Romance Through the Ages

by Amy Harmon

  Gillian turned over. Kellen was just so… so… wonderful. What would it be like to have a man like Kellen truly belong to her? To see the possessive gaze and know that she really did belong to him?

  She thought about Ryan and the smile left her face. They’d dated for a good six months, and she’d been stressed and off kilter the entire time.

  And okay, she cringed, sort of desperate, too. It was embarrassing to remember how she’d acted. When she’d found out the guy was looking for easy money, she’d been ashamed of herself for sticking it out. For being a doormat so he would love her. For being so lonely, she’d traded in her self-respect for companionship.

  She should have trusted her instincts.

  So what were those instincts telling her about Kellen? All she felt was happy. But what did it really matter? She was being foolish. She couldn’t compare the two. Her boyfriend had been real life; and Kellen, well, he was fantasy. Like a hologram from an episode of Star Trek. Fun, but not real.

  It was just the romance of the time and place affecting her so much. The castle, the candle glowing beside her bed, the way he’d held her hand. The kiss that almost happened.

  It was like she was in a fairy tale with the starring role as princess. She turned over again and plumped the pillow once more. She’d have this time as a happy memory in her heart, nothing else. No hurt or pain this time, just good memories.

  She snuggled down to sleep, then quickly sat up, blew out the candle, and laid back down.

  After a moment, she realized she was smiling again.

  She was so getting that kiss before she left.

  * * *

  After lunch the next afternoon, it was still raining; so Gillian retrieved her pad of paper and headed downstairs, bumping into a boy at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, sorry.”

  She reached out a hand to steady the boy, who cringed back. “Sorry, sweetie. Just me not paying attention to where I was going. Are you okay?”

  The boy, a wide-eyed teen of about fifteen or so, nodded.

  “What’s your name? I don’t think we’ve met before. I’m Gillian.” She held out her hand.

  The boy stared at her hand for a moment then looked up into her face. “Valeric, my lady.”

  Gillian dropped her hand when he made no move to take it. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Valeric. I’ll try to pay better attention in future, so I don’t run you down.”

  The boy backed away. “Yes, my lady.” Then he was gone.

  By the time she reached the great hall, the food had been cleared away; Kellen’s three foster boys sat on the straw-covered floor at the foot of a young, brown-robed man who looked to be tutoring them.

  A little girl, about three or four, stood off to the side in front of the fire and watched the boys as a woman, probably the child’s mother, knitted in a nearby chair.

  The yearning on the girl’s face caught Gillian’s attention. The scene would make a fantastic painting; a large one done in oils with light colors, dark shadows, rain buffeting wooden shutters, and the fire brightening the girl’s face and illuminating her longing.

  Genius if Gillian could pull it off.

  The tutor turned the book on his lap so the boys could study it, and the little girl leaned forward, obviously wanting to see.

  Quietly, not wanting to distract anyone, Gillian pulled her digital camera out of her pack, looked around, and snapped a quick photo. She didn’t use the flash for fear of seriously freaking people out and risking the whole burn-the-witch-at-the-stake scenario. Still, she got the gist of the scene in case she needed to refer back to it later.

  After stowing her camera, Gillian headed over to the table between the boys and the young girl. “Hi. What’s going on?”

  Everyone glanced up at her approach, the tutor raising one brow. Gillian noted he wore a crucifix around his neck. “We are about our lessons. Please refrain from interrupting.”

  “Oh. Right,” whispered Gillian. “Sorry.” She quickly sat on a bench beside a nearby table.

  The tutor sighed. “’Tis Lady Corbett, correct?”

  “Yes, nice to meet you.”

  He ignored that. “As a female, you ought not to listen as Latin might tax your wits.”

  Gillian’s mouth fell slightly open as she looked to see if the guy was serious. Stern-faced, arrogant, younger than she’d realized, not bad-looking in a boy-next-door sort of way, and completely serious. She grinned. “Yeah, that’s okay. I’ll chance it.”

  Gillian glanced around, wondering where Kellen was. He’d disappeared right after breakfast, and she considered hunting him down as that might be more fun, but didn’t want to go out in the rain. She could find him later if he didn’t show.

  Anyway, medieval school might be interesting and would certainly make her painting more unique if she could pick up a feel for what was happening.

  The tutor started up again, but Gillian got bored pretty quickly. The little girl was still interested, but probably because school and knitting were the only things to hold her attention.

  Gillian opened her pad of drawing paper and tore a piece from the back end. She beckoned the little girl, and the child looked startled then wary but after a quick glance at the knitter, eventually walked over. “My lady?”

  “What’s your name, kiddo?”

  “Amelia, my lady.”

  The tutor lifted his head to glare at them; Gillian put a finger to her lips, tilted her head toward the group of boys and, as the child watched, carefully folded the paper.

  Amelia, chubby-cheeked and wide-eyed, observed as Gillian made a production of each fold, raising her brows, smiling and nodding. Gillian made the last crease, pinched the bottom between forefinger and thumb, aimed away from the boys, and threw the airplane across the hall.

  Amelia shrieked with joy and raced across the room, following the flight, and eventually retrieving the plane from its landing spot among the straw.

  The boys jumped up and raced after the girl, the knitter laboriously rose and yelled sharply for Amelia, the tutor clapped his hands and chastised the boys, and both adults glared at Gillian.

  “Sorry,” she said weakly.

  The boys snatched the plane from Amelia, who let out an unholy screech, balled both fists, and started hitting the boy holding the paper airplane.

  “Boys,” the tutor clapped sharply. “Boys!”

  Peter pushed Amelia away with one hand, palming her forehead, and she changed her strategy and tried to kick him. The adults looked livid.

  Oh dear. Not good. She should have thought this out first.

  Peter held up the plane to show Gillian. “’Tis the most wondrous toy!”

  Shaking his head, the tutor stomped off.

  “Amelia,” Gillian addressed the howling child. “I’ll make you another one.”

  “And me, as well?” asked Francis.

  “And me?” asked Ulrick.

  “Yes. One for each of you.”

  The boys took turns throwing the airplane, and Amelia was soon laughing and running after it as Gillian quickly made more.

  The boys gathered around as she folded the last one. “Where did you learn such?” asked Francis. “From a wizard?”

  Gillian grinned. “What do you know about wizards?”

  “The stories say they’ll snatch you away from your home and force the devil into you,” said Francis.

  “They will not!” said Peter. “They’ll apprentice you and teach you magic.” He turned to Gillian and raised the airplane. “How does it travel across the hall?”

  “Well, its wings cut through the air to generate lift. And if you change the shape of the wings, it affects the travel time and… ” Gillian, struck by the phrase, fell silent.

  “And?”

  “And with a larger wingspan the plane will stay in the air longer.” She paused. “Boys, have you ever heard any stories about time travelers?”

  They looked at each other. “No, my lady,” said Peter.

  “You’ve never hear
d of a traveler from a distant time?”

  “A man from Spain once came to sell his wares and he had a pointed beard,” said Francis.

  “Do you know of such a story, my lady?” asked Ulrick.

  All eyes turned expectantly toward Gillian. “Tell us a story!”

  “My lady.” The knitter, her face pinched and disapproving, interrupted. “Thy daughter is overexcited. ’Tis time for her nap.”

  “My daughter? Is she fostering, too?”

  The older lady gave her a strange look. “She is Lord Marshall’s daughter, thy niece, and now thy daughter.”

  “What?” Gillian quickly looked at the girl, taking in her blonde hair and familiar amber eyes. “Why didn’t anyone tell me Kellen had a daughter?”

  The woman looked suddenly suspicious. “Why would you not know such?”

  Oh. Right. As Amelia’s supposed aunt, everyone probably thought she did. “Ah. I guess I forgot.” Amelia, clutching the paper airplane, reluctantly allowed herself to be tugged away and Gillian watched until they were out of sight.

  “Tell us a story with dragons!”

  Gillian, curious, looked at the boys. “Do you believe in dragons?”

  “Of course, my lady,” said Ulrick. “My father saw one once.”

  Gillian’s brows rose. “Really?”

  “Well, dragon bones, anyway. Sticking out of the ground, with fierce teeth, black from fire. But as more dragons were surely about, most likely the one that killed it, he left quickly. Otherwise, ’twould likely have killed him for sure.”

  “Is that so?”

  All the boys nodded and Gillian wondered if Ulrick’s father had stumbled across dinosaur bones. Ulrick’s brows drew together, his face pinched in sudden anger. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  Peter elbowed him. “Girls aren’t wise enough to be afraid. Come on, let’s go. She probably cannot tell good stories, anyway.”

  Ulrick laughed. “’Twould tax her wits were she to try.”

  “Oh, really?” Gillian straightened and smiled slowly. “I might know of a dragon tale or two.” Jurassic Park routinely scared her out of her wits when she watched the DVD once a year or so. She thought she could probably do the story justice. “I do know a good dragon story actually, but it’s so scary you kids might not be able to handle it.”

  The boys looked at each other uncertainly.

  “Well? Can you handle it? If not, there’s the door.”

  Eyes wide, the three boys sank down and Gillian sent out a silent apology to Michael Crichton and Stephen Spielberg for pilfering their story. She took a deep breath and began the tale as three little boys, huddling ever closer together, listened intently.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Later that night, Kellen walked toward the keep with Owen and Tristan, noted the glow coming from the edges of Gillian’s shutters, picked up his pace, and tried to outdistance his friends. “I bid you both a good night,” he said.

  Sir Owen followed Kellen’s gaze. “A good night, is it? Why? Do you have something more entertaining in mind than spending time with the likes of us? Is Lady Gillian the reason you used soap down by the river? ’Tis truly hurt I am. I thought you wanted to smell sweet for us on the morrow and save us the reek when you raised your sword arm.”

  Kellen tensed when Tristan clapped him on the back. “Don’t tease him, Sir Owen. He’s not seen the fair Lady Gillian since dinner. ’Tis been an hour at the very least. Perhaps more.”

  Sir Owen laughed, then ducked when Kellen aimed a fist at his mouth. “But I do not understand.” Sir Owen skipped backward a few steps and lifted his hands in mock confusion. “’Tis late now and time to be abed. What is he hoping to see of her?”

  Both his friends laughed and Kellen ignored the impulse to slam a fist into two faces. He didn’t want to get dirty, sweaty, or bled on in a scuffle, else he’d teach the two imbeciles a lesson.

  “Only a simpleton would be surprised at my desire to behold Lady Gillian’s beauty over the ill-favored countenances before me.” Kellen lengthened his stride in the vain hope of outdistancing additional comments.

  His so-called friends laughed and jeered after him. “Be sure and keep the sheets!” said Tristan. “All will want proof she’s taken your virginity.”

  “Shall we follow and stand you both up?” called Sir Owen.

  “Aye, ’tis a good idea,” yelled Tristan. “’Twill give her the chance to run when she sees what you want of her.”

  “Nay, she’ll not run. She’ll simply slip back into her chastity belt and await a call to the nunnery.”

  Their laughter followed Kellen and he turned, walking backward. “Quiet, fools! Else she’ll hear you and leave me no choice but to kill the pair of ye.”

  With his back to them once more, Kellen allowed himself to smile in anticipation as he headed inside and up the stairs. He only wanted to see her, only wanted to wish her a good night. He could not hope for more.

  He was surprised to find himself in front of her door so quickly and paused, suddenly hesitant, glad his friends weren’t nearby to witness his indecision. That would set the idiots to howling. He listened, but heard nothing inside and wondered if she were already abed.

  Out in the hall there were the normal sounds of the keep settling, servants doing last minute chores, their murmurings, and pallets being laid about. Kellen raised a fist, paused again, then knocked softly on Gillian’s door.

  A moment later Beatrice answered, smiled when she saw him, and dipped into a curtsy. “Pardon, my lord. I was just leaving.”

  Kellen stepped back and watched the maid go. He noted the way she glanced over her shoulder and smiled before disappearing from sight and felt his face warm. Was he obvious in his eagerness? Would Gillian think him so? He turned back to the door and took a breath.

  Give him a dozen men to fight against and he’d not have any difficulty, but Gillian, a tiny slip of a girl, made his palms damp and his mouth dry. Kellen forced himself to enter the bedchamber before others spotted him loitering about and spread the tale.

  Gillian, her hair brushed and hanging down her back, stared into the fire, her nightgown a long, flowing concoction of white that covered from neck to toe. It ought to hide her curves, but instead molded in a most provocative manner, offering him a glimpse of rounded chest and hip.

  Or perhaps he just imagined such in the flickering firelight. “Gillian?”

  She turned and offered a slight smile. “Hi.” She didn’t seem embarrassed or shy and didn’t shriek or throw him out. A good sign, surely.

  Feeling like an overwrought maiden, Kellen closed the door behind him and glanced at her feet, hoping to glimpse the colored toenails he’d heard tale of, but slippers thwarted his view.

  “Where’d you go after dinner?” she asked.

  “Ah… ” Had she’d missed him? “Down to the river to bathe.”

  He was very aware of the bed off to the side, of the intimacy of the darkened chamber, of the fact that he’d like to lay her down, kiss her, and so much more. His heart started to pound and he cursed his men for the crude jests that placed thoughts of loveplay in his mind.

  “Burr. That sounds cold.”

  He raised a hand to rub the back of his neck and, unable to help himself, glanced quickly at the bed. “Ye might think such, but somehow I feel over warm.”

  Gillian met his gaze for a long moment before glancing at the bed herself, ducking her head, and turning away to fiddle with a brush on a nearby table. “Uh… I’m not really all that tired yet. Do you want to play a game or something?”

  Or something? Kellen swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet of the room. “Aye. A game is a fine idea.”

  Gillian looked up again. “The kids taught me how to play knucklebones earlier. It was fun. Or we could play chess?”

  Children’s games didn’t interest him, and it seemed as if they already played a game of strategy. Kellen’s eyes burned with the effort to not look at the bed again, so he almost missed the fact that Gillian
was smiling at him.

  At the acceptance on her face, something inside him, deep in his chest, seemed to unclench and Kellen was suddenly hopeful she would let him stay this night. Taking a breath, he smiled in return. “I know of a game I could teach ye.” He moved forward, determined to get a kiss, to feel her soft lips yield to his, to taste her, and see where it might lead. But at the very least, to get a kiss.

  She looked at him, and his thoughts must have shown in his face because her eyes widened and her lips parted. She darted another glance at the bed, lifted a fluttering hand to her chest, and swallowed. “I like new games.” Her voice was breathy, feminine.

  Encouraged, Kellen swallowed then stopped in front of her. He lifted a hand to cup her cheek and its softness amazed him. In contrast his own body hardened, his muscles clenched, and he found his hand shook slightly.

  She didn’t pull away but looked up at him, her eyes dark and mysterious in the firelight. Taking in a shuddering breath, he leaned down and amazingly, she lifted her lips to his. His heart pounded and he hoped to perform the task correctly. To kiss her gently, please her, and make her glad she’d yielded. He leaned down a bit further, breathed in the light scent that was Gillian, moved to press his lips to hers—and a child screamed in terror.

  In disbelief Kellen jerked upright and moved away in an instant. “Stay here and bar the door.”

  Slipping a dirk into his hand, Kellen eased cautiously out of the chamber, pulled the door shut behind him, and took off running, searching for enemies and finding none.

  He burst into the boys’ chamber and glanced about but saw nothing amiss. Just three boys, each sitting up in bed, looking fearful. Kellen looked to the window, but it was firmly latched, the wooden shutters secured with iron bars. “What is it?”

  Ulrick’s breath came hard. “The dragon t-rex is coming to get me.”

  “And me, also!” wailed Francis.

  “And me!” Peter sounded aggrieved, as if the words were forced from him.

  While Kellen tried to make sense of their blather, Gillian, moved up behind him.

  “Oh, dear.”