Return of the Rose (18 page)

Morgan laughed at that. “Under the circumstances, surely the punishment you sentenced me was cruel and unusual,” she teased. “Any true knight would have employed a much kinder, gentler act of punishment. Maybe the guillotine…or a good tar and feathering.”

Derek chuckled. “Do you dare mock my choice of retribution?” He held a hand to his chest in feigned hurt. “I sorely desire that I could stay and serve out your just penance. Mayhap when I return in a few days, the stretching device within the dungeon could be commissioned for our use.”

Her cheeks grew warm at the thought of using his stretching device for that purpose. “When you return?”

He stepped closer, looking handsome in his linen shirt all fine and clean and those wonderful leather breeches. His stubbled jaw gave him a touch of animal magnetism that made her want to drag him back to bed so that he could further discipline her.

Instead he leaned down and gave her a perfunctory kiss on the forehead. “Only a few days must you sorely wait for my embrace, for I must leave before nightfall to do the king’s bidding. Until then, I expect you to behave.”

“Before you go,” she said, “I have one more question for you.”

“And perchance I can answer it,” he offered.

“I was wondering if you have any knowledge of a man – an infamous knight who goes by the title of the Earl of Kensington?”

Derek gave her a begrudging look. “You sorely tempt my head to throbbing, woman.”

“What if I told you that this Earl of Kensington was a good friend of mine?”

“I would say, my fairest lady, that methinks you have again imbibed too much wine. ‘Tis nonsense you speak,” he added, binding his leather boots tightly into place.

“Why is it nonsense?”

His tone made clear his growing agitation. “Because there is not and never will be an Earl of Kensington. The Kensington estates are vast lands still held by King Henry himself. The good king has decried more than once that these holdings are those that he embraces dearly. He would be sorely bereft to ever give them up…whether it be to friend or foe.”

“Of course there is an Earl of Kensington,” Morgan declared. “He’s an honorable knight who fought hard for his people. A warrior who trusted in no one but his sword.”

“‘Tis nonsense.”

She looked panicked as she tried to convince him. “He’s a man who loved only one woman, but he didn’t comprehend the extent of that love until it was too late. The Earl of Kensington went in search of his true love but sadly he was killed in an ambush…east of Swan Lake. He didn’t see it coming until it was too late. I was hoping to find him, warn him of the danger.”

All amusement vanished from Derek’s face as he towered over her. “There is no Earl of Kensington and will never be. Your fabrications grow wearisome.”

“After his death,” Morgan said softly, unwilling to believe the earl didn’t exist, “the earl’s people placed a piece of her jewelry upon his chest before they buried him; a gemstone she’d left behind and that the earl carried with him on the day he died.”

The mere thought of the earl’s tragic death made her eyes mist. When she looked back at Derek she saw disappointment in his eyes. “Derek,” she called after him, but it was too late. The door slammed shut behind him.

She released a weary sigh. Until he believed her story of coming from the future, he would never understand her. And until he trusted her, nothing would ever be right between them.

CHAPTER 10

The night held little comfort for Morgan. She tossed and turned, finding no rest as images of a man beckoned her: an elderly man with dark hair and silvery patches at his temples. The same man she always saw in her dreams. He held a bouquet of flowers, only this time he didn’t come toward her with open arms. He seemed unbearably sad as he fell to the ground on bent knees and placed the flowers atop a pile of stones. She thought she saw tears in his eyes. As she moved closer to get a better look she heard the creak of a door.

Morgan bolted upright in bed, fully awake.

“Oh, I apologize, my lady,” Ciara said with a hand on her chest. “I fair say I am not nearly as soundless as I try to be.”

“That’s okay,” Morgan said, pushing hair out of her face as she glanced toward the window. “Looks like I slept late again.”

“Aye, my lady. I was going to leave this missive for you on the table.”

“A note? From who?”

Ciara handed her a tightly rolled paper, tied neatly within a thin strip of black velvet. “The missive was found by one of the scullery maids early this morn.”

A note for me
? Morgan opened it, slowly, savoring every word as she read.

To my dearest Amanda, whose image is seen with thy every breath, whose merest smile makes me dizzy as though I had drunk a good sweet wine, whose kiss gives my soul a glorious hope and causes my heart to sing like any nightingale.

Keep these words close to your heart until I return to your side once more
.

It was a little corny, but straight from the heart, bringing a knot to her throat. Hadn’t she told Derek that women liked to receive flowers and notes? She smiled at the realization that Derek possessed a fanciful inner side after all. And to think she made his heart sing like a nightingale’s. She sighed contentedly, satisfied to know he was thinking of her while he was gone.

That same afternoon, dressed and well fed, Morgan followed Odelia around her bedroom, the note firmly clasped in her hands. “Would you like me to read it again?”

“Nay,” Odelia blurted. “The note is lovely, my lady. Never a more captivating missive have I heard ere this. But I dare say I have the note well memorized myself.”

“A little grouchy, aren’t we?”

“If you would let me finish with my chores,” Odelia said with a huff, “perhaps we could get to the market before nightfall.”

Morgan watched Odelia dust furniture that looked clean enough already. “Come on, Odelia, let’s go. It’s the dawn of a new day and new beginnings,” Morgan said cheerfully. Not only had she received a note from Derek, but a messenger had arrived earlier with a message from Amanda’s father. Apparently, problems with nearby manors prevented him from visiting as scheduled. The wedding would be postponed until after the king’s banquet at Windsor. She had at least another week before Derek would know the truth.

Odelia and Matti were taking her shopping in the village. According to Matti, Derek had said he hoped to see Lady Amanda dressed appropriately when he returned. She looked back at her note. “Whose image is seen with thy every breath,” she said as if she were quoting Shakespeare.

Odelia threw her hands up in defeat, tossing the dirty cloth into the bucket of murky water. She grabbed Morgan’s hand and off they went in search of Matti.

It wasn’t long before the sun’s rays warmed their backs as the three women followed the dusty path into town. Emmon came along too, but he trailed behind, evidently having no desire to listen to their womanly chitchat.

Morgan talked about the bathing suits Ciara and Shayna were going to sew for them and the picnic she was planning for all the castle women. Morgan lectured Matti and Odelia about getting fit with exercise and good eating habits.

As they approached the village, Morgan grew nervous at the possibility of Otgar being near. She glanced back at Emmon, glad to see that he was close by. He sat rigid and alert upon his horse, looking as mean and cruel as any young warrior could. She pressed her fingers to her hip and felt the hardness of the dagger she’d hidden beneath her dress. If Otgar showed up, she’d be ready for him.

The village looked much different today. The structures burnt in the fire were being repaired. The homes they passed were small and unpainted. Some were grouped together, while others stood alone with briars and thorn branches intertwined to make menacing looking fences. Slops were thrown from windows and muck heaps piled up outside doorways. Thanks to a light rain the night before, unpleasant odors arose only occasionally.

Street cries sounded as they drew closer to the vendors. They passed a man with a gray goatee and soiled brown tunic. A pet monkey clambered about the man’s shoulders and he held out a battered tin cup. Dogs waited for tossed scraps, wearing the same hopeful look as the mimes and jugglers.

Her eyes widened as they approached a fine selection of fabrics, a kaleidoscope of colored bolts displayed upon long tables, row after row of wool, linen, and silk, and a salesman behind each table, ready to push his wares.

After growing bored with listening to Matti’s dickering with the merchants, Morgan made her way down aisle after aisle of tables, admiring rows of hand-carved bowls and cups, iron and brass pots, wonderful elaborate chests, and so much more.

Minutes turned to hours and soon a faint cape of darkness swept through the sky, telling her she’d been gone much longer than she’d intended. She glanced around, panicking slightly when she realized Emmon was nowhere in sight.

Odelia and Matti were probably worried. Emmon wasn’t going to be happy with her, she thought, as she hurried back the way she’d come. Weaving through tables that were being packed up for the day, she drew back suddenly when a hand darted out and grabbed her arm. She was about to scream until she saw that it wasn’t Otgar, but an old woman instead. The old lady muttered gibberish and took little excited hops, reminding Morgan of one of the patients in the movie
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
. Her hair stuck out like a porcupine, all silvery-white in disarray. Morgan tried to loosen the woman’s grip on her arm. The old lady was stronger than she looked. The few teeth left in her mouth were as yellow as the center of a daisy and her breath smelled of cow dung.

“What do you want?” Morgan asked.

Her answer came in the form of more high-pitched chanting.

With a twist of her arm, she yanked free of the crone’s wiry grip and ran off.

“The spell worked! You came back,” the woman shouted. “Aye, back from the other world as I knew you would!”

Morgan ran faster. She glanced over her shoulder to see if the woman was following. Bam! She slammed square into Emmon, sending him sprawling to the ground. Emmon jumped to his feet, muttering and cursing as he brushed himself off, not bothering to help her up as he waited impatiently for her to follow him.

“Emmon,” she said walking briskly in an attempt to stay at his side. “I’m so glad to see you. I lost track of time and before I knew it…it had grown dark.” She gave him a look of remorse when he glanced her way, but he was stubborn and he merely grunted.

With a sigh, Morgan said, “Did you see that old woman?”

“Aye. She is known as the Witch of Devonshire. Be careful of that one or she might very well put a hex on you.”

“Forget about the hex. Her breath alone could’ve been the death of me, I swear.”

The corners of Emmon’s mouth curved upward.

“Ah-ha!” she said, pointing a finger at him. “I made you smile.”

“‘Tis useless trying to ignore a ludicrous wench such as yourself,” Emmon said. “Aye, you made me smile a wee bit, but so do the foolish jesters that pass through Braddock every so often.”

What a hardhead
. “Well, I’m sorry. I don’t try to be so much trouble. I just never seem to be able to do things right. I never really, you know…fit in. Wherever I go, it’s the same. A curse. I was born with it, I suppose.” She let out an exaggerated sigh.

Emmon agreed with her, suggesting she seek help.

As they walked, she looked about for the old witch, wondering if she’d been too hasty in running off. Did the witch know something about her travel through time?

~~~~

Derek squinted in an attempt to see Braddock’s towers through the trees. His men were exhausted. It had been a longer journey than expected. The king had called upon his vassals for aid to stop a band of thieves stalking the supply routes to his castle. Derek and his men had been assigned one of the main routes and after three long nights of naught but wolves crossing their paths, a half dozen men were caught trying to sneak out of the king’s lands with stolen quarry.

“It will be more than just their heads they will lose for such foolishness,” Derek said to Hugo as he spurred his destrier toward Braddock. They had turned the thieves over to King Henry. And now, so close to Braddock, Derek was eager to be home, for no other reason than to find a hearty meal and a warm bed, he told himself, knowing there was a certain wench he yearned to see.

“Did you hear that?” Hugo asked, pivoting in his saddle.

Derek pulled on the reins and brought his horse to a halt. “What?” he asked impatiently. He could view Braddock’s towers from here and Hugo’s attempt to detain him, if even for a moment, was too much. “Was it not you who wanted to reach Braddock before sundown?” Derek asked sourly. “Eager to be welcomed into Matti’s loving arms? My men are hungry and have no desire to stop and listen to every whistling tree and crackling of brush.”

Through his thick beard, Hugo gave Derek a sideways grin. “‘Tis a good friend,” Hugo said with a chuckle, “who abruptly tells the king we must make haste to return home, that we cannot oblige him with his kindly offer of rest, food, and entertainment. Fit for a king, no less. And why? Because his long-time comrade and friend, Hugo,” he added mockingly, pointing to his barrel-chest, “is lonely for his wife. A good friend indeed.”

Derek shot his gaze heavenward at Hugo’s sarcasm. “I possess the patience of a scholar if I dare must remind you once again that no strings tie me here to Braddock. Verily, be glad to have such a friend, for you would not want me as your enemy.”

“Aye, you are right on that account, my lord. Your enemy, I fair say, I would not want to be, for not only have I heard the fearless tales boasted of you, I have—”

Feminine giggles interrupted their bantering.

Hugo gestured for the men close by to be still as he and Derek dismounted. They stalked quietly through the high bushes.

Derek’s mouth dropped open at the sight before him. “Pinch me, for I am but dreaming.”