Oh, What a Knight

2004 and 2005 Golden Heart Finalist

Prologue

England, 1420


“You have twin daughters, my lord, but the second born is not faring well. There is naught that can be done to save her.”

Richard Forrester, Earl of Silverwood, stood in his bedchamber and gazed upon his sleeping wife, the midwife’s words still swirling about in his mind. Tenderness for the woman he loved flowed through him, and something besides--a protective instinct so strong his hands curled into fists. What now? What could he do? Gladly, he would fell a thousand knights to preserve his family’s safety. But this...he was helpless against this.

Tearing his gaze away, he left his wife’s side and headed for the nursery. With a curt wave of his hand, Richard dismissed the attendants and then knelt by his daughters’ cradles. The first-born’s smooth skin gleamed a healthy color of ivory flushed with coral. The other baby was a pale, bluish shade.

He lifted his sickly daughter in his arms and brought her close, until her small hand brushed against his bearded jaw, and he could smell the sweet newness of her.

“Don’t fret, my little one,” he murmured. “I will find someone to cure your raspy breathing.” But the promise rang empty, for he could see that she struggled hard for each breath. A tear wet his cheek. God help me, I will not let you die.

***

The earl’s shoulders jounced in rhythm with the movement of the carriage as he sat alone, cradling his newborn daughter in the crook of one arm. Apprehension gnawed at his insides, along with fear. His daughter was not yet a day old, and yet he’d been driven to such a desperate measure.

Briefly, he considered returning to the castle, but one glance at the ailing babe, hastily named Morgeanna after his grandmother, gave him the courage to continue on.

Pushing the window covering aside, Richard glanced outside as the carriage made a sharp left into a forest glade. A decrepit cottage, nearly hidden by the waxy green leaves of ivy and small nameless flowers, came into view. The thatched roof was singed in one corner, as though it had survived a fire, and the wattle and daub walls were crumbling. A well stood just outside the front door, along with a foul-smelling privy.

In the midst of it all stood the Witch of Devonshire, as if she had been expecting him. He’d heard rumors that she used potions and magic to cure the sick. Although he did not believe in witchcraft or wizardry, he did believe in miracles. And now it seemed a divine act of God and an enormous amount of faith were his only hope.

With a tap to the ceiling, Richard signaled the driver to come to a halt. He wrapped the baby tighter in her fur-lined coverlet and stepped out into the cool morning air. His gaze met the old woman’s, prompting him to hold Morgeanna closer to his chest.

“So you came after all,” she said, her voice hoarse, as though she seldom spoke.

“Aye. How did you know?”

Her laugh erupted as a sharp crow.

“Please--”

“Let me see her,” the woman snapped. Her gaze riveted to the bundle in his arms and her thin fingers shook with apparent anticipation.

The earl stopped short of the crone’s grasp. “Can you help her?”

“Do you know what you ask of me?”

“Her lungs are weak. She needs your help,” Richard pleaded.

“She cannot make it here.”

“But--”

The woman’s claw-like hands waved him to silence as she hovered closer, her eyes still feasting on the babe. “There is a place. Or rather, a time.”

A time? The witch spoke in riddles. Richard nearly turned away, but Morgeanna’s skin had purpled like a plum. The babe wouldn’t survive the ride home. “Speak plainly, witch, or I shan’t leave her.”

“You have no choice and we both know it. There is naught anyone can do for the child. Give her to me.”

She was right. He’d already visited two physicians before dawn. He had no choice. “What will you do?”

“I will send her to a new tomorrow, another day. And she will live.”

With moisture filling his eyes, Richard placed a leather pouch filled with coins on the ground. “Tell no one,” he said. “My people have been sworn to secrecy and my wife knows naught of this twin. Why should she suffer?”

“I promise nothing. Only that the child will live.”

Swiftly kissing the dewy-cheeked babe, Richard fastened a rose-shaped amethyst loosely around her small neck and whispered, “I send you away to give you life, Morgeanna, with all my love.”

Then he relinquished his daughter to the old woman’s gnarled hands and returned to the carriage, never once looking back, trusting in God--and the Witch of Devonshire.

Chapter One

Lafayette, California -- Present Time

Morgan Hayes rushed into her mother’s antique store and changed the open sign to closed. “Wait until you see this!”

Her mother finished pricing her newest acquisition, a Windsor chair with a spindle back, before walking briskly across the room. Together they gazed upon a drawing of a fully armored knight, sitting straight and tall upon a cloud-white horse.

“It really is him,” her mother said. “I can tell by the intricate detailing of the brigandine.”

“And the gold inlay of his visor,” Morgan added, tapping the drawing. “He’s definitely our knight. It says here that the armor once belonged to a man known as the Earl of Kensington.”

Her mother took the leather bound book from her and began to read while Morgan went to where the armor stood before the front window, the sun radiating off the silver plates like streaks of lightning. Morgan had been nine-years old when her mother had acquired the armor, and still, her heart pounded every time she looked at him. She slid her fingers across the smooth hard steel of his breastplate and closed her eyes, imagining for the millionth time what he might have looked like. “I can’t believe he finally has a name,” she said with a sigh.

“And an earl at that. It says here on page twelve that ‘the Earl of Kensington was forced to marry and even found himself taken with his new wife. Unfortunately, he was bitterly disappointed in the end.’”

Morgan crossed the room and leaned over her mother’s shoulder, listening as her mother continued to read aloud.

“‘The earl believed his wife betrayed him. When his wife left him, he did nothing to stop her. Soon after though, the earl came to believe he’d been wrong about her. Sadly, in his haste to find her he was struck down and killed in an ambush near Swan Lake. He died in 1444.’”

“Swan Lake,” Morgan repeated as she skimmed the text, hoping to learn what became of the woman who had stolen the Earl of Kensington’s heart. According to the tale, the woman had simply disappeared, never to be seen again.

Later, as they set about closing shop, Morgan set the book aside and regarded her mother with open fondness. Once again she thought of her biological parents and the fact that they hadn’t loved her enough to keep her. Instead they had left her on a stranger’s doorstep. They didn’t deserve a second thought, but today was her twenty-fourth birthday, and as she did every year, she found herself wondering if she had her mother’s smile or her father’s eyes. Where were they now, she wondered, and did they ever think about the daughter they gave up so long ago?

“Are you going out tonight?” her mother asked, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Not tonight.” Her mother always called her an old soul. But most of the time Morgan felt more like a misfit, never quite fitting in with people her own age. She watched her mother set a dusty old box on a nearby chair, then remove the lid and draw out a blanket. “This is for you,” her mother said.

Morgan stood and gently scooped the old blanket into her arms. She smoothed her fingers over the crushed red velvet, intricately embroidered with gold thread and lined with fur, surprised by the odd pang she felt in her chest. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was wrapped around you when you came to me all those years ago. I was saving it for when you had children of your own,” she added thoughtfully, “but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. You should have it--it’s yours. And what better time to give it to you than on your birthday?”

Morgan hugged her, thanking her for such a wonderful gift. Then she held the richly woven fabric to her cheek. Closing her eyes, Morgan inhaled the strange musty smell of it, hoping to breathe in some sense of where she came from. Maybe get a glimpse of the person who had wrapped her in it long ago.

Instinctively she felt for the necklace she always wore around her neck. Like the blanket, it had been left with her when she was a baby. The leather string had been replaced with a chain, but the rose-shaped amethyst was still the same.

Tears glistened in her mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry I kept it from you.”

“Oh, Mom.” Morgan’s throat tightened as she drew her mother close again.

“I’m heading home,” she said softly after Morgan released her. “Are you coming?”

“You go ahead. I won’t be long. And Mom,” she called when her mother reached the door, “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

By the time Morgan finished tallying the receipts for the day a strong wind stirred the trees, making the branches dance. The air, suddenly too cold for a summer night, chilled her as she shut and locked the windows. She turned off the lights except for one small lamplight and picked up the blanket her mother had given her earlier. Then she noticed the Earl of Kensington’s armor in the shadows.

She came up close to the hard steel of his armor and stared up at his closed visor. “Time for me to go home,” she said with a sigh. She wiped the dust from his metal shoulder. “Why do I feel completely alone in the world except when I’m near you? Can you tell me that, Mr. Metal Man?”

Outside, thunder rumbled. Strange, she thought, that a storm might be brewing in the middle of summer. She tried to step away from the armor, but her T-shirt was snagged in the metal plates. As she struggled for her freedom, the humor of her predicament struck her, making her laugh. “We really must stop meeting like this.”

She pressed close to her knight’s hard chest. Standing on tiptoe, she tried to peek beneath his visor. The coldness of the steel touched her face. Her chest ached to think that this hollow suit of armor could never be her true, flesh and blood knight. Ridiculous. But still, it pained her to know that he would never remove his armor as she’d often imagined him doing in her dreams. She’d never see his smile or feel his warm hand about hers.

Thunder boomed, prompting her to cling to the armor. Fingers of lightning struck the front window, rattling the glass. Her heart drummed against her ribs. The armor suddenly became a blinding blur of metal and bright light. What was happening?

As her body became weightless, her panic mounted.

She thought of her mother...smiling, comforting her, and reached out a hand to fight for normalcy. Desperately struggling to return to the dimly lit room, she tried to focus on the familiar--the antique cash register, the upholstered settee where her mother used to read to her when she was small, the Pembroke table. But all of her mother’s treasures grew dim, shrinking in size, until it all disappeared.

And then darkness swallowed her whole.

***

England, 1444

A gust of rain-spattered wind spanked the high windows of the king’s chambers. Flames upon stout candles danced as drafts seeped through unseen crevices.

Derek Vanguard, Lord of Braddock Hall, looked upon King Henry VI with concern. The English king of the House of Lancaster looked frail as he lay in his bed, clothed only in a thin linen shirt, rambling on with his newest request.

Nobody held the king in higher esteem than Lord Vanguard, and yet at this moment, Derek stood before His Majesty with hands clenched at his sides. He knew he could not deny the king any service--it mattered not how large or small the task. But never had a request of Henry’s had the same disturbing effect as this particular assignment.

Derek tried to keep the muscle in his jaw from twitching when he spoke, but it proved difficult considering he wanted to shake some sense into the man. “Your Majesty. I mean no disrespect, but surely you recall how I feel about marriage.”

Henry waved his hand as if Derek had not spoken at all. “’Tis nonsense. Not all women are like your mother.”

“I understand, but--”

Henry snorted. “It is with great anticipation I await your forthcoming marriage. Peace for our people—-it is all that concerns me. This union between you and the daughter of the Earl of Silverwood gives me great hope. It is an honor I have chosen you to be her husband.” The king finished his sentence with a hacking cough.

Derek lifted an aggravated brow. He knew the king used his failing health to manipulate others, but this was too much. “As you well know, sire, I vowed long ago never to marry.”

“Hogwash,” the king spouted with another wave of his pale hand. “You are not getting any younger. It is time you had sons. Who better to serve me when you are too old to watch over my lands?”

As the king babbled on, Derek’s thoughts wandered back to his childhood when his prayers went unanswered for too long. He knew not which was worse--a mother abandoning her child or a father who treated his only son with hatred and indifference. He trusted no one, had no room in his heart for any child. And he certainly had neither the patience nor the time for a wife.

“I am told that Lady Amanda is praised for her beauty and has not an equal in the entire kingdom. What have you to say to that?” King Henry questioned.

There was no arguing with the king, and that caused the veins at Derek’s temple to throb. His voice remained calm, but every muscle he possessed grew stiff with dread. “If the quest, my lord, is a thing that is in my power to undertake, I will undertake it. Unto that, I pledge to you my knighthood.”

“Then you will do as I bid?”

“You thought otherwise?”

They exchanged knowing gazes before Derek added with less strain, “I am confident any alliance you feel necessary must be so.”

The king sat up a bit, his chest puffing.

“I also find it an honor, my lord, that you have chosen me. Now, if you are done, I should get back to defending Your Majesty and His people.”

The coughing spasms resumed and King Henry excused him with a thrust of his hand. “I knew you would see it my way,” he croaked. “Now away with you. Give a dying man some peace.”

Derek bowed, thankful to be leaving. Although his displeasure had not completely subsided, he found himself amused by King Henry’s exaggerations, for they both knew he had but a cold.

***

Morgan opened her eyes. The smell of damp, dewy leaves drifted up her nostrils. Dirt...leaves.

Where was she?

She sat up and spit leaves from her mouth as she looked around. A dense growth of trees and underbrush surrounded her.

Her heart thumped against her chest. She couldn’t remember leaving the store. How did she get outside?

It was eerily quiet. No birds chirping. Nothing...except a very faint rumbling noise. Cocking her head, she listened closer. The dry scattered leaves moved ever so slightly. The rumbling grew louder until it sounded like dozens of horse hooves crashing against the earth. Her breathing quickened. And then a giant pig-like animal shot through the brush, giving her a start.

Before she could blink, three men on horses charged through the same dense thicket, heading straight for her. She scrambled to her feet but didn’t have time to run for cover. Instead she crossed her arms over her face and froze.

The men wrenched their giant horses to a skidding stop, mere inches before colliding into her. She felt the heat of the horse’s breath, its nostrils flaring.

Her heart thundered against her chest as she peeked through trembling fingers. The men wore woolen tights and knee-length leather boots. Their shirts were ragged and stained with dirt and blood. The men looked vicious with their narrowed eyes and predatory expressions. Her throat constricted. The man she assumed to be their leader dug his heels into his mammoth stallion, urging the animal forward until the beast’s breath was upon her head.

This was 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.

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 had to be 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 a bit snug, but other than that--what was the problem? Certainly no reason for them to drool in such a disgusting manner.

Morgan 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, 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 therefore 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 looked old and wise...and his eyes hinted at kindness. But then again, she had a doozer 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--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, was now peering 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 peering toward the forest again. This time he waved his sword above his head as if signaling to someone. Turning 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 into the metal man’s arms like a worm snatched up by a bird, Morgan clung to cold interlinking metal rings of armor. The horse dodged a maze of pine trees and thorn covered shrubs, her backside thumping against the man's armor with every turn. 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 elbowed the man in armor, hurting her funny bone 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 wiry mane to keep her balance. The man she rode with hardly flinched. “You’re not that Lord Vanguard guy they were talking about, are you?”

The man slid the helmet from his head, hooking 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. For 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 lifted a youthful brow and said in a serious tone, “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 chose to ignore Emmon and focus 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 the lord 1445,” he added almost gleefully.

“What do you mean?”

“Lord Vanguard frowns deeply upon the betrayal of his people,” Emmon told her with a hint of glee. “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.”

“They are?” Emmon looked so cocky and smug, Morgan was sure the rumors didn’t bode well.

“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 huge, 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 sighed deeply. “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, she was supposed to marry 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 fully, 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. As they came down the 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.

“What’s wrong with them?” Morgan asked.

Emmon clucked his tongue. “I told you before. Nobody betrays his lordship by running away. ’Tis unheard of.”

Shivers coursed up Morgan’s spine. 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 he pulled on the reins and headed toward the stables.

Morgan was tired of being thrown around like a sack of potatoes, and she glared at Emmon’s backside as he rode off.

“Lady Amanda, did those blackguards hurt you?”

Morgan took a closer look at the woman before her. 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 her 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.” With that she grabbed hold of Morgan’s arm and 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?”

Morgan frowned. “Robert who?”

The woman huffed. “So this is the game you wish to play?”

Morgan didn’t know what to say to that. 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? Dismayed, Morgan 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 came across 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 added when she saw skepticism creep 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 voilá, here I am.”

Odelia examined her closely. Morgan was sure the woman was on to her until the lines about Odelia’s face softened, and she said, “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 told her, hoping that would appease the woman for now.

Odelia wrinkled her nose in semi-disgust before ushering her along again, lecturing as she went. “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 trepidation 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 at all. After Odelia was called away, Morgan continued on, peeking through thick oak doors until she came to a large 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 suddenly washed through her--the same calmness she felt whenever she was near her beloved armor in her mother’s store.

A shuffling of papers startled her. She looked to her left and caught sight of a man 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.

Morgan 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. He looked oddly familiar, 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.

“It is a book you are looking for?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Your first day here at Braddock?”

Standing rigid atop the stool, she wanted to speak, but no words would come out.

“Have you no voice?”

“Of course I do,” she finally managed to blurt out. “It’s just that you surprised me. I didn’t see you lurking in the corner.”

The corners of his mouth curled upward.

At closer view she noticed 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.

His chuckle made her realize she was staring at him as if she’d never laid eyes on a man before. She planted her arms across her chest. “What’s so funny?”

He was becoming less God-like by the second. And if his dark eyes weren’t looking right through her, making her feel tingly and anxious beneath his gaze, she might have thought of something clever to say. But with him staring at her so intensely, it was impossible to think, let alone speak.

Get a grip, she told herself. She shifted her weight. The stool toppled. She gasped as she fell, but he caught her in his arms and pulled her close. Close enough that she could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his body against hers. For what seemed like eternity, her breath caught in her throat until finally she said, “Put me down!”

The man hardly flinched. Instead, he raised his foot to the fallen stool so that she was straddled upon one very substantial thigh, her mouth mere inches from his brawny chest.

“Let me go--or--or I will report you to your boss--you know...your master--” she amended upon noting his puzzled expression.

He looked amused by such a threat, but once again he failed to loosen his hold. Instead he leaned forward and covered her mouth with his as if it was his right to do so...as if he could do whatever he pleased...as if...

His lips grazed over hers in a mere whisper, taking her breath away. Something stirred deep within; heat spread through her like wildfire. His lips melded over hers, and all thoughts of pushing him away evaporated. In that instant she knew that for this kiss alone she’d been sent to another century.

His lips drew away then, prompting her to open her eyes. He was staring down at her with dark, smoldering eyes...angry eyes. He released his hold and simultaneously dropped his foot to the floor, causing her to stagger backward like a broken, wind-up doll. She quickly regained her balance, her chest rising and falling with every breath she took. Surprise turned to anger the moment she realized he’d dropped her on purpose.

As he rested his hands on his hips, his eyelids drooped lazily. “Now,” he said, his voice deep and rich with a full measure of conceit. “Perchance you have learned your lesson and will be more careful in the future as to where you wander without permission.”

Morgan’s teeth clenched.

“Unfortunately, I have important work to attend to,” he went on. “Had you come at a more convenient time, I would have been happy to further assist you in your schooling.”

A tremendous urge to throw the stool at him came over her. “In my schooling?”

“Aye,” he said, examining his cuticles. “All new maidens who come to Braddock seek my instructions eventually. Though it would seem you are more eager than most. Perhaps another time.”

“Of all the egotistical--” There he stood with that vainglorious smirk. “You think I came in here looking for you? Hoping to be trained?”

He didn’t need to respond. She could see it in his eyes, in the way he stood, in his cocky grin. What an idiot she was to let him kiss her like that. What was wrong with her? She stepped closer. “Listen here, Mister conceited, arrogant man,” she ground out, poking a finger at his thick chest. “I happen to take offense to the way you’ve treated an honored guest.”

He lifted a brow. “A guest of honor, no less? And who exactly might that be?”

Morgan stretched herself to her full five-foot-four inches.

“Do you have a name?” he asked before she could speak, “or have you swallowed your tongue again?”

She inwardly growled. The thought of having this cocky peasant thrown in the dungeon for kissing his lord’s betrothed was too good to resist. “I happen to be engaged to a very important man at Braddock Castle. My name is Lady--”

A thin dirt-stained man came rushing into the room, nearly bowling her over. “You must come quickly--there is trouble--in the village,” the man said between breaths. “A small band of men without colors or crest--” he inhaled “--was spotted moments before the village went up in flames.”

Both men bolted from the room, leaving Morgan standing there like a fool, pointing her finger at no one. One minute she was letting the big oaf have a piece of her mind and in the next he was gone.