She stared at him. “Your name struck fear into them. Are you famous?”

  He shrugged and waved his hand at her. Elia was going to kill him for bringing the waif home.

  “You said you were a White and a defender of York? You…you were killing Reds?”

  “That is correct, Miss.” He put his hand into his lap. “I can only hope that the blood draining from your face is the result of fear and the belief that you have traveled over five hundred years into the past, and not because you are a Red.”

  Her huge eyes rounded. “A Red? No. Do you see a red rose badge on me anywhere?”

  He raked his gaze over her and shook his head, relieved that she wasn’t his enemy.

  “Do you still insist that you have come back in time from the future?” He was hoping she’d had a change of thought.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” she asked looking up at him on his horse. “It’s the truth.”

  Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. Somehow, they appeared even bluer.

  “A truth,” he countered stiffly, “that could see you tied to a stake.”

  She gasped and reached for his horse’s bridle. “Burned?”

  “Where did you come from?” he asked. Was she a witch? Would she tell him if she was?

  “I…fell and hit my head. I don’t remember where I come from.”

  It was what he wanted her to say. But hearing her say it and seeing the tears it produced only trumpeted the fact that she was lying and afraid. Afraid of him. Good. She should be. He wasn’t here to coddle anyone. He would see to it that she was taken care of, but that was as far as he would go.

  “Come, I will take you home and see that you are cared for.”

  She went to him this time and he hoisted her up and set her down behind him. She straddled his horse and wrapped her arms around his waist.

  She didn’t speak to him again, but about a half of a mile in, he heard her weeping and he felt his léine growing damp.

  He wasn’t used to comforting women at such close proximity. What does one say to a woman who was not right in the head? A woman who believed she lost her family and friends? He covered her hands resting on his belly and with one hand he patted hers. Soon, he would be home and he could hand her over to Elia.

  Soon, he wouldn’t have to concern himself with her anymore.

  Chapter Three

  Kes didn’t care if her cheek was pressed to this man’s back, or if she soaked his shirt. She was heartsick and petrified. She was here—in the middle ages. In the middle of a war, or to be more specific, the Wars of the Roses. She wept harder.

  The Wars of the Roses were a series of wars for the English, fought between two rival branches of the royal House of Plantagenet. The House of—her heart skipped making her feel dizzy—Lancaster, and the House of York.

  Not only was she here, but she’d landed on the enemy side, right in the middle of the action. She trembled remembering the dying men and this savage in front of her. If she hadn’t been so busy screaming, and if he hadn’t been killing men left and right, she might have thought him kind of beautiful to watch.

  How was she going to get back? She would never make it here. Loving history was entirely different than living it.

  Still, there were little things to be thankful for, such as this guy saving her life—twice. His name was well known if the leader of the six was any proof. He couldn’t get his men away quickly enough. Nicholas de Marre. She didn’t remember reading anything about him. But she knew what he meant when he spoke about the Reds and the Whites. Some historians disagreed about when the phrases were termed. But here was a white rose on the knight’s shield.

  She nearly leaped from her skin when the man’s hand came to rest on hers. He was offering her comfort. She took it.

  She would have given anything to speak to one of her friends. Kim would tell her to go with it, relax and enjoy the adventure. Lilith would tell her to rest and trust God. Jack would tell her to fight, and Constantine would tell her to seduce and sleep with the knight and secure a place for herself.

  Maybe they were all right when added up together.

  Would she ever see them again? What would her father do when they found out she’d disappeared? He’d lost her mother fifteen years ago and now her. Would he give up, be alone for the rest of his life? Maybe the police would talk to Mr. Green and someone could figure out how to get her home.

  Until then…oh, until then, what would she do? She wasn’t a survivalist. If she didn’t stick to Sir Nicholas, she’d be dead in a week. A little part of her felt as if she were losing her mind for calling him who he claimed to be and liking how it sounded in her head.

  Sir Nicholas de Marre, Earl of Scarborough, from fourteen hundred and eighty-five.

  How could all this be possible?

  She opened her eyes and watched trees and bramble, hills and valleys pass. He was taking her to Scarborough. And then what? She had to make him believe her. Or did she? He’d practically called her a witch! They burned witches in the middle ages.

  Was she supposed to forget her life? Never!

  She sniffled and caught a whiff of pine and sea air. It was nice, refreshing. But there was another scent coming from him that drew her. She turned her nose into his shirt and her nostrils filled with the scent of woodsmoke and the faint undercurrent of sweat. No cologne or artificial aromas. Just the smell of a man. Pure, unadulterated pheromones.

  It almost made her forget the painful ache in her inner thighs from riding.

  He must have felt her breathing him in.

  “What did you say your name was, Miss?” he asked crisply.

  “Kestrel.” She knew she had almost said Lancaster earlier. He may have picked up on it. She quickly searched her brain for a Yorkshire name. “Locksley.”

  “Well, Miss Locksley, you must stop all this weeping.”

  “I can’t promise anything,” she told him woodenly. “I’m mourning my life. Try a little compassion.”

  “I’m a warrior, Miss. Compassion will get me killed.”

  “On the battlefield, yes. But this isn’t a battlefield.”

  Why was she arguing with him? Because she wanted an understanding ear. She wouldn’t get it from him.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, pushing off him and holding on to him with her hands on his shoulders.” You won’t see me crying again.”

  “You have a saucy mouth,” he remarked, keeping his eyes fixed forward.

  “You think this is saucy?” She laughed a little. It was the first time she’d laughed all day. She must be hysterical. “Wait until I haven’t had my coffee.”

  “What is coffee?”

  She shook her head, feeling hopeless. “It’s a brewed drink made from coffee beans. It has caffeine.”

  “What is caffeine?”

  “It’s a stimulant. It makes you feel excited and energetic. Filled with vigor,” she supplied.

  “Hmm,” he breathed. She felt the rise and fall of his shoulders. “So you like to be vigorous?”

  “I like to be on my toes, recognizing the bullcrap when it comes. And it always comes.”

  He turned and her hands fell away from his shoulders. He gave her a hard look. “I do not understand this language you sometimes speak. What it bullcrap?”

  “Lies. Betrayals. Crappy stuff.”

  He shook his head and turned again for the road. “Crappy stuff.”

  He didn’t understand her use of slang, but it was her. She wasn’t sure if she could stop it or if she wanted to. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be here long enough for it to make a difference.

  “What do you remember about the moments before you appeared on the field?”

  Did he believe her then? Her heart thrashed like waves against the cliffs. “My aunt, Eleanor Pendridge, left me a brooch. I went to some office to pick it up. I was looking at it. I…I rubbed the surface with my thumb and the brooch began to change. The air shimmered and the brooch appeared new and shiny. There was a name on it. I spoke the name and then I was here.”

  “What was the name?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes and thought about it. She’d been thinking about it while he’d left her alone. “I don’t remember. I’ve been trying to, but I can’t. It was something very old and legendary. But I don’t know what.”

  “If ’tis real it will come back to you, Miss Locksley.”

  “It is real. I don’t know what to do to convince you.”

  “Other than disappear,” he muttered, “there is nothing. But if you speak the truth, I must warn you, it sounds like magic was involved in getting you here. You would be best not to tell anyone else.”

  They reached the small coastal town of Scarborough while she was pondering the thought of being utterly alone. She thought on it no further when she looked around. She drew in a slight gasp. If she had to be stranded somewhere…oh, my. Everything was built along the curved coast with the aqua sea rolling over the golden sand.

  Fishermen cast their nets in the deeper end, while women washed clothing along the shore. Children ran and laughed.

  Kes took everything in. She was pretty sure this place was a resort in the twenty-first century. She would have smiled if she wasn’t stuck in a nightmare.

  They didn’t stop but kept going upward toward a long curtain wall made of stone, to the tall, majestic, stone castle. It was built along the promontory overlooking the North Sea and protected on three sides by cliffs and the sea. They crossed the massive ditch by a great bridge.

  They reached the outer gate and rode into the mile-long outer bailey. Every dozen or so feet, a tower separated the wall. There was a great tower, four small towers and three larger ones. The place was a gigantic fortress. There were two stables and lots of bales of hay around. There was a steepled church with two men dressed in brown robes standing in front of the wooden doors watching their entrance. There were plenty of men to defend the fortress with two garrisons instead of the usual one. The sounds of clanging and banging from various smiths drove through her head as they passed them. Tanners hung hides out to dry. There was also a great hall, two kitchens, and the castle.

  Impressive. Was it all his?

  People came out to greet him as he rode into the inner court.

  Everyone was dressed in appropriate fifteenth century garb. Women wore lower front openings with squared necklines and laces pulled tight over different colored kirtles. Some had a panel inserted beneath the laces. It looked terribly uncomfortable. One woman hurried out in a long dress which she carried in a loop to allow the freedom of walking. The men wore linen shirts with wide sleeves pulled through their doublets. Their hose were indecently tight and brightly colored. Some wore pointed shoes while others sported thigh boots.

  Sir Nicholas didn’t wear a doublet, but a long, tapered sleeve shirt that was belted low on his waist. When he dismounted first, she noticed that he was, in fact, wearing hose. She looked and then turned away, blushing when he caught her.

  “Come then, Miss. All will be well.” He held up his hands to catch her when she fell into his arms to dismount.

  His voice, with his sexy British accent was immensely pleasing to her ears. But more than that, it soothed her and made her less afraid.

  She caught his scent and looked into his eyes. That was a mistake. His piercing gaze went straight through her. She was sure he could intimidate any man she knew, but he didn’t intimidate her.

  Everyone else did though. People were swarming about, coming closer. A stable hand ran to take the knight’s horse. Others wore wide smiles. She didn’t want to meet any of them. They would realize she was odd. Would their first thought be witch?

  “Welcome home, my lord,” said at least fifteen people.

  “Why, where is your armor, m’lord?” someone called out.

  “My lord, your face is cut!” called another.

  “My armor is on the field,” the earl answered mater-of-factly. “And I will see to my wound. I am in need of a bath though. Kenneth see to it immediately.”

  An old man nodded and made way for someone to whom his lord beckoned.

  A woman stepped forward. Kes guessed she was in her late thirties, early forties. Her hair was gray with streaks of black (but not many). Another terrible thing about this century. No hair dye. Her hair was long and braided into an intricate set of knots in the back of her capped head. Her eyes were a changing mix of gold and green, and kindness.

  “Elianora,” Sir Nicholas said, “this is Miss Kestrel Locksley of Bridlington. She was hurt and has lost everything, including parts of her memory. See that she has some hot food and a bed for the night. Come to my solar later and we will discuss what to do with her tomorrow.”

  Kes’ hands balled into fists. Sure, she knew better than a lot of people that this was how men thought back here in the middle ages. But was she going to have to become a subservient woman because she was here? No. She wasn’t from here. She turned to him. “Am I not invited to discuss my future?”

  Whatever power her eyes had had on other men in the past, was stopped cold when his gaze met hers. He was unaffected by her.

  “You do not wish to rest then?” he asked coolly.

  “I’ll rest after.”

  “Very well. Elia, see that she is fed and then bring her to me.”

  “Aye, my lord,” Elia responded and turned to walk away.

  Kes didn’t want to leave him. She hated herself for it. She didn’t know him. He was just as medieval as everyone else, but he had saved her. He knew her better than anyone else here knew her.

  He looked as if he wanted to say something. He didn’t and walked away instead.

  All right then. She looked after him for a second or two and then turned to Elia and followed her to a small side-house off the western castle wall.

  “Where are we going?” Kes asked, fighting a feeling that she knew the answer.

  “To the servants’ quarters,” Elia told her.

  “I’m sorry but I think there’s been a mistake. I’m not a servant. I’m a historian.”

  Elia laughed. “A woman historian?”

  Kes closed her mouth. There were no cell phones here, but word traveled quickly through gossip. If she behaved out of place, they would notice.

  “Are all the women in Bridlington so cheeky?”

  “Yes, yes,” Kes said with a forced short laugh. “It’s just good-natured fun.”

  “Of course,” Elia nodded then dipped her gaze over Kes’ clothes. “What are these garments that you wear? Your shoes are especially odd.”

  Odd?

  “Oh,” she said quickly, with another laugh, “my father is an inventor. He often asks me to wear his pieces.”

  “Hmm,” Elia looked her over some more, and then smiled. “That could be interesting.”

  “It is,” Kes agreed. Had she done enough to veer attention away from her being odd?

  “And your hair? Why do you wear it without braid or adornment? Why, there is not even a pin in it.”

  Kes lifted her hand to it. “I’ve been outside for a day. My pins have fallen out.”

  “Poor dear,” Elia cooed and ushered her into the house and into the kitchen. “You sit right down and let me prepare something for you to eat. Cook made rabbit stew earlier. It should still be…ah, aye, ’tis still in the bowl and still warm.”

  “Thank you,” Kes told her. It couldn’t hurt to be polite. “What is your position here?”

  “I’m the head maid,” Elia told her, filling her bowl, “and I would like to think, a friend of Sir Nicholas’.”

  What did one call the head maid these days? “What would you prefer I call you?”

  “Elia. And you?”

  “Kes.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “Have you known Sir Nicholas long?” Kes asked her when Elia handed her the bowl.

  Elia nodded and took a seat beside her. “His whole life.”

  Kes liked the head maid. She was easy to talk to.

  “When he was seven summers, his family was killed by men who fought for the House of Lancaster.”

  Kes felt her blood leaving her face, her brain. Oh, no. This man hated the Lancasters with good reason.

  “King Edward took him in and raised him. I had been his mother, Lady Johanna de Marre’s maid. I became Sir Nicholas’ maid after that.”

  “King Edward,” Kes repeated. Which King Edward? There were so many. Oh, she couldn’t think anymore. Her brain was exhausted. Who was king during this time? “I…my lord mentioned that I can’t remember some things. One of them is the king.” She smiled sheepishly. “Who is he?”

  “Richard,” Elia scowled. “Richard III.”

  The maid wasn’t scowling because of her, but because of the king. She didn’t like him. Did the earl feel the same way about his king? And if Richard III was king, that meant Edward the IV, his brother, had died. He told her it was fourteen-eighty-five. July.

  “You haven’t touched your stew,” Elia declared. “Are you ill?”

  “No. I’m…” She tried to think of something to tell her. “I’m just feeling a little confused.” She spooned up some stew and cautiously tasted it. It was surprisingly good.

  “My dear, has anyone ever told you that your eyes are quite beautiful?”

  Kes smiled without giving her an answer. She didn’t want to come across as being vain.

  “How did you and Nicky meet?”

  Kes stopped. She nearly choked. Elia leaped up and patted her back until Kes held up her hands. “I’m ok.”

  “Ok?” Elia asked, looking somewhat lost. “Does everyone in Bridlington speak like you?”

  “Speak like me?” Kes’ heart nearly burst out of her chest. “My father is from Wales.”

  “Ah,” Elia said, as if being Welsh made all the difference. “I have never been to Wales.”

  Kes waved her concern away. “It’s…’tis quite all right.”

  “I only asked about how you met because he does not usually bring women home. You must be very special.”

  “Special?” What would Elia say if Kes told her the truth. Would she laugh, or call her a witch…or believe her? She couldn’t risk it to find out.