Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (12 page)

He ignored her.

“Please, stop.
Why have you put me in here? Are you kidding me?” She tightened her grip on the metal bars and pulled. “I thought you didn’t believe in witches.”

He stopped at that. “I don’t.” His harsh words rumbled up the stairs, reverberated off the close stone space.

“Well, then, what would your mother think of you treating a lady this way?”

That got him turned around and he stormed upward.

His expression frightened her badly enough that she wanted to remove her clutching fingers from the bars, in case he smashed them with his fist, but pride wouldn’t let her.

He bent and his face filled the space, inches from her own. “Never, ever mention my mother in the same breath as witches.”

“After today,” she said softly, “I sort of see her as a kindred spirit.”

He seemed to unbend a bit at that, his face relaxing before he nodded once. “Aye. Perhaps she would feel the same.”

“How long are you keeping me here?”

“Until it pleases me to release you.”

“But...” Her voice wavered. “When will that be?”

“When I have the answers I wish for.”

“Ask them, then.” But she was talking to his back. Feeling bereft, deserted, she watched him walk away, his broad shoulders encased in a red shirt and tunic, a belt at his waist, chausses tucked into his leather boots which made slapping sounds against the stone as he descended. She watched until he was out of sight, then sighed, turned around, and leaned against the door.

She was an idiot. She needed to get the crown and get out of there, not moon after the guy. Anyway, so much for her crush on him. Apparently he didn’t reciprocate in the slightest. She pushed off the door and headed resolutely up the stairs, curious to see what was at the top.

She was the most resourceful person she knew. She didn’t need Neanderthal man to let her out.

No one, not even Ian MacGregor, would keep her behind bars.

~~~

Jerry ran his tongue along his broken front tooth once more and tentatively touched the split in his lip. He winced. Fear had turned to exhaustion, and he no longer resisted the two men hauling him across the forest floor.

It was common knowledge that a person should never allow kidnappers to take them to a different location. Wherever they were taking him, it wasn’t to a five-star hotel, all-expenses paid. This would only get worse for him. But how to get away?

Facing forward, he simply let his toes drag for the most part, his arms wrapped around their thickly muscled shoulders. They held him at both wrists as they followed the two savages in the lead. Occasionally he worked up the courage to ask, “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” but it never did him a bit of good. They simply ignored him as one would a laundry sack, or a...a...carcass.

A branch scratched his face and he whimpered. He’d been captured by the four smelly men, or rather, had run straight into their arms when he’d gone looking for help. That’s what he’d told himself he was doing, anyway. Looking for help, not running away and saving his own hide.

He’d told them about Samantha and the villagers, and pleaded for their assistance. The men had at first looked astonished by his appearance, his story, but then they’d dragged him off, speaking a language he didn’t understand. Gaelic, no doubt. They’d punched him hard in the face, and then twice in the stomach when he’d resisted.

Twenty minutes later his face and stomach still ached. Now and again he tried to get his feet under him, but his legs just weren’t working that well at the moment, and the men didn’t seem to care either way, so he just let them drag him along.

He suspected he was in shock. That had to be it. Maybe even hallucinating, though if he was, it was entirely too real. But what did he know? Hallucinations were by their very nature realistic, right?

A short while later, arms aching, he managed to get to his feet and walk a few steps. “Please.” He stumbled, but neither man looked at him. “I need your help. My friend’s name is Samantha Ryan. She could be in real danger. It actually looked like they were...they were...going to burn her.” Jerry realized he was crying again. Surely he must have been mistaken. He must have misconstrued the entire situation. No way could that horrific scene have been real.

As he walked, the pressure on his arms eased significantly, and he realized that far from being giants, the men beside him were actually a few inches shorter than himself. That made him feel slightly better. Stronger.

He took a few deep breaths. Maybe if he spoke to them in a calm, matter-of-fact way, they’d be more likely to respond. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me. But could you please tell me what is going on? Where are you taking me? Why have you detained me?”

The two men looked between each other, said something in a foreign tongue, then one spoke to him—a clear threat—in the same language, his hand crushing Jerry’s wrist for a few seconds before easing up once again.

Jerry muffled a cry as fear crawled up his spine. He could feel sweat forming again on his upper lip, his brow, his back. He blinked back more tears. When he thought of Scotland, what came to mind was men in kilts, mountains, and the Loch Ness Monster. Not gangs, kidnappings, and witch burnings.

Granted, he’d never been to any part of Great Britain before and didn’t know a lot about the place, but he watched the news. If there were bands of gangs roaming about the Highlands, he’d have thought he’d have heard about it, that there would be warnings on the news at the very least. He’d heard about terrorists in other countries, but never a word about Scotland. Perhaps this was a new thing, and, just his luck, he’d chosen the wrong time to visit.

He blamed Samantha for this. If she hadn’t found that stupid crown, none of this would have happened. Why hadn’t he taken that job offer last year when he’d had the chance? Why had he fixated on Samantha? Why hadn’t he let well enough alone? For all he knew she really was a witch.

He sniffed, and teared up again. She was probably dead by now. And if they’d do that to a beautiful woman, there was no telling what they’d do to him. A tear ran down his cheek and he sniffed again.

One of his captors said something to the other, a guttural dog-like yipping of words, and both men laughed, causing a chill to run up Jerry’s spine. He was in
so
much trouble. He needed to think!

He couldn’t overpower four men, and, even if he could somehow get away, he doubted he could outrun them. Talking his way out of mishaps had worked his entire life. If he could get them to admit they spoke English, maybe he could use whatever skills he had to get out of this mess. It was worth a try, anyway.

“Please. You’ve got to let me go. I’m an important professor at my university, an American citizen. I promise you I’ll be missed. I’m sure they’ll pay to get me back. This is the first time that I’ve visited Scotland and, if I’ve broken the law, I think you should know that I came with a colleague, Samantha Ryan, and I know for a fact that she has all the necessary permits. Granted, she shouldn’t have been digging at night, and mind you, I did try and stop her, but in the end, I think the find itself will be of sufficient value to let the authorities look the other way, don’t you?”

They completely ignored him, which told him exactly nothing.

His jaw set. “The thing is, if you could see your way clear to letting me go, I’m sure that...”

They stumbled out of the woods and into a clearing and Jerry’s voice trailed off as he took in the four horses.
Horses?
He’d never ridden in his life. Amid multiple unheard protests from him, they mounted, secured him behind one of the men, and took off. For at least two hours he held on for dear life until they reached a village and castle up ahead, the setup eerily similar to where he’d left Samantha.

He hadn’t realized the Scottish lived in such straitened circumstances. He’d have expected regular housing, stores, cars—not thatched roof huts, horses, and other animals roaming about. Simply archaic. But the thriving fields surrounding the village proclaimed this a farming community, so maybe things were different out in the country.

Regardless, hope lightened his spirit. There were people down there, which meant he’d have a chance to appeal to other, hopefully more rational, folk for help.

When they made it to the village Jerry was too shocked to speak. The people lived like dogs. Dirt, mud, animals roaming free, and what looked to be sewage in the street. Utter squalor. And the smell!

About fifteen or twenty people stopped what they were doing to stare at him and he ogled right back, trying to see a spark of intelligence or even humanity beneath the dirt and grime. A woman lugging a wood bucket paused to gape. A man carrying an armful of kindling backed against a hovel. Everyone’s clothing was coarse and of homespun quality, and no one, not even the teenagers, had a scrap of modern apparel or technology visible on their persons.

Jerry swallowed the appeals and entreaties he’d mentally rehearsed and took comfort in the fact his captors rode toward the castle in the distance. Surely things could only be better up there?

Or not.

They pulled him off the horse and he hit the ground with bruising force, jarring his left hip, and eliciting a miserable groan. They hauled him up and marched him inside the castle—to the man in charge if the ornate chair he was seated on was anything to go by—and, at first glance, the guy gave the impression of insanity. Jerry’s stomach knotted. Crazy was not a good sign.

The guy was late twenties, maybe, with a broad forehead, high cheekbones, and shoulder-length white-blond hair. His face sported a short, barely there, reddish beard. But it was the icy blue eyes that made the hair on Jerry’s neck rise. It was like looking into the eyes of a rabid dog on the verge of attack.

He took one look at Jerry, laughed, not an ordinary chuckle either, but maniacal, like he was hopped up on something, and even the men who’d brought Jerry forward backed away.

Ice-cold fear crawled down Jerry’s spine. He was in so much trouble.

The flat of a big foot shoved at the backs of both legs, forcing Jerry to his knees as all around him spoke that guttural language. Finally, one of the kidnappers edged forward, made eye contact with Jerry, and gestured toward the crazy man. Jerry looked up and stuttered out, “Greetings, your worship.” He wasn’t even sure why he’d said it.

Crazy Guy’s eyes widened and he looked around in delight. “Weel, weel,” he said in heavily accented English. “What have you brought me then, lads? A Sassenach? Shall we liven up the afternoon and torture him for our entertainment? Or save him for this evening?”

Jerry gulped in air and swallowed repeatedly, his chest tight with fear. “Torture?” He cringed, his shoulders hunching. “I...I...please, don’t.”

The man leaned back in his chair, threw one leg over the intricately carved arm, and studied Jerry, a calculating expression on his face. “Why should I not kill you now?”

Surely he’d misunderstood the man’s thickly accented English. “K...Kill me?”

“Aye.” The man was openly enjoying Jerry’s fear, his smile reaching his crazed, pale eyes. “Kill you. You came from MacGregor lands, and no doubt you are here to spy upon me and mine.”

Unable to look away from the man’s glacial gaze, Jerry straightened cautiously and was relieved when the guy standing next to him didn’t shove him back down. He didn’t dare stand, but cowering in the dirt wasn’t doing him any favors. “No. No, your worship. I don’t even know who you are, so how could I want to spy on you?”

The guy laughed at that. “You dinna know me?”

Jerry shook his head, hoping he hadn’t offended the guy.

“You doona ken I’m Mad Malcolm Campbell?”

Jerry froze, sensing a trick. “Sure...surely they don’t call you that?”

The man laughed. “Not to my face, no.” He leaned down. “D’ye think I’m mad?”

As a hatter.
“No. Of course not.”

“Because I am no’.
I’m no’ daft!”

Jerry shook his head. “No.”

Seeming to calm, the madman took a long look at Jerry. “You’re different.”

Jerry didn’t comment.

Mad Malcolm smiled. “I like that about you.” He picked up a slice of meat and tore off a chunk with sharp teeth, chewing. “They found you fleeing MacGregor land. Your speech is strange, and your clothes are those of a fool. Where are you from?”

“America, sir.”

“Where?” The guy truly sounded confused.

“New York.”

“York?

“New York. In America.”

“What is your name?”

“Jerry Callahan.”

“Jerry.”
Mad Malcolm mangled the pronunciation. He waved a hand. “You’re naught but an English spy.”

Jerry breathed in carefully and tried not to react. “No. I’m not a spy.”

“What do you on MacGregor land, then?”

Hoping to impress the man, Jerry blurted out the truth. “Finding The Crown of Scotland.”

The man froze, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He lowered it. “What did you say?”

Jerry froze too, immediately regretting his words. “We...I...Samantha...we...she...dug up The Crown of Scotland.”

Mad Malcolm leaned forward. “You lie.” The words were harsh, but Mad Malcolm’s expression betrayed interest.

Jerry’s throat tightened. “No. It’s the truth.”

“Describe it. And know this. I beheld it wi’ my own eyes not six years ago. I’ll know if you lie If you do, I’ll cut out your tongue.”

The breath left Jerry in a rush as tears filled his eyes. Cut out his tongue? Fine tremors ran through his body. He wouldn’t be so frightened if he didn’t believe the guy would actually do it. Anyway, was this a trick of some kind? How could the guy have possibly seen it six years ago? It had been buried for hundreds of years.

What was he doing there? How had he gotten himself into this situation? Where had this group of crazies come from? Why had he even mentioned the crown? Most important of all, how did he get back home to his safe life?

Jerry looked into the other man’s eyes and swallowed. He was just glad he’d gotten a good look at the thing with his flashlight and hoped with every part of his being they were talking about the same crown. “It’s...it has three prongs that jut upward. There is a ruby attached to each tip. There are gemstones, and three fleur-de-lis. There is a cross in front, covered in pearls.”