This was completely insane!
She squeezed her eyes shut, praying they would all be gone when she opened them and she would be back in her mother’s store. Damn. No such luck.
The man before her wore a dagger in his belt and held a short primitive bow in his soiled hand. Handcrafted, deadly looking arrows protruded from a deep leather pocket at his side. She winced at the cruel smile he wore, which served only to make him more repulsive. Clumps of mud matted his long, stringy beard. A jagged scar ran across his bottom lip, causing his yellow teeth to show even with his mouth closed. This was no dream. It was a nightmare.
“Look what we caught ourselves,” the ugly man said, painfully reminding her that the nightmare was not going to end any time soon.
“Aye, a treasure for certain,” another man commented.
As if the sight of her made him hungry, the leader licked his lips. “I fear she let our dinner get away. It seems only fair that we keep her in its stead. What say you to that, wench?”
The smoldering, greedy gazes of his men feasted upon her. Her jeans and T-shirt were on the snug side but other than that…what was the problem? Certainly no reason for them to drool in such a disgusting manner.
She narrowed her eyes. Nobody treated Morgan Hayes like a mere object to be drooled upon. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen, pig-hunting warriors or whatever you are, but I have no idea what this man is talking about. I don’t know who sent you here all dressed up but I can tell you one thing—it’s not funny. The gag is up, boys.”
Plunking hands on hips, she looked at them with set jaw and tight lips, hoping to hide her growing terror beneath an angry glare. Then she turned and walked off, quickening her pace with each step. If she could just reach the denser area of the woods…
The gait of a horse sounded behind her, prompting her to break into a full-blown run, yelping as she was jerked off the ground and into the ugly man’s bulky arms. The horrid smell of rotted breath and dried blood saturated her senses, nauseating her. “Let go of me!”
As if that weren’t enough, another man on a horse suddenly vaulted through the dense brush. He yanked on the reins, coming to a halt a few feet away. He was an older man and twice as big as the one who held her. Chain mail covered his large frame but he wore no headgear.
“Put her down, Otgar. Now!” the older man barked.
Whiskers hung over Otgar’s upper lip as his mouth drew back in a snarl. “Stay out of this, Hugo, she’s mine. I found her and I intend to keep her.”
Otgar and Hugo. This was too much. Figuring she’d stumbled into the middle of a movie set, she looked around for a cameraman. But there were no cameras to be seen. No director yelling, “Cut!”
She struggled to get loose, but Otgar tightened his grip. Hugo’s eyes narrowed to dangerous slits of steel. Although she’d never had two men fight over her before, and the idea did have a certain appeal, the Ugly against the Old hardly seemed worth bragging about.
“The king’s bidding it is that she’s betrothed to another,” Hugo warned.
“And why should I believe you?” Otgar asked, spittle hitting her cheek. “What would the king have to do with a harlot found alone in the forest? The feast of a pig she’s lost to us and she must pay for her foul deed. Leave us be, Hugo, or you, too, shall pay.”
Having no desire to be left with Otgar and his men, Morgan prayed Hugo wouldn’t abandon her. Although Hugo was covered with metal links and daunting in size, he appeared old and wise…and his eyes hinted at kindness. But then again, she had a doozy of a headache and she couldn’t be sure.
Without warning Otgar tossed her to his closest man as if she were a sack of grain. “Ooomph.”
The horse beneath her stamped the ground with one of its massive hooves. Her heart lodged in her throat. “I really need to get off this animal. I won’t run away, I promise. Just let me down…nice and slowly.” She’d never been fond of horses; she was scared to death of them, actually. Even on carousels she tended to pick the pig or the boring sled that didn’t move.
Otgar merely snorted at her complaints while the man holding her lowered his nose to her neck and sniffed.
She slapped his head. “Stop that!”
Hugo, she noticed, peered toward the denser area of the forest. She followed his gaze, disappointed to see nothing but woodland.
“The woman you hold captive is Lady Amanda, daughter of the Earl of Silverwood,” Hugo said to Otgar. “Do you not believe me? You have only to look around her neck for proof of what I say. You will see that her pendant bears the Forrester crest.”
Morgan frowned. “My necklace has nothing to do with this earl guy.” She lifted her hands in exasperation. “Lady Amanda,” she said with a snort. “Do I look like a lady?”
Otgar’s men mumbled and shook their heads.
“Hand her over now,” Hugo added irritably, glaring her way, “and I am sure Lord Vanguard will reimburse you the loss of your dinner. If you refuse, take heed, for King Henry and Lord Vanguard will have your heads within a fortnight.”
“And what would Vanguard have to do with any of this?” Otgar questioned.
“‘Tis Lord Vanguard who is to marry the lady,” Hugo answered.
Marriage to a lord. And just when she’d thought her predicament couldn’t get any worse. Why hadn’t she awoken yet?
Otgar laughed. “The very blackguard who caused my own brother’s death plans to marry?”
“Aye,” Hugo answered calmly. “Release her. Let there be no bloodshed today.”
For a moment she considered telling Hugo that she wasn’t Amanda at all. But what if Hugo believed her and left her with Otgar? What then? The crisp pine-scented air and the pungent body odor of the man who held her confirmed her suspicions. This was no dream. Her mind spun with the absurdity of her situation. Losing her mind would not get her home. For now, she decided, she would let them think she was Amanda.
Rage flickered in Otgar’s cold sea-green eyes. He raised his sword, apparently ready to wage war.
A wave of terror swept through her. She gazed toward Hugo, praying the older man might help her, but he was gazing toward the forest again. This time he waved his sword above his head as if signaling to someone.
Looking in the direction he beckoned, she saw a man encased in metal charging straight for her. Her eyes widened in alarm. And then she screamed.
Scooped up like a worm snatched by a bird and tossed to the horse’s rump, she clung to cold interlinking metal rings of armor covering the rider. The horse dodged a maze of pine trees and thorn covered shrubs. Her chin bumped against his back with every turn. Behind them, fading in the distance, she saw Hugo take down both of Otgar’s men before knocking Otgar to the ground. Hugo then chased the horses off.
Otgar threw his weapon to the ground as he watched her disappear through the regiment of trees.
When they finally cut through the forest’s edge into a clearing of grasslands, the horse slowed to an excruciating trot. Morgan struggled for her release. “P-Put me d-down!” She thumped the man in armor, hurting her fist in the process.
“Hold still!” the man ground out as Hugo caught up to them.
The horse’s gait made it hard for her to speak. “L-let me go. I’m not who you th-think I am.”
“Is that so, my lady? And who might you be?” Hugo asked, clearly exasperated.
She glanced over her shoulder, back toward the forest for any sign of Otgar, deciding she still had no desire to be left alone. “Oh, never mind. Where are you taking me? And could you please tell me where I am?”
The horse stumbled, forcing her to clutch at the man to keep her balance. “You’re not that Lord Vanguard guy they were talking about, are you?”
The man slid the helmet from his head and hooked his visor to the front of his saddle. “Nay, I am Emmon McBray, the very knight who escorted you from Silverwood two days ago before you ran off and left me looking the fool. But go ahead,” he said in a clipped tone, “play your ill-advised game. Fo
r when you meet your betrothed, you will regret such foolish sport.”
“Wonderful,” she muttered. He wasn’t a man at all, but an adolescent. Much too young to be dressed up in armor and playing with swords.
The man-boy looked over his shoulder and lifted a youthful brow. “I want to know what you put in my drink to make me sleep? And my horse. A finer stallion there is not. What did you do with my horse?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Hugo,” she called over her shoulder, deciding she liked him better. “I bumped my head before you came to my-uh—rescue. Where exactly are we?”
“I warned you we should not have gone after her,” Emmon growled. “She is dimwitted, unfit to marry Lord Vanguard.”
Hugo ignored Emmon and focused on her instead. “We are in England, my lady, a short distance west of Braddock Hall.”
“And the year is 1444,” Emmon added sarcastically.
“That can’t be right,” she said.
Emmon’s fist curled about the leather reins and spasms of irritation crossed his face. “I will tell you what is not right. It is not right that you ran away, making fools of us. Nor is it right that you speak suddenly like a jackanapes and lie about who you are. And lastly, it is not right that Lord Vanguard be bound to a wench such as you.”
Morgan’s stomach clenched. Not because of what Emmon was saying but because things like this just didn’t happen. The trees looked the same. The sky was blue, the grass green. But the conviction in Emmon’s voice told her he was speaking the truth.
“Too bad you may not live to see the year of Our Lord 1445,” he added almost gleefully.
“What do you mean?”
“Lord Vanguard frowns heavily upon the betrayal of his people. No telling what he might do when he hears of your running away.”
“I didn’t run away. You’ve got the wrong woman.”
Emmon regarded her with cold speculation.
She sighed. “You’re only trying to scare me because you think I stole your horse.”
Emmon laughed. “Think what you will. Too bad, though, that the rumors you’ve surely heard about Lord Vanguard are all true.”
Shivers crawled up her spine. “They are?”
“Aye,” he said. “Lord Vanguard has the countenance of a dragon monster. No,” he amended, putting a gloved finger to his chin. “I would say he more resembles a humongous, long-haired ogre. But that is not the worst of it.”
She rolled her eyes, wondering how it could get much worse than that.
“My lord’s poor temper is very nearly as hideous as his misshapen face and when he learns that his betrothed tried to run off…”
“What will he do?”
“Emmon, what are you saying?” Hugo cut in from a distance.
Emmon pulled back on the reins. “I was merely telling her ladyship what to expect when she arrives at Braddock. Are we stopping soon?”
Hugo exhaled. “Nay, we have been delayed too long. If we keep up this pace we should reach Braddock before morning.”
The hairs at the back of Morgan’s neck stirred. The year was 1444 and not only was she being held against her will, but she was mistaken as the bride-to-be of the ugliest man in the world.
~~~~
Nightfall had come and gone by the time Morgan awoke. The steady beat of the horse’s gait told her she had yet to return to her time. Every muscle ached. Her bottom felt as if it had been shot full of Novocain. She rubbed her eyes and when she opened them, she nearly fell off the horse.
Braddock was indeed a castle, a mighty fortress with massive towers surrounded by high stone walls.
The sun’s morning light peeked over the horizon and thin curls of smoke appeared above the castle. They rode down a hill and passed by an orchard. The scent of burning iron and manure intermingled with the smell of fruit. People stopped to stare. Most of the men had short-cropped hair above the ears. They wore brown tunics, thick hose, and leather boots. The women wore frowns and gave her sour looks.
Morgan frowned. “What’s wrong with them?”
“I told you before,” Emmon said. “Nobody betrays his lordship by running away. ‘Tis unheard of.”
Shivers coursed over her. If these people truly believed her to be the woman who had betrayed their lord, would she be sliced and diced? Hung by a thick scratchy rope from an ancient tree? Maybe his lordship would spare her her life and relieve her of only a finger or two. She eyed her pinky with misgiving.
“My lady! My lady!” a woman shouted, pushing her way through the crowd.
Emmon pulled back on the reins while Hugo rode on toward the stables.
“Young knight. Help her ladyship down,” the woman ordered.
Emmon obeyed, dropping Morgan into the plump woman’s arms before clicking the reins and heading toward the stables.
Tired of being thrown around like a sack of potatoes, she glared at Emmon’s backside as he rode off.
“Lady Amanda, did those blackguards hurt you?”
Gray strands of hair stuck out from beneath the woman’s headgear. Her long shirt-like dress was stained and her hands were callused. Both eyes appeared cloudy as if she had cataracts.
“Nobody hurt me,” Morgan assured the woman before lowering her voice. “And my name isn’t Amanda. It’s Morgan Hayes.”
The woman wagged a finger in her face. “Your father warned me of your spoiled ways, my lady. Although we’ve had only a short time to become acquainted, I am not so easily fooled. If you believe, I, Odelia Beaumaris, will fall for this newest ploy of yours, you are gravely mistaken.” She clutched onto Morgan’s arm and firmly ushered her through the growing number of onlookers.
“You have gone too far,” the woman said under her breath, “dragging me across the countryside, letting me dry your tears. And what do you do to thank me? You run away, leaving me with Lord Vanguard’s men. And all the while you meant to meet with Robert?”
“Robert?” Morgan asked.
The woman huffed. “So this is the game you wish to play?”
Morgan didn’t know what to say to that so she kept quiet while the castle folk gawked and pointed, stealing what little optimism she was trying hard to hang on to. The outer gates were open. She could run, but where to? This was a crazy horrible nightmare that refused to end. Dismayed, she decided once again that it may be in her best interest to play the part of Amanda for a bit longer. Feigning remorse, she looked to the ground and said, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what has gotten into me lately.”
A smile crossed Odelia’s face, revealing a row of gray-brown teeth. “Oh, my lady, I am glad you are safe. Verily you try my patience but you are here and you are safe. Now tell me, when did you learn to speak in such a curious fashion?”
“Well, you see…when I left you and those men, I-er-I think I fell. Yes, that’s it. I fell and hit my head on a rock. More like a boulder,” she amended when skepticism crept into Odelia’s hazy eyes. “When I awoke, a gang of foul-smelling men surrounded me. And then…Van Gogh’s men came.”
“Vanguard’s men,” Odelia cut in, eyeing her suspiciously.
“That’s what I said. Vanguard’s men came and voilà, here I am.”
Odelia examined her closely and Morgan was sure the woman was on to her until the lines about Odelia’s face softened. “Perhaps you should change your clothes before you meet your betrothed. Where ever did you find such dreadful garb?”
“It’s a long story,” Morgan said.
Odelia wrinkled her nose before ushering her along again. “Your mother and father would have me on the ducking stool if they saw you now. The Lord of Braddock has not made an appearance in the entire two days I have been at the castle. Perchance Lord Vanguard’s rumored disfigurement is worse than we suspected.”
Until that moment Morgan had forgotten about Emmon’s warning. But now images of Lord Vanguard swirled within her mind. Three heads maybe? Four bloodshot eyeballs? Certainly no man could be uglier than Otgar.
With much trepidat
ion, she followed Odelia into the castle. As they went along, she caught whiffs of rose and mint. No signs of the dirty, musty smells she would have expected. Rows of rough wood benches lined the room and elaborate tapestries hung from limestone walls. Tables were being set, and unlike the villagers outside, the people within appeared too busy to take notice of her.
After Odelia was called away, she continued on, peeking through thick oak doors until she came to a room stocked with a vast array of old books and papers. Unable to resist the seductive pull these ancient works had on her, she forgot all about waiting for Odelia and entered the room.
Using a stool to get a closer look at the collection of books, she touched the leather bindings, surprised by the inner peace that washed through her…the same calmness she felt whenever she stood near her beloved armor in her mother’s store.
A shuffling of papers startled her. A man sat at a large desk at the far end of the room.
He stood, and she realized he wasn’t a man at all. He was a giant, and he was coming her way. “I’m sorry,” she said, shoving the books back into place.
“No need to apologize, I assure you.” His deep voice reverberated off the stone walls.
She always tried to look people in the eyes when she spoke to them, but for the first time in her life it was more than difficult, not only because of his towering stature but because of the power radiating from his mahogany eyes. He was magnificent to look at. And there was something about him. Something oddly familiar, and yet she was sure she’d never seen him before. Never had she gazed upon such raw masculinity—not in the movies, not in any magazine, not ever.
He crossed his arms. “It is a book you are looking for?”
She shook her head.
“Your first day here at Braddock?”
Standing on top of the stool, she wanted to speak, but no words would come.
“Have you no voice?”
“Of course I do,” she finally managed. “It’s just that you surprised me. I didn’t see you lurking over there in the dark.”
The corners of his mouth curled upward. He wore a dark green, short-sleeved tunic that clung to his sculpted arms and snug pants that would have looked ridiculous on anyone but him. Massive in proportions, he possessed thick muscular shoulders, raven-black hair that touched his collar, and a very kissable mouth. A few of the men she’d dated had been handsome, but never did the sight of any of them take her breath away.
Return of the Rose Page 2