed his blade more firmly against Margaret's throat and grinned.
"Looks like I have something you want," he said, spitting a huge glob of mucus at Alex.
Alex didn't flinch as it hit him on the neck. "I'd let her go, if I were you," he warned.
Geez, even saying it sounded stupid. As if he had anything to back that up with! A battle of impressive proportions raged around him, and he could only stand there, weaponless, and try to reason with a man who didn't exactly radiate excessive intelligence. If he didn't do some pretty fine talking, Margaret would be dead and he would be responsible. The slightest turn of the blade and her throat would be slit.
She was as still as a statue. She wasn't weeping or pleading for mercy. For all her expression revealed, she might have been strolling in the lists, looking over her men.
Then again, there was the look in her eye. He flattered himself that she looked a bit relieved to see him. But it didn't take a brain surgeon to determine that even though she might be somewhat happy to see a friendly face, she was also convinced he couldn't do a damn thing to save her.
It took him about a split second to make up his mind. He could bide his time and hope George and the six knights they'd brought along could finish all of Brackwald’s boys, then still have enough energy to deal with Margaret's captor. Or he could deal with her captor himself, which meant breaking the vow he'd made to himself to never again harm another human being.
His vow, or Margaret's life.
The choice was very easy to make.
He shrugged out of his leather coat and looked at the man.
"Fight me for her."
Margaret closed her eyes and a shudder went through her.
"Hey," Alex said crossly, "I can do this."
Margaret opened her eyes and looked at him. She said nothing out loud, but her eyes said I certainly hope so. Alex scowled at her, then turned his attentions back to the man who held her captive. He ignored the sickening fear that made his arms and legs feel like they were going to sleep.
"I think I'll be keepin' her," the man said, still grinning. He gave Margaret a squeeze.
"Why don't you take me instead," Alex offered. "I'm worth more to you than she is."
The man spat again. "Who're you?"
"Alexander of Seattle, friend to the king, beloved of Lord Brackwald. If it's gold you're after, I'm your man. I'll bring you far more than she will."
"How much?" the man asked calculatingly.
"More than she will. Trust me."
Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Margaret's right fingers inching something out of her sleeve. Probably a knife. Well, in the time it would take her to move her body and skewer her captor's family jewels, her captor would have dragged his blade across her throat. If only someone would shove the tip of the blade forward so Margaret could wrench away. No, that would take more luck than anyone in the group had at the moment. Alex knew it was up to him to work this out.
"Of course, I'm only worth something to the man who can take me." He shrugged. "I suppose that man won't be you."
The unkempt knight's reaction was so quick, Alex hardly had time to react. Fortunately Margaret was quicker witted than he was, and she managed to avoid the man's blade as he shoved her and sent her sprawling.
Then Alex realized he had much more pressing problems to deal with—such as a medieval knight covered in mail, brandishing a sword and planning on having him for dessert. And there he stood in jeans, a denim shirt, and hiking boots. No sword, just his good looks and wits.
Heaven help him.
"A sword?" Alex asked hopefully.
"Can ye wield one?" the grinning giant of a man asked.
Alex checked out the surrounding terrain with as much peripheral vision as he could spare. "Maybe," he said slowly,' 'if I could figure out which end to pick it up by—'' Brackwald's knight lunged. Alex ducked and rolled. He came up with a sword in his hands. The hilt was slippery with someone's blood; Alex was only grateful it wasn't his. Yet.
It had been a while since anyone had tried to kill him, and he immediately realized how out of practice he was. Parrying for exercise was not quite the same thing as fighting for your life, even if your sparring partner was James MacLeod.
He winced the first time the tip of the man's sword glanced off his shoulder. Warmth immediately saturated his shirt. Great. All he needed was a body covered with wounds sewn up by a medieval healer. Another cut on his forearm was all it took for him to decide he'd had enough. Damn, but he was out of shape. And he was unprotected. What he wouldn't have given for a good mail shirt. Though he'd fought half naked against medieval clansmen, he'd also been
fresh from his days of piracy and several weeks of MacLeod Swordfighting 201.
"I should have paid more attention in class," he muttered as he wrenched his back spinning out of the way of a thrusting blade.
He didn't spin fast enough. He'd escaped the man's forehand, but the backhand was there faster than he'd anticipated. He held the blade away with his own borrowed sword, but his elbows were bending in ways they weren't designed to. Alex felt cold, hard fear in a way he hadn't ever experienced in his life.
I am going to die in medieval England. His mind screamed for him to find a way of escape, but he knew there was none. Another few seconds and his arms would give way and that blade would come ripping through his side. The man bearing down on him was grinning madly. And then, quite suddenly, a look of astonishment came over the man's face.
The pressure against Alex's sword eased and the man began to lean to one side. He kept leaning until he met the ground. Alex looked down in surprise. A knife was protruding from his back.
Margaret didn't waste any time with pleasantries. She jerked her knife free of the man's back, then grabbed Alex and spun him away from her.
"Back to back," she barked. "Do the best you can."
"The best I can?" Alex spluttered. "He didn't have me. I was on the verge of—"
Margaret's elbow connected with his kidney and Alex shut his mouth abruptly. He held up his sword, grateful he was still alive to do it, and looked around him for another foe.
But the battle was over. George was herding a pair of bound Brackwald knights to horses.
"Wounded first, burying last," Margaret said, stepping away.
Alex almost lost his balance. Margaret turned him around and put her hand on his shoulder. Her fingers came away bloody. Alex started to pull on his sleeve, but she stopped him. She cut off both his sleeves and bound them over the worst of the cuts. Alex put his hand on her arm.
"Thank you."
She pulled away.
Alex caught her by the arm and tried to turn her back to him. She turned and the look she gave him almost brought him to his knees, it was so cold. As if he meant nothing to her.
And it was then he realized just exactly how much she meant to him.
Why had he ever tried to go home? He'd been kidding himself. He'd never in all his days met a woman like Margaret of Falconberg. He would have spent the rest of the twentieth century and a healthy chunk of the twenty-first looking for someone like her and he never would have been satisfied.
And now he had chosen to stay in medieval England.
With this woman.
Who couldn't stand the sight of him.
Well, this was the first hurdle to be overcome. Maybe if he could get his arms around her and keep them there long enough, she actually might forgive him for leaving her. And while he had her in his arms, he would tell her all the details he'd left out and maybe that would soften her heart. And once she'd forgiven him, he would give serious thought to figuring out how to have a future with her, because he damn well couldn't imagine a future without her.
Well, there was no time like the present to start.
"I think I'm going to faint," he said, putting his hand to his brow. If it could work for Scarlett O'Hara, it could work for him.
"By the bloody saints," Margaret muttered.
Alex swooned.
Her arms were around him. This was a good sign.
"Must you be such a weak-kneed woman?" she demanded.
Alex gritted his teeth. He bit his tongue while he was at it. She had her arms around him, and he didn't care how that was accomplished.
"Get me home," he said weakly. "But don't forget my coat."
Margaret cursed, but reached down and picked up his coat just the same. She pulled his arm over her shoulder and grasped him firmly around the waist. She was muttering under her breath and sounding very disgusted, but she was holding him. Alex vowed right then that he'd be out in the lists just as soon as he stopped bleeding. He'd already broken his vow never to pick up another sword. There was no sense in not going the rest of the way.
Margaret led him to Beast. "Can you ride?"
"Not without help." He looked at her and tried to look faint. It wasn't much of an effort. In fact, he was starting to feel a little light-headed.
"Oh, but you're a useless piece of baggage!" she exclaimed as she held his stirrup. Alex managed to get his foot-up and Margaret shoved him up into the saddle. She swung up behind him without effort. She wrapped her arms around him and took the reins away.
Alex closed his eyes. All right, so getting to this point had been humiliating. The end certainly justified the means. "Alex!"
He jerked awake and realized he'd almost fallen off his horse.
"We must needs make haste," she said, kicking Beast into a gallop. "Stay in the saddle, won't you?"
"I think you'll have to hold me there—"
She swore in frustration.
Every yard was another agony and by the time they reached the castle, Alex didn't care if Margaret's arms were around him or not. What he wanted was a shot of Demerol and a soft bed.
Margaret got him up the stairs. Alex wasn't quite sure how she managed it, but she was obviously stronger than she looked. The mist in his head cleared long enough for him to find himself being dumped rather gently, all things considered, into a chair. He leaned his head back and watched Margaret throw his coat on the bed, then lean over and shrug out of her mail. The sleeve of her padded undershirt was stained with blood.
"You're hurt," he said, struggling to sit upright. "Let me look at it."
"And what would you know of healing?"
"My father is a healer. I learned a lot from him."
She shot him a look of pure frost. "Which is the lie, how your sire earns his bread or your claim to spurs? Both cannot be true."
Well, it just wasn't his day.
"In Seattle a healer is a very important, usually very wealthy man." He looked at her unflinchingly. "And that's the truth."
"And your claim to knighthood?"
"I never claimed anything. It just seemed best to let people assume what they wanted to."
She could have wilted an entire field with that look.
"All right," he said with a sigh. "I lied."
She pursed her lips. "I should have known."
"Look," he said, trying to get to his feet, "I promise I'll tell you all the truth and anything else you want to know just as soon as we get ourselves sewn up." He found himself back on the chair suddenly, thanks to her hand in the middle of his chest. "At least trust me to know what to do with a cut."
"I'll wait for my own surgeon," she said, turning away from him.
"Make way," a rusty voice said imperiously from the hallway. "I've come to heal."
Margaret looked at him with raised eyebrows. "And so he appears. A true healer."
A filthy old man with a bag of leeches and an armful of pouches containing heaven-only-knew-what entered the room as if he were the king.
"All stand aside," he said, as if he spoke to a room full of people instead of just two. "I'm here to heal the lady Margaret."
"I don't think so," Alex said.
''And what would you know of it, sir knight?'' the man asked, coughing and spewing spittle all over the room. "Not much, I'll wager." The man reached into his bag and pulled out a slimy leech. "Your arm, Lady Falcon-berg."
Margaret might have had nerves of steel, but slugs obviously made her queasy. Alex watched her turn several shades of green before her color settled into a nice, pasty white. She sat down on the bed with a thump.
"Ah, my good man," Alex said, diverting said healer's attention, "these wounds here are too trivial for one of your great skill. I'm certain there are others below with more need of you than us."
The old man turned a bloodshot eye on him. "And who'll tend you both? You, sir knight, look to have little enough blood to spare, but a good draining would likely serve you well."
"I'm handy with a needle," A
lex said quickly. "I can tend the lady Margaret."
The old man looked at him skeptically. "What know you of healing?"
"A small amount," Alex said. "And should I have a question, be assured I will send for you posthaste."
"Aye, Master Jacob," Margaret said faintly. " 'Tis but a scratch I have. My men are in greater need than I."
Master Jacob grunted. "Very well then. I'll come back later to bleed you both."
"Over my dead body," Alex muttered as the man left the room. He looked at Margaret. "Can you sew?"
"I'd rather you bled to death," she said curtly.
Alex started to say something but found himself distracted by the small body that screeched as it burst into the room and toddled over to him as fast as the little legs would go. Alex scooped Amery up and held him close.
"It's all right, Amery," he said soothingly. "See? Meg and I are both fine. A little dirty, but unhurt."
Amery buried his face in Alex's bloody neck and sobbed. Alex held him close with one arm and beckoned to Frances, who was standing near the door. "I need a needle, thread, and lots of hot water."
"I do not sew well," Margaret muttered.
"You're going to learn how," Alex said. "Frances, see if Cook has those things, won't you? And a couple of candles." He looked at Margaret. "Just think about how much fun you'll have causing me all that pain. And do you have any strong drink?"
She nodded. "In my trunk."
''Good. I want you good and drunk before I start working on your arm."
She looked up at him suspiciously. "Why?" she demanded.
He looked at her. There was dirt and blood on her face, streaked by dried sweat. Alex was certain he'd never before laid eyes on a more beautiful sight. She was relatively unhurt, and she'd live many more years full of giving him grief. He smiled.
"Because I don't want you to feel any pain," he said. "Go fetch it. Amery and I'll be waiting for you here."
She left the room without further comment. Alex put both his arms around Amery and hugged him gently.
"I'm okay, son," he whispered. "Amery, relax."
Within moments Cook had arrived and was seeing the chamber prepared for healing activities. Alex sat and watched as candles were lit and buckets of water were brought in for washing. Frances appeared momentarily, her eyes wide with fear. Alex beckoned to her.