Powerful Magic (12 page)

          
Stunned, Megan looked down at her hands.
 
Magic?
 
Now that she thought about it, there
was
something mystical about Kenric of Blackstone.
 
Something magical.
 
Something that gave him a look of authority far more powerful than brute strength alone could convey.
 
Something that hinted of untold secrets that only the right key would unlock.

          
She wondered what it was, if it was only her imagination or a valid truth.
 
She wondered if he knew it, recognized it, exploited it.

          
For the first time she wondered.
 
Iff she told him the truth, would Kenric know how to send her back home?

          
The sky darkened, the wind picked up and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
 
Snow swirled about them, stinging her face.
 
Megan shivered.
 
Something was wrong.
 
Was it another storm on the way?
 
Or something more, something that was as weird and off-kilter as a stranded woman from years in the future.

          
Stop.
 
Her foolish imagination would lead to nothing but trouble.
 
Still, she did not like the strange expectancy that seemed to hover in the chilled air.
 
Even the war horse felt it, stamping his huge feet and shaking his head restlessly.

          
The war horse
.
 
She couldn't understand why Kenric hadn't named the beast.
 
Leaning forward, she gathered a clump of the white colored mane between her numb fingers.
 
The horse turned to look at her, ears cocked forward.
 

          
"I'll name you."
 
She told it, trying to think of a suitable name.
 
Though it was obviously male, like Kenric, the horse did not look like an ordinary horse, at least like any horse Megan had ever seen.
 
For one thing, he was huge.
 
As large as one of the Budweiser horses, and then some.
 
For another, he was beautiful.
 
Even his heavy winter coat shone with good health.
 
His large brown eyes seemed full of intelligence and, though she had to admit it sounded silly, good humor.

          
For such a horse, no ordinary name would do.
 

          
If Kenric reminded her of Merlin, then this horse could be Arthur, or Gawain, or maybe Lancelot.
 
Lancelot.
 
Yes.
 
She liked that.

          
"We can call you Lance for short."
 
She told the beast, watching for Kenric and wondering what he would say about her choice of name for his horse.
  

          
Kenric burst through the door to the tavern, his cloak flying around him.
 
Watching him in the few strides it took to reach her, Megan's mouth went dry.
 
She'd never known such heart-stopping male beauty existed, outside of movies and romance novels.
 

          
When he reached her, Kenric stopped, one hand on the saddle.
 
"No one there has heard of your Roger, nor of any search for a lost maiden."
 
His silver gaze narrowed in speculation.
 
"Are you certain this Roger truly searches for you?"

          
Megan shook her head, wondering if he could see how she trembled and praying he would attribute it to the cold.
 
"What... what do you mean?"

          
Under his breath he cursed, a low and melodic sound.
 
With an easy motion he swung himself up in front of her.
 
"We will ride on to the next village."

          
He urged the horse forward, again with no discernable movement.
 
Later, Megan meant to ask him how he did that.
 
But for now, she thought it best to stay silent.
 
God help her if this proud warrior were to find out she lied.
 
Okay, not exactly lied – she’d told him the truth after all.
 
But she hadn’t told him everything.
 
Not by a long shot.

          
Roger was not looking for her.
 
At least not in this time.
 
No matter how hard Kenric of Blackstone searched, he would not find Roger.
 
Heck,
she
didn't even want to find Roger, just a way home.
 
Though she detested liars, she had no choice.
 
If she was going to figure out a way home, she would need Kenric's help.
 

          
They rode for an hour without speaking.
 
The sun came out, weak but still warming.
 
It made the day almost bearable, and twice Megan caught herself dozing, drowsy until the stiffness of Kenric's chain mail against her chin woke her.
 
To his credit he said nothing, just stared straight ahead with that unrelenting profile of his.

          
She contented herself with studying the landscape.
 
She'd never been to Wales, to Europe at all for that matter, and she found the gently rolling hills and thick forests beautiful.
 

          
She wondered if nine-hundred years had changed the wildness of it, civilized the purple hills like it had tamed the people.
 
At least her people.
 
She knew nothing about the Welsh.
 
If she got back,
when
she got back, she would have to do some research.
 
She would like to find out if history contained any record of this man, this Kenric of Blackstone.
 
At least then she could prove, if only to herself, that she hadn't lost her mind.

          
The weak sun did nothing to dissipate the fog near the mountains.
 
It grew thicker the closer they got.
 
Megan wondered how this could be.
 
She had never seen fog with snow.

          
"Look."
 
Kenric pointed to a far off hill nearly lost in the roiling mist.
 

          
Megan squinted.
 
She could barely make out the outline of a forbidding building, stone from the looks of it, and nearly as immense as one of Roger's office buildings in North Dallas.

          
"It is Blackstone Keep, the place I was raised."

          
She recognized the emotion in his voice, the fierce pride she saw on his handsome face.
 
About to ask if his family still lived there, she remembered that he'd said they were all dead and closed her mouth.
 

          
Still, she had an inexplicable urge to comfort him. Megan leaned forward, placing a hand on his broad shoulder.
 
"I think--"

          
"Quiet."
 
The commanding tone in his deep voice silenced her as effectively as a gun shot.
 
Though he did not slow the horse's progress, it seemed to Megan that every muscle in Kenric's huge body was alert.

          
She listened too, glancing intently around them at the shadows of trees and the insidious mist.
 
Glancing up at the sky, she saw the weak sun had vanished entirely.
 

          
Kenric's hand went to his sword.
 
"When I tell you, you must slide from the horse and roll into the underbrush." The command came low, in a guttural whisper, and urgent.

          
Megan goggled at him. "I--."

          
"Do you understand?"

          
Heart pounding, she nodded.
 

          
With the sound of steel on leather, he unsheathed his sword.
 
It seemed to her terrified eyes to glow in the dim light.

          
Then she heard it, the sound of hooves pounding the earth.
 
More than one horse pursued them, from the sound of it.

          
Jaw set in a grim line, Kenric spun his horse around, turning to face the threat.
 

          
"Go."
 
He told her, giving her a small shove.
 
"Hide."
 

          
Somehow, she did it.
 
Slid from the horse, landed on her feet like a cat, and ran into the frozen, shadowy underbrush.
 
Dragging air into her lungs, she crawled under a dense bush, praying some hungry animal with sharp teeth did not hide there, waiting for her.
 
It would have been par for the course.

          
But the threat that Kenric faced was worse, far worse.

          
They burst into the clearing, three evil looking men with swords drawn, on huge war horses like Kenric's.
 

          
"Welsh."
 
Kenric cried, this time making the word both a battle cry and a curse.
 

          
Sparks flew as sword met sword.
 
Hooves churned snow.
 
They pivoted, spun, charged, the huge animals unbelievably agile.

          
Though Kenric was outnumbered, she saw that he took care not to let them surround him.
 
He fought fiercely, downing one man and scattering the other two.
 
He was good.
 
Damn good.
 
Exactly like she would imagine someone who looked like him would be.

          
But how long could he continue to fight against such unfair odds?

          
One of the intruders noticed Kenric's sword and let out an unholy howl.
 
Whether of pain or of fear, Megan could not tell.
 
Though Kenric, who until now had been fighting grim faced and determined, grinned. It was the grin of a man who knows the battle is over and he has won.
 
Seeing it, Megan felt an odd sort of wonder, and relief.

          
The two remaining warriors saw it also and backed away.

          
"
Thunder
."
 
Said one, in loud voice that contained more awe than contempt.
 

          
Startled that he had spoken English, Megan crawled to the very edge of the underbrush, wanting to hear should anything else be said.

          
Still Kenric waited, legs spread apart, sword held ready.

          
The injured man on the ground moaned once, then went silent.

          
"We did not know."
 
The tall man took another step back, keeping his sword lowered.
 
"My Lord, forgive us.
 
We thought you were another English intruder."

          
"I am."
 
Pride rang in Kenric's voice.

          
The other man shook his head, making a sign in the air.
 
"You are also of this land.
 
I beg your forgiveness."
 
He began to back away.

          
Something in Kenric's stance told Megan he did not like the tall man's words.
 

          
No one spoke.
 
It was still, except for the snorting of the horses and a quiet whimper from the fallen warrior.

          
Finally, the tall man inclined his head.
 
"There have been strange things happening here.
 
Lightening during a blizzard, raw power in the air.
 
Times are changing, the people have been restless, uneasy.
 
Now they say powerful magic has occurred."

          
Glad they could not see her, Megan rolled her eyes.
 
They were right about part of it - strange things had happened.
 
Like her being transported nine hundred years into the past, for instance.
 
But magic?
 
Next they'd be calling her a witch and ordering her stoned, or drowned, or burnt at the stake.
 
Whatever they did to so-called witches in early medieval times.