The More I See You (6 page)

The stairs were in perfect condition.

Jessica took a deep breath and tried to marshal her last reserves of common sense. The stairs couldn’t be in this kind of condition, because if they were new, that would mean she’d somehow wandered into another century and she just
knew
that wasn’t possible. She was just a little unnerved because the castle had seemed to appear in the
place where she’d just recently left Lord Henry’s house, but maybe she’d lost her sense of direction in the fog. Yes, that was it. She’d thought his was the only castle around for miles, but obviously she’d been mistaken about that, too. She was an American and obviously unused to English distances. Just a little culture shock.

Feeling a little better about it all, she returned to her earlier decision to borrow a horse and use it to get to a town with a phone.

The stairwell opened up suddenly onto a great hall. Jessica came to a teetering halt, then reminded herself to breathe deeply and avoid at all costs a major freak-out.

This looked like a full-blown, so-authentic-she-could-throw-up, medieval castle. She’d listened to Henry’s tour guide describe the supposed conditions in medieval England. She’d scoffed silently at the thought of rotting hay strewn on the floor, dinner leftovers curing on tables and under tables, odors of sweat and dog and urine permeating the air. But never in her life would she have believed that someplace could actually smell as bad or be as much of a sty as what he’d described.

Yet that was what she was facing.

Jessica had a very bad feeling—and she didn’t think it was caused by olfactory overload.

“Not what you’re accustomed to?”

She managed to look at the man before her who had paused to stare at her. She found that all she could do was shake her head no.

“Your hall is better kept?”

She couldn’t even manage a nod.

The man shrugged, then continued on his way. Jessica didn’t waste any time before following him. She definitely didn’t want to find herself left behind in this place, no matter how freshly laid the steps looked.

He stopped in the courtyard and Jessica stopped right behind him. She knew she was staring rudely at the mounted men, but she couldn’t help herself. Either this was a Hollywood set or she had one hell of a fantasy life. There were probably a dozen men sitting on horses. The
men were wearing chain mail. Medieval surcoats were worn like tunics over said armor and they bore an animal that looked like a cross between an eagle and a lion. From the depths of her overworked brain surfaced a single trivial recollection from a history class.

The animal was a griffin. It wasn’t very pleasant looking. Somehow, she just wasn’t surprised at finding it here, and that had a lot to do with the scar on her rescuer’s face. His griffin was black as night, with bloodred eyes. She had the feeling he’d seen enough of the latter color to know more about it than was good for him.

She snapped out of her heraldry stupor in time to see him coming toward her, a fierce frown on his face. Great, what was his problem now? It wasn’t all that easy to scowl back at a man several inches taller than she and wearing mail, but she decided she had little to lose in trying.

She was in the middle of thinking of something appropriately tough to say when the man slung a heavy cloak around her shoulders and fastened it at the throat with a heavy metal brooch.

And for a single moment Jessica looked up into his stormy eyes and felt a shiver go through her.

It was rusty chivalry, but chivalry all the same.

It was, somehow, one of the most intimate things anyone had ever done for her and she could hardly believe the tumultuous man in front of her had been the one to do it.

Evidently he was thinking the same thing. He stepped back suddenly and dropped his hands to his sides. “I assume you can ride alone,” he stated curtly.

The moment was gone as quickly as it had come and Jessica came back to reality with a welcome jar. A horse. This was very good. A horse meant covering a great deal more ground than her feet could. She nodded immediately.

He grunted. “It will save me another tumble, at least.” He beckoned to a boy, who brought over an enormous black gelding, easily as tall as the horse she had commandeered.
The man lifted one eyebrow in challenge. “Can you best this one?”

“No problem,” she said, hoping that would be true. She started to put her foot up in the saddle, then felt strong hands catch her by the waist and lift her up. But before she could get the words out to thank him, he had walked away, shouting orders to his company.

It was apparently a well-trained group. They immediately followed the man through the inner courtyard of the castle, through the gates, and across the drawbridge.

Jessica tried hard to ignore her surroundings. She promised herself she would pay attention once they reached landscape that was more, well, groomed. She concentrated on controlling her horse and keeping up.

And she didn’t think about the fact that nothing looked familiar.

“Good morrow to you, lady.”

Jessica looked to her right to find that a young man had come to ride beside her. He looked at her expectantly.

“Oh, um, yes,” Jessica managed. “Same to you.”

“I am Warren de Galtres,” he said. “My brother bid me question you and find out your origins.”

“Your brother?”

Warren nodded toward the front of the company. “You know him, of course. He’s Richard, lord of Burwyck-on-the-Sea.”

And in that moment Jessica’s world froze. Or maybe it was she herself that froze. Her horse was still moving. Warren’s horse was still moving. In fact, she suspected the entire group was still moving, yet somehow the whole scene became frozen in some weird kind of tableau.

Richard of Burwyck-on-the-Sea? The same Richard the tour guide had been talking about?

She took a deep breath.

It was impossible.

And then the explanation hit her. She laughed a little, almost giddy with relief. This was obviously some kind of thing put on by some medieval reenactment society. Lord Henry had gone to great expense and effort to have
them come to his house and put his guests in a less-than-modern frame of mind. Lord Henry probably had a cousin who was the earl of Burwyck-on-the-Sea and his name was Richard. Maybe Henry had taken pity on her for having to put up with Archie and he’d chosen her as the first victi—ah, the first participant.

Well, no sense in not playing along. Jessica certainly wouldn’t want to be accused of being a bad houseguest. She looked at Warren de Galtres, or whoever he really was, and tried to keep the indulgence out of her smile.

“Of course he is,” she said, nodding. “You’re Warren, he’s Richard, and I’m having a really great time. Where are we going?”

“Home, of course,” Warren replied.

He looked a little confused, but she chalked that up to him being male, about sixteen, and in sore need of a bath. Those three things alone were enough to confuse anyone.

“And home would be Burwyck-on-the-Sea?” she asked. They probably had a tour bus waiting there to take her back to Henry’s house. The idea of going to Burwyck-on-the-Sea by horse was a little extreme, but she could handle it. She’d ridden horses before. She wasn’t all that sure how the events of her awakening that morning fit into the picture, but that was probably something she could complain about to the management when she had a chance.

“Where else would home be?” Warren asked, looking even more baffled than before.

“Good point,” she agreed. She held out her hand. “I’m Jessica Blakely. Nice to meet you.”

He looked at her hand as if he didn’t have a clue what to do with it, so she pulled it back before she embarrassed him any further.

“Whence come you, then?” he asked.

“Lord Henry’s house, of course,” she said. Medieval reenactment or not, there was no sense in giving out more information than she needed to.

Apparently her announcement had more force than she
had anticipated. Warren’s eyes bugged out and his jaw went slack.

“Henry?” he said, and it came out as a squeak.

“Yes, Henry,” she said, wondering why the name was causing such a stir. “I’ve been staying with him for the past couple of weeks.”

That didn’t appear to be making things any better.

“Well, he invited me,” Jessica said, starting to feel a little defensive. So what if she was just a tag-along guest. She was still a guest.

“Merciful saints above, you’re kin to the king,” Warren said in tones of awe.

King? Well, if they wanted to think of him that way, that was fine with her. Maybe Lord Henry had an ego problem and that little tidbit had been put into the acting contract to soothe him.

“If that’s the kind of title you want to give him,” she told Warren with as straight a face as she could manage, “you go right ahead.”

“Then you must be very close kin indeed, if you speak of him so familiarly.”

“Actually I just met him,” Jessica confided. She looked at Warren and wondered just how brainwashed the kid was. “Look,” she said in a low voice, “he’s really not the king. He’s just a lord. I don’t know who’s been telling you differently, but I wouldn’t believe them.”

Apparently the brainwashing had been a bang-up job because Warren looked as if she’d just told him the sun was going to change colors from yellow to hot pink with turquoise polka dots. He swallowed convulsively a time or two, then he paused. After another uncomfortable-looking swallow, he suddenly smiled.

“You’ve had a bump on your head, haven’t you?” he asked.

“Well, now that you mention it—”

“I’ve heard of men forgetting things after a blow to the head.”

“I guess that happens,” she agreed.

She didn’t think he could look any more relieved.

“Then I will instruct you on the way of things,” Warren said importantly. “So you don’t mistake our liege for someone else again. And then perhaps we might discover your true origins and send you on your way so our lives will not be troubled further.”

The fact that he didn’t look shocked at his own rudeness left Jessica with no doubt that it was “Richard” who had put the words into the boy’s mouth.

She really would have to have a talk with the troupe’s boss. Rudeness to paying customers—even if it was Lord Henry paying and not her—shouldn’t be tolerated.

“Great idea,” Jessica said. “Why don’t you tell me all about current events?”

“Gladly,” Warren said, his voice taking on a very pedantic tone. “Henry, the son of John Lackland, now sits the throne. As you know, he’s sat the throne for some thirty years now. He’s quite the builder, but I don’t know how many care for the course he’s chosen for the country. My father never did and I daresay Richard doesn’t much either.”

Well, one thing she could say for the kid, he was certainly convincing about his historical details. He sounded like Henry’s tour guide.

“Interesting,” she said. “Go on.”

“I daresay Richard’s peers aren’t overfond of the king either,” Warren continued. “Though I suppose once we’re home, it will matter less what goes on around us—at least to me.”

“By home, you mean Burwyck-on-the-Sea,” Jessica supplied.

“Aye,” Warren said with a nod. “You see, I was born there, but my father sent me away with Hugh when I was a wee lad. My sire died over three years ago. I thought Richard would come for me sooner, but he’s been pressed by other concerns.”

Jessica found herself with the sudden urge to give Richard a swift kick in the behind. Then she remembered it was just acting and smiled faintly. The kid was good, she would give him that. He almost had her going.

“The saints be praised I must needs remain with Hugh no longer.” He smiled apologetically. “Hugh’s hall smells like a sty, I know. Home will be better, I promise you.”

“So, are you happy to be going with your brother?”

“Aye,” Warren said, but his face fell. “I fear he isn’t as pleased. He’s an important lord, my lady, and has much to see to. But I vow I’ll be no trouble to him. I’m skilled with arms and I’ll stay out from underfoot.”

“I’m sure he’ll come around eventually,” Jessica said, her mind just locking in on something Warren had said. “So, who did you say was king these days?”

Warren smiled reassuringly. “Henry, my lady. Your kinsman.”

Here we go again
, she thought, suppressing the urge to roll her eyes. “And that would make the year what?” she asked.

“The Year of our Lord’s Grace 1260, my lady. And I’m finding it to be a sweet year indeed.” He smiled sunnily. “’Tis the year of my liberation.”

From Hugh or from the local sanitarium?
was on the tip of her tongue, but she found she couldn’t give voice to the words. She looked around and tried to reconcile what she knew had to be true with the fantasy Warren had been spouting.

1260?

Yeah, right.

Or maybe I’m just so strung out on whatever was slipped into my morning cocoa yesterday that I’m actually thinking of going along with this medieval mumbo jumbo
, she thought wildly.

“Lady Jessica, are you ill? You look powerfully pale. I’ll tell Richard—”

“No,” she said quickly. “Let’s not bother him. I’ll be fine.”

Just as soon as I get a firm grip on my hysterics.
All right, so she’d seen
Somewhere in Time
and loved it. So she’d read all those time-travel books and fantasized about it. That didn’t mean it was happening to her. It couldn’t
be. She wasn’t stuck back in a place with no phones, no fast food, and no Bruckner.

Good grief, no music! She almost started to cry. No Brahms. No Rachmaninoff.
They hadn’t even been born yet.
She was stuck with all that Gregorian chant she couldn’t stomach.
Bach
wasn’t even around!

Strong fingers closed around her upper arm and gave her a hard shake.

“Are you going to faint?” a curt voice demanded.

She looked next to her. Richard, the alleged lord of Burwyck-on-the-Sea, had suddenly appeared and was looking none too pleased with her. Was this the same Richard who didn’t want his sea view obscured? She was beginning to be sorry that she’d paid so much attention to that tour guide.