Authors: Sophia Johnson
Determined to go below, Lydia towed her behind her as she went down the stairs.
Men and women filled the large hall, and everyone was speaking at once. Fascinated with the bright clothing and the room’s arrangement, she stared around her.
A fireplace, tall enough to walk into, filled much of the wall to the right. Surely a Norman influence? Picturesque tapestries
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covered the rest of the stone walls, along with weapons of all kinds. Bright banners hung from the rafters, their vivid colors muted by a light haze of smoke. Trestle tables with benches stood in orderly rows about the room.
Scant seconds later, a large body blocked her sight. Two big booted feet went toe to toe with hers. Behind her, Elise squeaked like a mouse. She let loose of Lydia’s clothing, then bolted away.
“Brianna, turn and get ye back above. Ye will stay abed until ye return to yer senses.”
His curt commands left no doubt who was speaking. Staring at his shirt, she gave herself a mental kick, for her knees had started to shake. She tried to glare up at him, but he stood so close her gaze could not stray above his chest. She wasn’t about to back up. He’d think he had intimidated her.
“Huh. I have my senses. And do stop calling me Brianna. My name is Lydia.” The heat coming from his body seeped through her own clothing. With each breath, she inhaled his scent of sandalwood and spices. Intoxicating. What a shame he didn’t have a pleasing personality to enhance his sexuality.
“Ye are mindsick, woman. Anyone who canna remember their name is in need of rest. Go to yer bed, else I will take ye myself.”
“My mind is not sick.” As if instructing a child, she spoke slowly, distinctly. “My memory is fine.” Macho man was ruining her interesting dream. In the early days of her marriage, Gordon had thought to control her every movement. She had soon disabused him of that. She wasn’t about to put up with this stranger’s overbearing ways. She scooted around him before he knew what she was about.
He looked ready to object further, but he didn’t. The man named Connor, whom she remembered kneeling beside her in the clearing, said something to him she didn’t catch.
“Allow me the pleasure, Brianna.” Galan appeared at her side and held out his arm to escort her.
She put the tips of her fingers on his forearm and marveled
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at the hardness there. He must work out daily. Their footsteps stirred the rushes under their feet, releasing the soft scents of rose petals, thyme and rosemary, adding a pleasant touch to the medieval atmosphere in the room.
Galan seated her beside him at the high table, and after glancing around, she saw several people separated her from where the aggravating man sat. If she could not see him, he also could not see her.
Young attendants silently brought basins and poured water for them to wash their hands. Another handed them drying cloths. A servant placed a large, flat piece of stale dark bread on a platter between her and Galan. Ahh, a trencher? Her imagination seemed quite accurate. They each had a silver goblet for wine, but no eating utensils were on the table.
Servitors placed platters of salmon, steaming venison and roasted boar stuffed with mushrooms nearby. As the smells drifted to her, her mouth began to water.
Galan removed an eating knife from a sheath at his side and lifted a sizeable portion of salmon onto the trencher.
She had no idea how she was supposed to eat it. Why couldn’t she dream of a time when they at least had wooden forks? Galan whispered to her and held a portion to her lips. Carefully, she took it without her lips touching him. It tasted divine.
Leaning forward, she stole a quick glance at the head of the table. Disgruntled, she rubbed her eyes. She couldn’t see any of the faces there clearly. She huffed in disgust. Why couldn’t she have decent eyesight in her dream? Lord, what she wouldn’t give to have her contacts. She squinted and finally saw Lady Maud’s husband help her with the salmon in the same fashion.
Feeling the hard gaze of the warrior upon her, she jerked back and took a gulp of wine. It was a big mistake. Never had she tasted such dry red wine. She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from spluttering it over the table. She preferred a dry red, but this was so dry it near withered the insides of
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her cheeks. The platters of food no longer enticed her. Blast!
It was the Scotsman’s fault. He’d ruined her appetite. She’d probably be so hungry when she awoke that she’d eat two of the large, famous English breakfasts.
Listening to the conversations around her, she became more familiar with Old English. She had no need to speak, though, for when someone asked her a question, Elise supplied the answer. The young woman chattered on and on, reminding Lydia of an excited teenager.
Each time Galan leaned close, she felt ripples of disapproval radiate from Mr. Macho at the head of the table. He acted like a jealous boyfriend.
“Brianna, I have a surprise for you. I have worked long and hard to please you with it,” Galan whispered in her ear.
“Oh, God. Do you think you can go slower on the surprises?” Since she had entered Blackthorn’s museum, she’d had one shocking surprise after the other.
“Are you talking to God, Brianna? Father Jacob will be back for matins at dawn. After mass, you can talk to him and he will tell you what God thinks.” Elise nodded encouragingly.
Smiling at Brianna, Galan took a lap mandolin from a page and bowed to her. He sat on a stool in front of the table and began to play. The music had a beautiful melody.
As his voice filled the room, its quality held Lydia spellbound. Hearing the words, she realized he was singing a love song. From the many knowing smiles of everyone seated near her, it wasn’t an unusual event.
Galan called forth something lurking in the back of her memory. Flashes of a stolen moment in a draped window en-closure. The feel of his body as he clasped her to him. She blinked and shook her head. No way could that be a memory.
How could she remember anything about Galan? This was a dream, for heaven’s sake. He ended his song with a flourish and returned to sit beside her.
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She leaned her head close to his and put her hand on his arm.“Galan, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard a more beautiful song. I hated for it to . . .”
Suddenly, her bench wobbled dangerously, almost spilling her onto the stone floor. She jumped up like a startled rabbit, lost her balance and landed on Galan’s firm thighs. As she scrambled off him, her nose bumped against a hard-as-marble chest.
That impossible man again! She knew, for she had stared at that same chest earlier and recognized his clothing. And his enticing scent. Leaning back against the table while rubbing her nose, she tilted her head to look up at his face.
Surely her eyes played tricks on her?
“Ye will return to yer room. Now.” The words sounded forced between grim lips. He scooped her up in his arms and stalked toward the stone stairwell.
Lydia struggled and pushed at his shoulders. His grasp tightened.
“Keep ye still, or I will put ye o’er my shoulder.” He glowered down at her as an added warning.
Lydia felt the blood drain from her face. Because of the Norman helm he had worn in the clearing, and because of the dark bedchamber above, she had not seen him clearly before.
He couldn’t possibly be the man whom she thought she was seeing. Not even in a dream. No foggy mist that enveloped them in the antique shop separated them here. She could feel his heat, his flesh. She smelled his scent that caused her blood to race through her body.
“Tell me your name, Demon. Tell me your name.” He couldn’t be the man in the ink drawing. It wasn’t possible!
“Damron, woman, not Demon. My name is Damron, and well ye know it.” His words grated with impatience.
“No. Not just Damron. Tell me all of it.” Her words quivered with apprehension. She had to be sure.
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“Damron Alasdair, of the Morgans at Blackthorn Castle.
What difference does my full name make?”
“You can’t be. You’re dead!” Lydia gripped the neatly braided hair at his temples. She drew his face closer. Shock rippled through her.
Her shout echoed off the stone walls. “How can you be here? You’ve been dead for centuries!”
Chapter 4
Damron surged up the stairway two steps at a time, wanting to get Brianna to her bedchamber and out of his arms as quickly as possible—before he shook some sense into her.
From his first sight of her riding toward him days before, she had acted nothing like the biddable young woman he was promised. She had enticed Galan, leaning toward him when she spoke. Even touching him familiarly. Damron’s stomach churned, remembering Brianna’s rapt expression when the young man sang.
Why, she did not act like a meek lass who had lived in an abbey, but like a headstrong lad who thought to ignore his authority. She would have found herself soundly thrashed as soon as she had disobeyed his orders and appeared below—
were she a lad.
Damron kicked the heavy door to her chamber. It crashed back against the stone walls for the second time in her recent memory. Quick strides took him across the room, where he dropped her on the bed.
“Ack!” She spread her arms and clutched at the covers.
Elise ran through the doorway and skittered around him as he whirled and stalked from the room.
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“Oh, Brianna, whatever will you do?” Elise twisted her hands together and looked about to cry. “Everyone heard you yell that Lord Damron has been dead for hundreds of years. Why, he would be dust by now. He was furious. I am afeared they will lock you in a tower like they did Great-grandmother Elyn.”
“Lock me away?” Lydia’s arms flailed as she fought the feather bed mattress and sat upright to stare at Elise.
“Yes, like Great-grandmother. They said she fed her husband wormy meat and yelled he was a vulture and should eat carrion.” Elise’s eyes widened as she recalled the story about her relative.
“They thought her possessed and tried to drive Lucifer from her. The priest shaved a cross on the top of her head. It did not help.” She gasped and stared at the crown of Brianna’s head. “Mayhap they will think you are like her. Oh, ’twould be a sin to shave such beautiful hair.”
“If he was as obnoxious as Lord Damron, he probably
was
a vulture.” Her palms began to sweat, her heart to race. She took quick gasps of air. This was no interactive dream about a medieval castle. It’s the real thing.
God, help me!
Knowing she was hyperventilating, she fought for control.
There’s no paper bag here to breathe into, so calm yourself.
Pass out now, and they’ll march in here and shave your head
before you know what’s up!
Lady Maud came into the room making soft, soothing sounds. “Mayhap you left your bed too soon, sweetling.
Surely ’tis the reason for your strange ravings.” She handed Lydia a pewter cup. “Drink this, and by the sun’s next rise, you will be to rights.” She smiled kindly at Lydia before putting her arm around Elise’s shoulders to coax her to the door.
“Come, love. If we keep Brianna awake with our useless talking, she will not get the healing rest she needs.”
Left alone, Lydia sniffed the hot liquid but decided to pour the brew out the window. She had no idea if the herbal con-
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coction was safe. Perhaps Damron had persuaded Lady Maud to add a sleeping potion to it. Now was not the time to sleep.
She needed to think, to sort out this strange dilemma before Elise returned for the evening.
She undressed and examined the clothing, noting the tex-ture of the material, the simple design and the stitches that held it together. Her anxiety grew while she folded each article. Finally, she climbed into bed, prepared to pretend a deep slumber if they checked on her.
No sooner had she done so than the latch lifted and someone quietly entered to stand over her. Her eyes were lightly closed, and she tried to keep her breathing deep and rhythmic. She did not need to see her visitor. His scent reached her nostrils.
He studied her so closely that his warm breath stroked her cheek, bringing to the surface another puzzling memory. The scene flashed behind her closed lids, and she almost gasped aloud. It was much clearer than any of the strange memories she’d ever had.
Damron, his weight on his arms, covered her. His dark
brows arched questioningly above green eyes that stared hotly
down into hers. His full, sensual lips hovered close to hers.
“This?” His teeth nipped gently at her skin as he trailed
kisses to the tip of her breast. Slowly, hotly, he licked the
nipple there, then gazed into her eyes. “’Tis this ye like?” His
voice husky with passion flowed over her. She moaned softly.
“Do ye love me, henny?”
She refused to answer. He clenched his teeth, causing a
jagged scar, which ran from the left corner of his lips down
across his jaw, to whiten. His thick black hair was longer. The
thin braids at his temples fell on each side of his face to
lightly brush her sensitive flesh.
He was naked.
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* * *
“Ye are not as they said,” he whispered, his tone bitter.
“Either all was a lie, or the rock has done more harm than the bruises that show.”
Though anger and frustration radiated from him, his touch was gentle as he smoothed the hair back from her forehead.
His fingers combed through her thick curls, then strayed to trace her lips.
The bewitching scent from his hands caused an involuntary catch in her breathing. He stilled, then lifted his fingers. Was he afraid he was waking her? Several moments passed before he moved away.