Chapter 13 #2
“Yammering at you,” she finished. “That was the last time, I promise.”
He didn’t bother to thank her, which she supposed his infamous granny would think was a display of bad manners, but she couldn’t blame him. He had his hands full at the moment.
Her own hands, however, were free before she realized that she was rubbing her wrists alone against the bark.
In her defense, she was rather distracted by listening to Stephen engage in conversation that sounded quite a bit like French but most definitely wasn’t.
It was that same medieval sort of Norman French that John spoke when he thought no one was listening.
Peaches leaned back against the tree and decided abruptly that if she had to be stuck in what she guessed was medieval England, it was best to be stuck there with Stephen de Piaget, medieval historian.
A medieval historian who could, it seemed, do more than just hand out Chaucerian reading assignments.
“What are you telling that guy?” she asked finally.
“That you’re a wizard,” Stephen threw over his shoulder. “Alchemize something, would you?”
“Like what?” she asked in surprise.
“I don’t know, make something up! Something medieval.”
“I already thought about that,” she said defensively, “and having neither tie-dye nor organic compost to hand, I decided that I would have to rely on the old standby of being a fairy.”
He shot her a dark look over his shoulder. “Well, then be the queen of the fairies, would you? You’ve the face for it.”
She blinked. “Was that a compliment?”
“I think so,” Stephen said, dredging up more skill from some well that Ian MacLeod had no doubt helped him dig.
Peaches found herself suddenly with her arms full of Stephen’s coat that he’d shrugged out of.
“Put that on,” was his only comment.
Well, she wasn’t going to argue with that.
She wrapped it around herself, tried not to enjoy too much the faint smell of whatever woodsy sort of cologne he had at some point worn while wearing it, and wished for shoes.
She did the best she could with a pile of rotting leaves and suppressed a yawn as she waited for Stephen to finish up.
It occurred to her as time wore on that she could understand quite a bit of the conversation being carried on along with the sword fight.
“You’re one of Artane’s bastards, aren’t you?” the lord of Kenneworth snarled.
Stephen didn’t bother to respond.
“Why don’t you answer?” the other man said in exasperation.
“Because you’re not worth the breath,” Stephen said calmly. “Whoever you are.”
Well, that didn’t go over well. Peaches wished she’d had pen and paper to write down a few of the things she’d heard. Tess would have wanted them for her collection of medieval slurs.
“Who am I?” Stephen’s opponent said, dropping his sword for a moment. “You mean, you don’t know?”
“Don’t know, don’t care,” Stephen said with a shrug.
“I am Hubert of Kenneworth!” Hubert of Kenneworth shouted. “And my hall is every bit as fine as Robin of Artane’s—”
Stephen laughed. “You can’t be serious.”
The current lord of Kenneworth was apparently very serious. He attacked with a renewed vigor that actually had Stephen backing up a pace or two.
And the unthinkable happened.
His sword broke off at the hilt.
Hubert of Kenneworth laughed. “That shows you—”
He stopped talking, and he stopped talking because he’d been treated to Stephen’s fist in his mouth.
It didn’t take long after that for him to be folding up like a cheap lawn chair.
He smacked his head against a rock as he landed, and the sound was very loud in the stillness of the morning.
Peaches would have asked Stephen if he was going to check to see if the first lord of Kenneworth was okay, but Stephen was apparently not interested in finding that out.
He turned, took her by the hand, and pulled.
“Wait,” she said, wincing as she stumbled after him. “I lost my shoe.”
He blew his hair out of his eyes. “Where?”
“Well, if I knew where, it wouldn’t be lost, would it?”
He looked at her, blinked, then smiled.
And the sun came out from wherever it had been hiding for the past twenty-eight years of her life.
She would have paused to admire all the things she had grudgingly admired about the perfection of his face and form, but she was too busy being pulled into his arms.
She didn’t burst into tears because she wasn’t a weeper. But she did gulp quite a bit as she clutched the back of his riding jacket. And she let herself enjoy a glorious, impossible, perfect moment in the arms of a man who was trembling slightly with something.
“Are you afraid?” she whispered.
“Freezing, rather.”
“You can take back—”
“No,” he said, rubbing her back with one hand, “I shan’t. I brought the coat for you anyway.”
She took a shaky breath. “You came for me?”
“Of course.”
“How did you know where to come find me?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re safely away from wherever we are.
And I believe your shoe is over there, though you might prefer the bedroom slippers I shoved into the pockets of that coat.
Fortunately we don’t have far to go.” He released her far enough to look at her. “There’s a gate in David’s garden.”
“I gathered as much.”
“We’ll talk about that later, too. Among other things,” he added.
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but she was thoroughly unnerved by the look he sent along with the words. It was a very serious look that she wasn’t sure she liked the looks of.
“Will we?” she asked with an attempt at lightness as he released her completely to go fetch her shoe. “It was such a glorious night I’m not sure I’m equal to discussing it.”
He shot her another look she couldn’t quite decipher, so she didn’t try. Perhaps he thought she wasn’t good enough for David Preston. Maybe he thought she shouldn’t be hobnobbing at any society parties.
Or maybe he was kneeling down to put slippers that were too big on her feet that were too frozen to care, and she just couldn’t focus on whatever it was he had to say to her. If he would just stop touching her, she would be able to think clearly.
He rose, handed her the slightly worse-for-wear pump she’d managed to bring to medieval England with her, then looked around them and frowned at the damage he’d done to the locals.
At least they were all still breathing, which she thought was a good thing.
Stephen picked up the two halves of his broken sword, then looked at her.
“I could carry you back.”
“It isn’t far.”
He nodded, then looked at the glorified lean-to that was Kenneworth House and frowned. “I think we should run, so we aren’t seen. I would try to wait until tonight, but—”
“No, let’s just go,” she said with a shiver. She could last another fifteen minutes, but the thought of spending the entire day in medieval England was just a little more than she could take.
He took the hilt and the blade—which even she could see was as dull as a round rock—in one hand, then took her hand in his other.
She ignored how pleasant that was and concentrated on keeping her almost useless feet going in the right direction.
She glanced at the hut that was a bit closer than she was comfortable with and frowned.
“I didn’t realize I’d gotten so far away from the house,” she said slowly.
“The lord’s helpers were trying to toss you back in the forest so the fairies would come claim you. Apparently you made quite an impression on them.”
“What a great bunch of guys,” she said happily.
He looked at her and smiled again, faintly.
She decided right then that getting mixed up with the future Earl of Artane in any century would be extremely hazardous to her mental health.
He looked remarkably like John de Piaget, but he was older, more serious, and somehow almost more gorgeous, if that were possible.
When he smiled that little smile, she wanted to sit down—
“The first lord of Kenneworth, whom we just had the pleasure of encountering,” he said, interrupting her thoughts, “thought you were certainly lovely enough to be a fairy, but he used his superior intellect to determine that you were merely a woman who was lost. He was offering quite politely to take you home and warm you up.”
“I can only imagine,” Peaches said faintly.
“I suggest you don’t.”
She continued on with him for another twenty paces before she cleared her throat. “It must run in the family.”
“Lecherous tendencies?” Stephen asked politely.
“Yes.”
He didn’t answer. He only squeezed her hand slightly and continued along a path she couldn’t see. She could tell, however, when they’d reached the appropriate patch of ground—and not just because the snow had been trampled quite thoroughly there.
Stephen stopped, glanced at the house, then looked down at the ground. He kept hold of her, dug around a bit with his toe, then swore. While he was doing that, she thought she might as well keep watch. She looked over at Kenneworth Hovel, then swore.
A lone horseman was galloping toward them.
Stephen cursed, but it was in French, so it added a certain cachet to the moment.
He threw the hilt of the sword with surprising velocity right at the man’s nose, then pulled the man off the horse as he reached down to strike at him with a pole.
He caught the horse and swung up onto its back, then turned around and made straight for her.
Peaches ripped more of her skirts as she made a grab for his arm and pulled herself up behind him.
It was messy and undignified, but she supposed it was for the best.
“This might be their only horse,” she pointed out as they galloped off.
“It might be,” he agreed.
“You don’t mind changing history?” she asked.
“Not when I don’t like the alternative.”
Which she supposed was her ending up being warmed up by the current lord of Kenneworth and Stephen meeting his end on any number of rustic blades.
She thanked Stephen for his pains, had a grunt in return, and decided the best thing to do was just hold on and see what the rest of the day brought.
She could only hope it included a return to a hot fire and something decent to eat.
Because landing in the past and having to stay there was just not for her.
She didn’t want to do the Cinderella thing with soot and ashes and unidentifiable meat products under sauce.
She wanted to get back home where she could complain about British packaged food and American chocolate.
She was cold, tired, and finding herself in the alarming position of having kind thoughts about the Viscount Haulton.
Seeing him out of his school uniform had allowed her to see him in an entirely different light.
An entirely more favorable light.
She wondered absently if he were changing himself to suit the times, or if the man currently on display was who he was all the time. Maybe he was forced to hide everything he really was under tweed and proper manners.
“Warm enough for the moment?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Yes, thank you.”
He patted her arm that was around his waist, then concentrated on getting them wherever it was he was taking them. She didn’t dare ask.
She was simply glad it had been Stephen to come rescue her.