Chapter Six

 

Damon lifted the girl into his arms, her weight seeming no more than feather down. Gazing down upon her pale features, he watched the fading sun catch the shimmer of her hair as it fell softly over his arm. The texture poured through his hand like silk as he deftly cradled her head.

Her features were slack and peaceful, innocent and striking. Like an angel. I do not need this complication, he wearily thought. There is no place in my life, or in my armed camp for that matter, for a lady. But holding her, her head pressed to his heart, her fire-streaked hair hanging over his arm and her soft curves filling his hands, he knew that he could not, at this moment, let her go.

It was like some sort of vision he’d seen in the bleak recesses of his mind. His soul somehow knew her and he couldn’t explain the feelings that coursed through him. She was soft and fragile and reminded him of a peacefulness he’d never truly known, or understood.

Silently, he yearned.

Longing and desire were intermingled in his thoughts as he continued to look down upon the soft visage of her creamy complexion. His subconscious, the portion where his darkness held reign, kept trying to remind him that one lady wife had already died and that he did not have need of another woman in his life. And yet his soul cried out that this was right, that this mere slip of a girl somehow belonged to him. Belonged with him...at his side.

His thoughts went back to the days before he had left his castle on this fool’s errand. His housekeeper, Rosalynn, had said that his life would be changing. But she did not go into further explanation. His people called her a witch and he had always shrugged off their misgivings. She said that she’d seen a portent in the waters of the well, mist and haze revealed great disruptions, fire and death, and he should be prepared.

She’d always talked of seeing the future, but he always took it as an old woman’s feeble stories. Stories meant for children at bedtime or the late night fires of a camp. Was this the vision she had seen? Was this tiny creature the one who would bring such great changes?

Too much war and the death of those I care for is beginning to catch up with me, he thought sourly, shaking his head to loosen the siege of fanciful thoughts. Witches and fairies indeed, he grunted. Next, I’ll be seeing gnomes running amok in the forest.

With what little control he had left over his wayward thoughts, he carried the girl back to his horse and, with easy agility, mounted the beast with her in his arms. He held her across his lap, her head held within the curve of his shoulder, her soft, womanly scent filling his senses.

Tanak, Richard and Sedrick waited, keeping watch over him as the others had returned to the camp. Without uttering a word, he turned back towards the tree line and the quiet solitude of their camp.

His men knew their duties; they would attend to their own horses and hunt for game that would become their dinner. Several men had already started small fires near their pallets and began the preparations for the rabbits and squirrels that would become their meals. With Damon’s brutal history on the battlefields and his strong leadership, not one uttered a single question about the girl. She was his now, for that was the way of things, and they questioned his authority at their peril.

Dismounting, he laid her near a large fallen tree trunk in the circle of a small clearing. Her hair picked up the subtle hue of campfires and he thought of her as a woodland fairy slumbering sweetly on a bed of green. Gently he caressed his thumb across her cheek, telling himself he was merely checking for a fever, for in truth the cut to her head had bled quite liberally.

He brushed several stray strands of hair from her face, admiring the softness of her skin. Then he rose to tether his horse. He efficiently removed Fallon’s saddle and brushed the dirt from his horse’s sides, trying to keep from looking back at the resting woman. He could have had his squire care for the horse, but Fallon trusted few and nipped at many. Once finished, Damon walked to the small creek to get water for cleansing the woman’s wound. Then he went in search of the herbs that Rosalynn had taught him to seek out, woundwort to bind and yarrow for fever. He worked efficiently and quickly, all the while considering the woman with fiery hair.

Caution, whispered his conscience. Idly, he wondered if she was in league with the rebels or if she, too, was a victim of the ceaseless destruction that riddled the land. The vivid details of burning villages, slaughtered cows and rotting bodies tore through his mind like a scimitar cutting flesh. He could almost smell the blackened fields, their once golden stalks withering to dust in the red-hot flames.

He could see the bodies littering the ground, the land soaked with blood. He could hear the victims screaming with their last dying breaths, each sob echoing in the darkness. He would hear their voices in his sleep, begging him for vengeance, begging for release.

Tis not right that she be traveling alone, he thought coarsely, and then he wondered if those she had traveled with had been attacked and only she had survived. He could picture the rebels clearly, covered in the sweat and blood of their previous victims. They would appear out of nowhere, the women would scream and the men would gather their arms. Only to be cut down one by one, their lifeless bodies left to rot in a midday sun.

This last was a plausible explanation for why the country was riddled with violence despite William’s efforts to unite his country. But no, there were no wagon tracks, no other hoof prints other than that of he and his men. He had viewed the scene upon arrival and quickly noted the uninterrupted strands of grass, the field untouched by destruction. There were no bodies covering the field, no bloodstains upon the grass.

The field was completely untouched. So how did she come to be there? Who had brought her there? Where was she from? Who was she? And most importantly, who was she in league with?

He would wait until she came to her senses to discuss these possibilities. First, I will start with her name. He returned to camp and knelt beside her to clean her wound. Gently he wiped away the blood that had stained her face until the wound was revealed above her right eye. It was a large gash, stretching from above her eyebrow to the edge of her hairline, but it was not deep enough to need to be stitched. ‘Twas good, for the thought of having to take a needle to her fair skin made him shudder.

He ground the herbs between two rocks that lay near the fallen tree, making a paste, and applied them to her head, then, taking a strip of cloth from his bag, he wound it around her head to keep it in place. She murmured in her unconsciousness, her soft lips moving ever so quietly.

Damon was mesmerized. Like a dream she entered his life, filling his head with wicked thoughts at the mere sight of her. She murmured again and he rubbed his finger across her bottom lip, wanting her, wanting to press his lips to hers and kiss her awake. He shook his head in an attempt to dispel his thoughts. “Madness,” he grumbled and rose to gather branches for his own fire.

He watched as the fire’s orange and gold flames filled the clearing with warmth and glimmered over the pale visage of the unconscious girl. “Trouble, ‘tis naught but trouble and folly a woman brings.” His darkened heart kept speaking, mumbling from his lips like the rantings of a madman. He was sure there would be no peace for the remainder of this journey, or at least until he decided what to do with her. He took one last glance at her russet hair and full lips and knew that she would bring nothing but trouble to his life.

Pushing her from his thoughts, Damon rose from the fire and headed towards the stream. He knew his men would not trouble her, as she was now in his possession. Those around the camp would make sure she did not happen to awake and attempt to flee, for though they were hardened warriors, they did not wish to initiate his wrath by losing one small woman from their camp.

* * * * * *

Moments passed as Gabriella lay listening to the sounds around her. The crackle of flame and gruff, low voices filled her ears as consciousness returned.

Slowly she opened her eyes and looked up to see a mass of tree limbs and golden leaves swaying gently in the wind. The canopy of color was fading and blending with the night, but the burnt oranges, greens and golds were still discernible by the pale glow of the rising moon.

She lay blinking, rubbing her forehead, trying to ease the pain and weariness from her frazzled mind. She wondered briefly if she had dreamt the visions that had been flowing behind her eyes. But, no. The dark warrior had been there, his scent still lingered in the campsite. He smelled of deep forest, earth and leather.

Attempting to sit up, she had to grab the nearest tree limb to stop the dizziness that clung to her. Her vision was still a bit blurred as she looked around, trying to get her bearings. With a sigh of remorse, tinged with a small surge of panic, she noticed that there were still men dressed as armed knights gathered haphazardly around the clearing. She was now, obviously in some sort of camp, she noted, taking in the sight of bedrolls and small cooking fires scattered throughout her surroundings. All this confirmed that she had not dreamt anything.

“Shit!” she whispered. None of this makes any sense, she thought, pressing her palms against her eyes. Her head ached, and she could feel the bandage that now was wrapped around her head. Her nerves were wound tight as a metal spring. How in the world did I end up in medieval England? A person can’t be in one time period one minute and in a different one the next. It’s just not possible, and yet…here I am…wherever here might be.

No, she told herself firmly. Get a grip on yourself, Gab, you are not in medieval England, no matter how enticing a notion that that is. You are a professional anthropologist with a Masters degree. You’re a smart, intellectual woman, and in full capacity of all your wits. And, it is not possible to wake up in a different time period. So, now, how the hell do I get out of here?

Glancing around the encampment, she knew she had to find some way to escape. Then reality reared its ugly head, she didn’t really have anyone to get back to. Sure, the museum might be interested in where she was, for a little while. Then they’d just set someone else up to finish the work. Again. Just like they did for her father.

Thinking of her father brought fresh tears to her eyes. Her parents would not miss her, for they were nowhere to be found. Christ, what is happening? Slowly a single tear fell down her cheek, her heart becoming a solid ache. Hearing a branch snap closely, she quickly wiped her face and looked around for the reason for the noise.

The dark knight approached her. He wore no armor, and his thick arms slowly swung as he approached. Groaning at her increasing misgivings, her heart thundered in her chest as she watched him draw near. Brilliant, she thought sarcastically, the perfect end to a perfect day! Quickly gathering her resolve, she looked up as he stopped before her, his long, lean frame an unmovable mountain, his silver-gray eyes an oasis of moonlight. Doomed! I am definitely doomed.

* * * * * *

Damon noted the trail of tears that stained her cheeks and a portion of his heart felt compassion for her. He was also aware of the frantic pulse in the vein of her neck. She is afraid. Well, ‘tis good she is afraid. One should always fear their captor, he told himself, despite the emotions that coursed through his veins. Emotions he thought long buried beneath the frozen surface of his heart.

The fact remained that he was a warrior, and his instincts were strong. He did not know this woman, who she was nor where she had come from. It was her allegiances that he was concerned with, and he would watch her like a cat watching its quarry.

She was obviously no mere Saxon peasant, Damon considered, based on her finely made garb—even if it was not what he was accustomed to seeing a lady dressed in. He needed to know if she was an enemy of his King, or if she were loyal to the crown. He was a man of action and purpose, yet he did nothing without a plan. And no plan of his had ever failed.

Except your former marriage, his conscience jibed.

Cease! I’ve a plan and that’s all that matters.

Towering over her, he narrowed his eyes and searched her face for any sign of malice. He placed his hands upon his hips and looked down into the glossy green of her eyes.

* * * * * *

His voice rumbled like the sound of distant thunder. “What is your name, demoiselle?”

The words reverberated through her like the knell of a drum. His stance was meant to intimidate her. His scowl, fierce and brooding, meant to intimidate. Frantically, Gabriella’s heart skipped as she struggled to decide what to tell him. The whole situation was too weird for words and she was still unwilling to believe she had somehow ended up in the Middle Ages.

This is total unbelievable crap! Gabriella thought. It is just not possible. Is it? She just wasn’t sure. So should she lie? Or, should she plead that she had no recollection or should she try some semblance of truth? Lying didn’t seem like a very good idea yet the truth would be far too unbelievable. This whole damn situation is too unbelievable for words, she told herself for what seemed the millionth time.

He seemed to be waiting patiently for her to answer, and despite his calm appearance, she was deeply aware of his presence. He was like a volcano waiting for the moment of eruption. It was his contained power that advised her to answer truthfully. Yet his eyes, their smoky gray color shimmering in the firelight, made her breath catch. Something deep inside her told her she could trust him, that he would protect her. Madness, she grunted.

Her conscience whispered caution. She would choose her words carefully before giving him too much information. She knew from her years of anthropology studies that if time had indeed twisted, as bent as that idea seemed, and he was truly an eleventh-century knight—and as far as she could tell from their weapons, their garb and their other accoutrements, he was—if he knew the truth, she would probably be burned as a witch or suffer some other horribly gruesome travesty.

And, despite the way he looked at her and made her feel, she was too afraid to trust anyone until she knew for certain what fate had done to her. Straightening her spine and taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she stated, “My name is Gabriella DeVoux. And you are?”

At her question, he raised his brow. He chose not to respond, but continued with his inquiry.

“Gabriella,” he replied, his voice sliding silkily over her name. “Tell me, what is a woman such as you doing traveling alone? Where is your husband or father?” He clutched his chin, purposefully rubbing it as though deep in thought.

This is ridiculous, she thought, yet her heart raced with trepidation. “I have no husband,” she evenly replied. She would not, could not, respond about her father, knowing that her anguish would be reflected in her eyes and in her voice. It was a weakness she could not afford to show.

His eyes bored into her, willing her to tell him all that she knew. However, she could not answer his questions, especially how she had gotten here—wherever here was.

His head shifted to study her more closely, like a beast scenting the fear on its prey. “A woman of your years should have a husband,” he stated flatly. “So, if there is no husband, then perhaps you would care to tell me where your father is? Is he in league with the Saxon rebels?” His anger and frustration at once surfaced, where only inquiry ruled before.

“Is he now hidden somewhere nearby,” he gestured, “waiting to strike when we least expect it?” His eyes scanned first one side of the encampment and then the other. His hands clenched and unclenched, finally resting on the hilt of his sword. His facade of calm was stripped from his appearance like the skinning of a deer. “Does he fight against King William or perhaps,” he continued, his voice lowering in conviction as he crouched before her, taking her chin in his hand. “Perhaps it is you who is the rebel? The spy sent to entice me?” His anger permeated the air around them. Glaring down at her, his haunches bunched with anger, he waited for her response.

Gabriella stared in wonder at this man and the anger that he possessed. His harshness seemed a bit too much for some actor in a reenactment. If he is no actor, she thought to herself, and my life depends on my response, which by the steely look in his eyes and the hard grip of his hand, it does, then I’d best answer as truthfully as I’m able. Folding her hands in her lap and entwining her fingers for strength, she replied, “My parents are dead.” Her words were a whisper, her voice cracking with its pain.

Taking a deep breath, she continued, “As to the rest of your questions, I am certainly no rebel.” The trepidation was evaporating from her tone as she regained her faculties, her own annoyance then quickly surfaced. Not one to normally be enticed by another’s anger, she found her own temper flaring at his belligerence. “Nor would I even begin to know how to be a rebel,” she added, pushing his hand from her chin. “I don’t even know where I am, or how I got here.” This last she said with conviction, her voice rising in consternation.

* * * * * *

She stared up at him with her large green eyes, lashes clumping together from tears she had not shed when speaking of her parents. Her eyes had pleaded for him to believe her, to trust the things she said. Yet trust did not come easily to him.

Damon had spent too many years at war dealing with lies and deceit. First having dealt with it as a young boy when he learned he was not his father’s child, but a bastard born. He learned of his mother’s liaison before she was given in marriage to the former Lord DeGracey. Lord DeGracey had wanted his mother so badly, he had agreed that he would give him the DeGracey name, but he would never look upon the offspring’s face. It was then that his mother was forced to send him away to foster at another man’s keep. So on a dark, wet morning, several of Lord DeGracey’s men led him and his mother’s maid, Rosalynn, from his mother’s home, never to return again.

A long, wet and miserable journey brought him to the home of Lord Lucien Banet of Artaine, a vile man who resided some leagues away. Lord Lucien was the man he would be forced to grow up with. Banet had been a stern and taxing man, quite old even then, with a short, stout body, fleshy jowls and ink-black eyes. He possessed an aura of repressed darkness that clung to him like a cloak of evil.

Damon could still picture his face to this day, worn by time, wracked by drinking and forever possessing a hatred of the world. He allowed no quarter, from his strongest warrior to the lowest maid. All of his servants were to follow his orders completely, and any who did not meet his expectations would suffer the consequences, at his own hands if necessary. Even death, at times, was one of those punishments. A small boy, barely free of the nursery, could not escape his unjust punishments. And there was always a punishment for whatever slight Lord Lucien felt the child needed.

Damon could still remember being flogged and locked in a cell of the dungeon until he was willing to admit to his wrongdoings, even though he had done no wrong. His admissions only then being accepted after days locked in the dark alone with only the rats as his companions. They had roamed freely through the putrid rushes, searching for crumbs or any morsel of the dry, moldy bread that had been Damon’s only meal for the day, along with only enough water to barely quench a young boy’s thirst.

The memories made his fists clench of their own will, his brow creased in aggravation and his lips pursed from the hatred that rushed through him. Bastard! He growled, completely lost in his thoughts, unaware of the woman who sat silently in front of him as the emotions poured through him of their own accord.

In time, he had finally grown enough to stand up for himself. Then, one night, after a particularly violent fight, he had threatened his foster father at knifepoint to release him. With his blade pressed to Lord Lucien’s throat, Damon was barely able to refrain from finishing the blackguard off, so deep was his hatred and fury. When he left the keep of Artaine, he never looked back.

Moving from place to place, he sought refuge in monasteries or helped farmers for short periods of time in their fields to fill his belly. He honed his skill as a swordsman from any who would teach him.

At fifteen, he found a place of refuge in the keep of Sir François D’Trenre, and earned his spurs. It was there, in the keep of D’Trenre, that he had first met Sir Richard during his own stay of fostering.

D’Trenre was an heirless old knight, taking in any willing to learn the way of the sword. He was a good man, more of a father to him than his own. But it was no great feat for a boy of his size and fierce determination to become a knight. He had always been bigger than the other boys, and the years spent in Banet’s keep had hardened him. This had given him a stronger will and more fierce determination to be better than those he encountered.

After a time, when Richard moved on to return to his home, Damon had left D’Trenre’s keep, wiser, older and definitely a more knowledgeable swordsman. He spent the remainder of his youth and the first part of his adult life traveling, fighting, and selling his sword to the highest bidder until fate had brought him to fight by the side of William of Normandy and reunite his friendship with Richard.

Eventually word had reached him some years later that Banet had been killed on a hunting expedition, beset by bandits. Damien felt no sorrow for the man, only pity and relief. Pity for the others who had suffered at the hands of such a vile man and relief that the world would no longer be encumbered by a man whose soul was as black as the darkest pit in his hellish fortress.

Later, he had felt the pain of betrayal again when his lady wife, Therese, had spurned him for another. Learning of her treachery, he confronted her, only to chase her into the night where she threw herself from the cliffs of their home, killing herself on the rocks below.

Yes, fate was very cruel when it came to his heart and knowing true happiness. It would appear that love and trust were not in his cards. Aye, he thought disgustedly, trust is not something to eagerly give and love only softens a man—weakens him when he most needs his wits. Snapping back from his reverie, he blinked several times before refocusing on the woman before him.

He stared into the emerald green of Gabriella’s eyes and, sensing the plea within them, was almost persuaded to believe her. Almost. But the past had taught him little of trust and created a barrier in his soul. He wanted to believe her, to trust her, but alas, he knew he could not.

With instincts honed in the dust of betrayal was the knowledge that she was not telling the truth, or at least not the entire truth. He decided, reluctantly, that he would accept a portion of her tale and wait to see if time could persuade her to tell him the rest. Time he was hesitant to spend with her, for even he was not the saintliest of men.

Crouching down before her, he handed her a cup of water he had filched from the stream. Curving her hand around it, he could feel her trepidation in the flutter of her fingers as he made her clasp the cup. Then, he looked deep into her eyes, his mouth just mere inches from her, his breath lightly caressing her cheek, and he whispered, “Be careful, milady, that you do not withhold the entire truth from me for too long, for if it becomes necessary, I will force the tale from your lips.” Without another word, he rose and strode firmly across the camp.

* * * * * *

Gabriella’s heart raced. She could do nothing but stare after him while she relearned how to breathe. Each gasp was a painful reminder of the tremendous situation she now found herself in. Be careful not to withhold the entire truth too long, she mimicked, her voice trying to copy his rough baritone. How the hell does he know I’m not telling the entire truth? And what will he do if he learns the truth?

She could still feel his touch on her fingers. His scent lingered before her as she visualized his sensuous lips. Realization slowly spread, butterfly wisps fluttering throughout her stomach. She knew with certainty that this was a man whose spell she would have no trouble falling under, despite his gruff fierceness. The pain in his eyes called to her. His desolate fierceness was a disguise for the loss that lingered behind the pale visage of his winter-chilled eyes. It was a loss much like her own.

What has fate done to me? She sipped the cool water. She knew there had to be a stream or something close by where he had gotten the water. He, him, I don’t even know his name, she thought wearily, scowling into the darkness.

Thoughts continued to coalesce in her mind as she kept asking herself how she had gotten here, but no answers were forthcoming. Why was she deposited into the arms of this strange, beguiling man-warrior?

Does it matter?

Part of her wanted to run screaming into the woods that this wasn’t real, this was not happening to her. The other part of her wanted to run straight into his arms. With this last thought, she knew she had to get out of this camp, away from his men and away from him, before it was too late. She knew she had to find the truth of where she was, and hopefully, find the way back home. Because if she did not get away soon, she may never want to leave his side.

* * * * * *

Damon watched her from the shelter of the trees just beyond the camp. Her face glowed in the firelight. He was drawn to this woman in a way he had never been drawn to any other before. He barely had the will to turn away from the sight of her, yet in doing so, he felt released as though from a spell. But it also left him feeling cold and empty inside.

What kind of woman appears from nowhere? No men for protection, no horse, no wagon to travel in, no maid. He couldn’t make sense of the situation surrounding her appearance. He knew his men would not hurt her, but they would be wary of the way she appeared in the field. Some would even go so far to consider her a witch, a woodland fairy of some sort, for the old ways, the pagan ways, still lived in many men’s hearts.

He shook his head to be rid of the thoughts flowing through his befuddled mind. I’ve more important matters to worry about than one lone woman. A beautiful woman, he admitted, but she will, in no way, upset the progress of my duties. Duties to myself, my king and my fragile country. With certainty that his treacherous thoughts were now under control, he sought out his men to discuss the next phase of his plans and their return home.