Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) (37 page)

Willie smiled and, unsurprisingly, it wasn’t a nice one, revealing rotting teeth and malice. “I be a simple man. All I wish is what ye’ve refused to grant me all along. I want ye to burn.”

Samantha shook her head and tightened her grip on the shovel. What had she expected? An apology? “You are a very unpleasant individual, do you know that? Don’t you think we’ve had enough death around here? I just want you to know that—”

Willie lifted two fingers to his mouth and blew out a shrill whistle and it startled Samantha into halting mid-sentence.

Tori gasped and Samantha swung around to follow her gaze. The sound of horse’s hooves carried to her at the same time she saw them. A group of five men riding fast from the nearby woods.

Samantha whirled around and grabbed Tori by the arm and gave her a push. “Run!”

Willie tried to block their path back to the castle, but they were too fast and nimble as they sprinted by, avoiding his crutch as he slung it at their legs.

It did them no good. Three men on horseback blocked their escape, and two others barred the other direction. Samantha spread her arms wide, shielding Tori behind her back. “What do you want?”

Willie cackled off to the side and danced a jig like the fool he was.

A man with white blonde hair and icy blue eyes stared down at her. “Lady Samantha, I presume?”

Her heart pounded, but she responded in a strong voice, “Who’s asking?”

He smiled a thin-lipped smile. “I be Laird Malcolm Campbell, my lady. Ye dinna remember me?” He looked at her hair. “I remember you.”

She knew exactly who he was. “Mad Malcolm?”

The man threw his head back and screamed,
“I am not mad! I am
not
mad!”
He kicked his legs and his horse flinched and tried to buck him off, but the man retained his seat and both animal and man finally calmed. The horse, still now, twitched its ears and rolled its eyes as if anticipating another tantrum or attack.

Samantha stared up at the man. Yep. She had the right guy.
Note to self: Don’t call him mad.

He smoothed dirty white-blond locks from his face. “As I was sayin’.” He leaned forward. “I am Laird Campbell, your benefactor or your ruin. The choice is yours. Will you stay and die, or will you ride wi’ us?”

She didn’t really like the choice. “Will you let the girl go?”

He barely glanced at Tori. “I’ve no use for the girl. She’s free to leave.”

“Go,” Samantha urged before the guy could change his mind.

Tori slipped past the horses and ran.

Laird Campbell called after her. “Tell MacGregor we’ll be waiting’ for him! And tell him to bring the crown!” He glanced at Samantha as he turned his horse back toward the woods. “Bring her. And the old man, as well.”

Samantha heard Willie protest and that gave her a small bit of satisfaction as she was scooped up and strong-armed behind a well-muscled captor. The man spurred his horse, and, looking at the distance to the ground, she held on for dear life.

Chapter Twenty-Three

After the first hour, Samantha gave up on any chance of escape. Out of the five horses, they were second in line. Even if she did manage to jump off the animal, and even if she did succeed in keeping her bones from breaking, they’d be on her in moments.

The next hour they rode hard, on and off, giving their mounts an occasional break. Samantha clung to the notion that Ian couldn’t be very far behind. He would follow, she knew he would. The fact that she wasn’t part of his clan, and that she’d told him she was leaving soon, wouldn’t have him shrugging off the kidnapping, right?

She’d calculated it would take Tori fifteen minutes to run to the keep. But where had Ian disappeared to earlier? If Tori had to search for him, that would add time. Then another ten or fifteen minutes to get the horses together and come after her.

He would come, wouldn’t he?

When they finally arrived at their destination, it was to see a village, not too dissimilar from Ian’s, although in a state of disrepair. And, of course, in the middle of the village, a pile of wood and straw heaped around a wood beam.

She recoiled, her heart thumping with sudden fear. This did
not
look good.

Laird Campbell jumped from his horse, threw the reins to a man, and headed for her.

She was in
so
much trouble.

He dragged her off the horse and, when she would have fallen to the ground, scooped her up, and twirled her around. When they stopped, she faced the woodpile and her heart thundered in her chest. He was at her back, his arm tight about her waist, his cheek rubbing against her own as he inhaled deeply. “You smell good.”

She cringed away. “I wish I could return the compliment.” She regretted her words almost immediately.

He laughed.

“D’ye see the woodpile?”

She tried to keep emotion—specifically fear—out of her voice, but wondered if he could feel her heart pound. “Yes. I see it.”

He smelled her again, starting at her neck, then pressing his nose to her temple. “I had it made especially for you, but...” He twirled her around to face him. “Do you please me, I might keep you unsinged.”

“That would be my vote.”

“Burn her!” Willie called. Thankfully, the rest of the crowd remained silent.

Samantha slowly turned her head to look up at Laird Campbell warily. “Please you...how?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I find myself in need of a powerful seer.”

“A seer? And you think I’m one?”

“I know you are.”

“How do you figure?”

“Jerry!”
He yelled the name and Samantha flinched away, bending down to protect her hearing.

“Your worship?”

Samantha’s head shot up, her mouth dropped open, and her stomach sank. She felt like crying. Jerry Callahan, always so well-groomed and attractive—was not. He’d obviously suffered a lot of abuse and—bruised, battered, and filthy—was dressed in a strange combination of homespun and Brooks Brothers. He looked sad, pathetic, and with his lips drawn back in a grimace, she could see he was missing a front tooth. And he was so thin. He’d never been very muscular, looking more GQ than buff, but he looked like he hadn’t had a good meal in a long while. And the dull look in his eyes showed that emotionally he’d been devastated.

“Jerry?”

“Hello, Samantha.” His tone was stoic. Gone was the smirking, overweening self-confidence.

“I’m so relieved to see you,” she choked out, trying not to show her dismay over his appearance.

“Likewise. I thought they’d burned you.” He teared up. Sniffed. Pressed a hand to his forehead. “Are...are you going to leave me here? Because of how I left you? And how I treated you at work?”

Samantha shook her head. “If I get out of this, you’re going with me. That’s always been the plan. I would never leave without you.”

He sobbed once, put a fist to his mouth, and nodded.

Malcolm slapped Jerry on the back of his head, sending him off balance, but he managed to catch himself. “Doona stand so close. I dinna wish the witch to have her familiar.”

Jerry staggered back.

Samantha seethed at this treatment. “Stop being a jerk. And I’m not a witch.”

Malcolm turned his eerie blue eyes on her. “You’d better be.” For the first time his tone held real menace. He let go of her, grabbed Jerry by the neck, and shook him. “Ask her.”

“Do you...do you have the crown?” Jerry stammered. “Or know where it is?”

She shook her head.

At that, Malcolm rushed forward to yell in her face.
“Liar!
I desire that crown, and I want it now. I know of your powers and you
will
conjure a spell and retrieve it forthwith.”

Samantha didn’t shrink back, but she wanted to. Insultingly, she wiped at her face, instinctively knowing that showing weakness before this man would be a mistake. “What do you want it for?”

Malcolm backhanded Jerry in the chest, and puffed up his own.

“When...” Jerry swallowed. “When he puts the crown on his head, he will be King of Scotland.”

Samantha’s mouth parted. “Ah. Gotcha.” The man was all-the-way crazy. Good to know.

Malcolm shoved her. “Get started. Get me the crown, or burn.” He pointed at the woodpile.

She barely retained her balance. “Okay. All right, already. Give me a minute to think.”

The man watched her as if he expected her to pull it out of thin air. Maybe he did. She glanced at the woodpile. Ian couldn’t be
that
far behind. He would follow, she was sure of that. Pretty sure. Where had he gone earlier? Would Tori find him in time?

She drew in a shaky breath. Would others come for her if he couldn’t be found? What she had to do now was stall.

~~~

Ian and his heavily armed men rode fast. Surely they couldn’t be that far behind the Campbells? He was confident they’d taken her to Campbell Keep, and not out in the middle of nowhere. Not hidden where he couldn’t find her. What would be the point?

Riders had obviously passed this way recently. There was no way to tell who, though, and that’s what had him sweating. He thought about Marshall, and how he must have felt when they’d taken Gillian, and had a bit more sympathy for the guy.

A very little bit.

At least Gillian hadn’t been captured by a bloody madman.

When Tori had found him, it had taken a while to get the tale from the hysterical girl. He’d retrieved the wretched crown, once more letting everyone know where he’d spent the morning hiding it, blast it. He’d gathered his weapons, and followed. If he had to, he’d give up the crown and recover it later. And hope the king didn’t get wind of the tale.

Above all, he
would
find her. Then he’d kill Campbell. The minute he arrived, he’d challenge the unbalanced lunatic who dared abduct his lady.

For the part Willie played, he could stay with the Campbells forever. That should be punishment enough.

Tension knotted his shoulders and ran down his spine. When had Samantha come to mean so much to him? If they’d hurt her...he couldn’t think on that now. It would weaken him when he must be at his strongest.

He would get her back. And when he did, he would convince her, once and for all, to stay with him forever.

~~~

“I could really use a potty break right about now.”

Mad Malcolm’s brows crashed together. “Aye?”

“I need to pee.”

He made a Scottish noise of disgust deep in his throat. “So pee.”

She made to move away and was stopped. So much for her ploy to run away. “A little privacy?”

“You have none.”

“Ah. Well, I’m really quite hungry.”

“I dinna care! You’re not giving me anything. I think Jerry a better conjurer than you. You are both liars!”

Samantha didn’t like the sound of that. She wanted to distract him, not disillusion him. “No, I
am
a great and powerful seer.” That reminded her of the Wizard of Oz. What had Glinda the good witch told Dorothy? The power is in her? Well if Samantha was going to get out of this alive she’d better find some of that power in a hurry. Too bad she couldn’t sing—but even if she could, she didn’t think a rendition of
Follow the Yellow Brick Road
would get her out of this. “I’ve been very patient with you, but if you don’t let me go, I’ll cast a spell on the lot of you.”

Malcolm looked excited by the prospect. “Show me.”

Great. He wasn’t supposed to call her on it. She wracked her brain and tried to remember a good witch spell. Maybe Shakespeare’s Macbeth could help her out. If she could remember any of it.

She cleared her throat. “Um...double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.” She couldn’t remember any more from the witches. Oh, wait. “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

She drew in a breath. “What’s done cannot be undone. Out, out brief candle. Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air. Out, damned spot! Out, I say! To sleep, perchance to dream. I’ll get you, my pretties.” Oh wait, that was The Wizard of Oz again.

Malcolm looked up at her, more confused than impressed. Finally he shook his head. “’Tis not working. Perhaps if I burn you and drink your ashes, I can take your powers for myself.
Ha ha. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha!”
He ceased laughing just as quickly as he’d started. “Tie her up.”

Samantha raised her hands, palms forward. “No wait. I think I have it. If you’ll just give me a little more time.”

Malcolm smirked. “Time is up.”

“I thought you wanted the crown. If I’m dead, The MacGregor won’t give it to you.”

Malcolm shrugged. “We shall see.” The man had the attention span and planning ability of a child.

Two burly, sour-smelling men seized her, hauled her into the woodpile, and, when bucking and tugging didn’t free her, she kicked at the wood, making wood and straw fly into the crowd.

“And her feet.” Malcolm ordered.

She kicked and cursed but within minutes she was tied tight to the beam, hands behind her, legs bound.

Not again.
Something akin to a panic attack started low in her belly and clawed its way upward.

“Stack the wood.”

About ten people rushed forward to do just that.

Samantha, her breath escalating, felt herself panicking.

Jerry rushed to Malcolm and threw himself to his knees. “Please don’t do this. I’m begging you. She is powerful. I swear it. You just have to give her a chance. You can’t rush greatness—”

Malcolm shoved Jerry to the ground. He walked back and forth in front of her, smiling, as if surveying his handiwork, as people scrambled to get out of his path.

“I am great. The blood of warriors runs in my veins. Royalty, as well. When the crown is mine, and when I display my great weapon,” he patted a small bag that hung from his waist, “Then all will fall before me. As soon as I have the crown—”

Sheesh.
Yada, yada, yada.
Samantha stopped listening, took a breath, and interrupted the guy. “You force me to reveal myself. I am a great and powerful witch!” She felt a little silly saying it, bound as she was, but she had to work with what she had.

Malcolm stopped, a look of triumph on his face. “Aye?”