by Diane Darcy
“Give that to me! It’s mine!”
“’Twill be yours again, once you marry my son.”
“Then won’t it be his?”
Lord Dinsdale laughed. “Clever girl, but such is life. Though I expect you could probably talk my son into letting you keep it.”
She stared at the glittering gems, mesmerized.
She could return to her own time.
She just needed to clasp it around her throat, walk past Lord Dinsdale, through his men crowding the doorway, and ease by Gargantuan who was so tall she could see him standing in the back.
She’d get to the stone, and what had Gillian said? Bleed on the necklace, and return to her own time?
The whole thing seemed fantastical, and yet here she was … in medieval England … about to marry a stranger.
The distance and obstacles between her and the stone seemed insurmountable.
She glanced at the necklace once more and then at Lord Dinsdale and let out a sigh of mock-resignation. “It’s a tradition in my family to wear the necklace when we marry.”
He didn’t need to know getting married on a beach with flowers in her hair was more her family’s style than million-dollar necklaces, but whatever.
Lord Dinsdale smiled his satisfaction. “Is it, then?” He pinched each end of the necklace and whipped it around her head in a movement so fast, she flinched.
Facing her, he gazed into her eyes, his own eyes black in the shadowed room. He pulled the jewels tight against her neck and secured the clasp.
More lightning forked across the sky, lighting up the stained glass and the open doorway. It was followed by another loud crack of thunder that rattled the building. Rain pattered on the roof.
Her lips quirked, triumph and euphoria racing through her at having the piece back in her possession.
“You like that, do you?”
Whether he knew it or not, he wouldn’t be able to get the necklace off again, which meant she could wear it outside.
She could touch the stone and go home.
Lord Dinsdale studied her a long moment, eyes darting as he tried to read her. He finally stepped back. “Now that the lady has been satisfied, let us see them married.”
Oh, as to that … she glanced around the room and, if anything, it seemed more crowded with Dinsdale men than before.
But they couldn’t actually make her agree to getting married. Couldn’t make her say, I do.
Rupert gently turned her toward the priest and took her hand.
The movie The Princess Bride ran through her head again. Buttercup hadn’t been married because she hadn’t said yes in the end.
“Priest, begin!”
The priest looked at her, his gaze scared, but his jaw firming.
“My lady? If you do not wish this alliance, you need only to say so. I will not marry you.”
Cara drew in a breath to claim she had no intention of wedding this day, when she felt the sharp point of a knife poke through her dress.
There seemed to be a collective holding of breath in the chapel, and no one made a sound as everyone awaited her response.
There was a stubborn part of her that wanted to tell him to do his worst, but, of course, the only reason she’d say that would be if she didn’t believe he’d stab her.
He was marrying her to his son to stick it to Wallace. Wouldn’t her death give him a similar result?
He was such a raging maniac she could see him losing his temper and stabbing her before he’d even thought it through.
If he killed the priest, too, who would speak against him?
No one here, that was for sure.
When the knife poked her again, the bite of pain told her he’d pierced skin, and some reckless part of her spouted, “Yes, of course, I’ll marry him.” She didn’t mean it. She was going to say no. She was just working up her courage. Her free hand rose to her stomach. “Wolfsbane’s baby needs a name, doesn’t he?” Her tone was pure acid.
The priest gaped at her, and she turned to see Rupert doing the same.
It would serve him right if she foisted another man’s child on him. “Won’t that be fun? Raising another man’s son? If it is a boy, he’ll be your heir.”
Rupert yanked his hand free of hers.
Even in these circumstances, she smiled at that.
“Do not fret, son, many a babe fails to make an appearance, and many more fail to survive their first year.”
Cara couldn’t help the slight tremor that ran through her. Did the guy have to be such an evil villain?
“Get on with it, priest!”
The priest jumped. “Oh, yes, that is …” He shot Cara one more searching glance. “Your full name, my lady?”
“Lady Cara Jones.” She refused to give her middle name in case that could nullify the ceremony.
The knife pressed into her once more, and she’d love nothing more than to shake him off, but didn’t dare.
Her cowardice was actually a big disappointment to her.
Tight lipped, she gave a nod to the priest. The sooner she got this over with, the sooner they’d go outside, and the sooner she could escape back to her own time.
Doubts filled her.
What if she tried and failed to go back, and was simply stuck here in the past as a Dinsdale for all time?
Her nose wrinkled in disgust.
Was she really going to do this? Cut herself off from Wallace by marrying his enemy?
She touched the jewels at her throat, hoping for some sort of sign, or even a feeling of comfort.
Unfortunately, nothing but cold stones met her fingertips.
The priest, stammering a little, began the ceremony in Latin.
Panic rose within her and she stifled a hysterical giggle. Wasn’t this wonderful? Not only was she getting married against her will, she wouldn’t be able to understand the ceremony.
No parents, no crazy-fun bridal shower, no bridesmaids, no honeymoon to Hawaii.
And worst of all, the wrong groom.
The priest made the sign of the cross, and hysteria heightened with the expectation that she’d soon be asked to play her part in the ceremony.
With the knife still stinging her back, would she have the guts to keep her mouth shut?
As the priest continued the litany of indecipherable Latin, despair turned to resentment.
Even with everything missing, if this was Wallace at her side, she’d have been happy.
Even with her doubts about whether she could adjust to this type of life, marrying Wallace, being his wife, would probably tip the scales for her.
She chanced a glance at Rupert, who looked positively grim, stony-faced. It was the first time she realized he resembled his father in any way.
The priest switched to English and looked at Rupert. “Do you take Lady Cara Jones to wife? To have and to hold, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“Nay, I do not.”
Cara gaped at her groom, even as he turned his steely-eyed gaze upon her which she now noted was rife with disapproval.
The knife was removed from her back. “Rupert, I order you to marry her!”
“I will not.”
Cara quickly bit back the laugh threatening to escape.
“Why not?” Lord Dinsdale sounded puzzled, more than wrathful.
Rupert turned, and Cara did as well, to see Lord Dinsdale, knife at his side, staring at his son in disbelief.
“Father, I have done aught you have asked of me.” His hand flew through the air. “I’ve been a good, loyal son to you, and I deserve better than this,” his big hand made a circling motion which encompassed all of Cara.
This was exactly what she wanted, it was perfect, but still, the expression of disgust on his face was insulting.
“Well, you’re no prize either,” she said. “You know good and well I’m in love with another man. And supposedly, you’re betrothed to Amelia and you’ve just walked away. Can you say, daddy’s boy?”<
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The look of rage on his face highlighted how much he looked like his father, and she took a step back.
Lord Dinsdale pointed the knife at his son. “You will do as I command.”
“I will not! My bride will be a virgin and any child in her womb will be started there by me!”
“She is probably lying!” Lord Dinsdale roared.
They both turned to look at her and Cara placed a hand on her stomach. “Sweet little thing. Do you mind if I name him Wallace?”
Rupert’s expression screwed up, and he practically gnashed his teeth, and she was seeing a whole new side of him, one she’d started to think didn’t exist.
The robot was long gone, and in his place was a volcano, mid-eruption.
Chapter 41
Rupert abruptly turned and walked away from the altar, heading for the group of men gathered in the doorway.
Some moved forward, some back in their rush to let him through and he walked past them into the rain.
This was her chance. “Let me just talk to him,” Cara said, in a concerned tone. She tried to hide her elation as she hurried after the man.
Lord Dinsdale grabbed her forearm and squeezed tight. “Talk him into this, or I will give you to my men.”
“Ew.” She jerked away. The guy really was a sicko.
She ran after Rupert.
“Rupert, wait! Come here for a moment and talk to me!”
And just like that, she was through the men, even Gargantuan stepped aside, and she was running out into the rain, after Rupert, until she wasn’t.
The cold rain made her flinch, but it didn’t dampen her elation and she veered for the rock until she stood beside it. Quicker than thought, she reached down and grabbed a sharp rock near the base and pressed it to her clavicle, ready to scratch herself and go home.
More lightning flared.
Smiling, triumphant, she turned and met Lord Dinsdale’s gaze where he now stood in the doorway of the chapel.
He suddenly lifted his head, and she couldn’t help but turn to see what he was looking at.
Lightning jagged across the sky to reveal a Wallace, a line of men at his back, riding toward them.
Her mouth parted as cold rain pelted against her face.
He looked like evil incarnate, riding a warhorse, thunder announcing his presence, his overall demeanor grim.
The skies opened up, rain poured down, winds gusted, buffeting the trees, and she was soaked through in an instant.
She glanced back to see Lord Dinsdale lift his dagger and start toward her.
He’d rather see her dead than let Wallace have her. She knew it had nothing to do with her, that he just wanted to thwart the other man, but it felt pretty personal.
Rupert was about the same distance away, saw what his father was doing, pulled his sword, and followed.
She pressed back against the stone monolith, sharp rock still at her throat, and froze like a nitwit.
Thundering hooves sounded behind her and she doubted Wallace could see her, but he probably saw the men coming at her, weapons drawn.
She suddenly couldn’t catch her breath.
“Dinsdale!” Wallace roared.
Father and son ran at her and as Lord Dinsdale lifted his knife, he let out a yell, and lunged.
Rupert slid between them, the hilt of his sword catching his father’s weapon, the two of them wrestling for supremacy even as the pounding of hooves sounded behind them.
Rupert and his father screamed into each other’s faces as they landed hard against her.
She slammed against the rock at her back and joined in the screaming as the rock in her hand, trapped against her chest, bit into her.
The three of them rolled hard upon the stone, chaos erupted into light and noise, and with a mighty shove, Rupert threw his father off and he was hit, dead on, by a black SUV.
The thunk, the sound of screeching breaks, was horrendous.
Cara looked around in shock.
Rupert, breathing hard, slowly stood, the tip of his sword falling to hit the concrete sidewalk, shock and horror expanding on his face.
He glanced first to the right, and then down at her, his gaze taking everything in.
“Are you a witch, then?” he asked, his sword scraping a bit as he tightened his grip on the hilt.
“No,” her back hurt, her chest, and she’d scraped her arm on the rock or the warm concrete sidewalk beneath her. “I’m definitely not a witch,” she said, hoping he wasn’t planning to stab her.
She slowly stood, not trusting him to assist, and summer night air caressed her chilled skin.
People from the SUV, and from several other cars, rushed to try and help Lord Dinsdale.
There was no helping Lord Dinsdale. He’d been hit hard. And it was horrible, it was, but they couldn’t stay here any longer, they had to get out of there before they were noticed.
She squinted against the light, and her hands lifted to protect her ears. The noise! She hadn’t expected it, didn’t remember it, and it rattled her, pounding at her like it did.
She lifted her head, to gape at the exact same chapel, only now, surrounded by other buildings, landscaping, a sign on the front proclaiming the time of Sunday services.
A priest stood in the doorway, watching her. He was a short, white-haired gentleman, wearing a brown wool gown, and a crucifix around his neck.
He looked more medieval than modern, but this was England so what did she know?
He smiled widely, his eyes seeming to twinkle with happiness as he rubbed his hands together. “’Tis working out quite nicely, is it not?” he called out.
She really didn’t want anything to do with another priest at the moment. “Come on, Rupert, follow me,” she said, as she staggered and headed for the alley at the side of the chapel.
Limping away, loosening as she walked, she quickly hightailed it out of there.
Wallace arrived in time to see Cara, Sir Rupert, and Lord Dinsdale disappear.
At least, that’s what he thought he saw. As the rain poured he jumped off his horse and slammed into the stone repeatedly and from different angles.
He searched the ground.
Lady Helena caught up. “What are you doing?” she yelled, trying to be heard.
Wallace paced back and forth, water dripping off his hair and face. “How do I get to her?” He grabbed his mother by the shoulders. “This is what you spoke of. This church, this stone, where did you go from here? How?”
“Wallace … the … the priest helped me.”
The priest approached, his hand blocking the driving rain, and Wallace released his mother and pulled the man the rest of the way to the stone.
The priest released a muffled yell.
“What know you of this?” Wallace demanded.
“I … I have no idea what you speak of.”
Thunder and lightning flashed.
“You saw them disappear! Do not deny it! Where did they go?”
“This is the resting place of Saint Cuthbert,” he yelled, rain pelting his face. “This healing stone is curative, blessed by our Saint many years ago!” The priest looked about, eyes narrowed against the rain, an expression of bafflement upon his face. “If he took them, I do not know where.”
Wallace released the man, pacing away to grab his head, releasing a roar! “Where is she?”
He turned back to the priest. “Did she wear a necklace?”
“She did. Given to her by Lord Dinsdale upon her wedding.”
Horror engulfed him. “She is married? To whom?”
The priest was shaking his head. “Sir Rupert refused her. Denounced her as she was with Lord Wolfsbane’s child.”
Wallace’s mouth dropped as yet more emotion shook him. “What say you?”
The priest shrank back, shaking his head.
Wallace turned to his mother. “Did you wear a necklace, like Cara’s?”
Lady Helena lifted her arm, revealing her wrist. “The bracelet! I wore this bracele
t, given to me that night. But it never comes off. It has never come off since …”
Realization hit her face. “Since last I was here.” She turned her head to the stone, her mouth parting. “The priest … he …” his mother reached out to the stone, her hand brushing along the rough exterior, then tugged at her bracelet.
It did not come off.
Rain plastered her hair against her face. “Your dagger.”
He gave it to her without question and with the sharp tip, she nicked her wrist.
The bracelet unclasped at her touch, the chain, wrapped twice around her, fell away.
Pale and shocked, her expression slightly bereft, she gave it to Wallace who quickly bent over to protect it from the rain, and clasped it once around his own wrist.
Following his mother’s example, he cut himself, leaned forward and touched the stone.
The world fell away.
Chapter 42
Cara looked back, and Rupert was following, for which she was grateful because if he hadn’t, she was leaving him there.
They came out on another road, and she took a left, unsure where she was going, but determined to get away from the scene of the accident as quickly as possible so she could think.
She was squelching with every step.
They passed a café with outdoor seating and several couples glanced their way, smiling, as they took in their medieval garb.
She let a few cars go by, and crossed a road, and took a pathway between two homes which led to a park.
Out of breath, she walked toward a copse of trees, bushes and a small pond with benches along its grassy shore.
She gratefully sank onto a metal garden bench.
Rupert halted beside her, and shoved his hand through his hair, the moisture holding it back.
At some point he’d sheathed his sword, and was now glancing around at the small pond, the houses surrounding it, until he fixated upon a tall streetlamp nearby.
She seriously didn’t know what to do.
It was warm, and she would swear she felt her clothes steaming.
“Are we in Hell, then, lass? Are you a witch, and this is your revenge against the wrong done you?”