Chapter Three
Bryne Adair threw open the shutters and stared out his bedroom window at the inky sky beyond. Images of his intruder plagued his mind, making sleep unobtainable. She’d said her name was Catherine Grier from Pensacola.
What was a young, blonde female doing in a place occupied mostly by Spanish and Indians?
She didn’t strike him as a courtesan or even a common street girl, and though her hair hung loose around her shoulders and boasted different shades of the same color, it looked right on her.
He did like that she didn’t make her face up with powders as most of the women of the ton did. Of course they weren’t in England, and judging by her strange talk, she wasn’t from there either.
Witch. That had to be it. The king had sent a witch to seduce him in hopes of obtaining his hidden documents—the evidence of his birth thought to have been destroyed along with his castle back in England.
Bryne ran a hand through his hair as he removed his boots and climbed into his oversized bed. He’d have plenty of time on the morrow to get the answers he sought after a good night’s rest.
He was tired. Tired of fighting and tired of politics, but most of all tired of not taking what was his. His thoughts drifted to his sister back in Westminster; if not for the threats against her life and the lives of her children, he would have stayed and risked being burned along with his castle.
* * * *
Cathe realized the moment that Ansel returned. His smell preceded him into the room, demanding her notice whether she lifted her head or not.
She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out as he wrapped a hand in her hair, yanked her head up, and pulled the nasty cloth loose from her mouth.
“Who sent you?” His breath settled over her like a rotted corpse, suffocating her.
“No one sent me. I told you already. I woke up here,” she reiterated, jerking her face to the side.
“I heard ya the first time, but I ain’t buyin’ it.”
“Please. I’m telling you the truth.” Cathe noticed his clothes. The shirt he wore was open at the collar with ruffles running the length of the front. Though dingy, it had obviously been white at some point and was now in desperate need of some bleach. His pants were too short, and he wore no socks with his shoes.
He released her bound hands. “I’ll get the truth from ya one way or another.”
“What are you going to do?” Anxiety tightened her gut once more.
“Get up,” he demanded, yanking her arms at an awkward angle.
Cathe gritted her teeth. “You don’t have to manhandle me. I can stand on my own.”
“Get goin’ then.” He shoved her through the open door to the left of a massive dining room with an oversized table situated near an enormous fireplace.
Dark-colored drapes hung from long, narrow windows, and beautiful rugs were resting haphazardly around the floor.
“What is this place?”
“Shut yer mouth and keep movin’.”
They came to a pair of giant wooden doors with golden handles and a sliding bar for a locking mechanism. Cathe barely had time to take in their antique beauty before the doors were thrown open and she was pushed outside into the chilly winter wind.
The sight that greeted her as she stumbled down the stone steps stole her breath. She was standing in a courtyard surrounded by a huge wall with cannons embedded in the sides at least every thirty feet.
“What in the world…?” The building was square in shape with stairs that ran along the inside, leading up to a ledge that bordered a massive wall. It had to be the most intimidating structure she’d ever seen. “It’s a castle,” she breathed in awe.
“Course it’s a castle. What else would it be? Master thinks yer a witch. What ya got to say for yerself?”
A nervous giggle bubbled up. “A witch? Your master? What century do you think this is?” she asked with a sarcastic tone.
“Look. My name is Catherine Grier, I live in Pensacola Beach, and I was born in Arlington, Texas. Do an online search and see for yourself. I’m no witch. “
Ansel spun her around, his facial features twisted into a frown. “I never heard of Arlington, Texas, ya crazy witch.” He pointed to a pillory erected at the other end of the courtyard. “That’s where you’ll be stayin’ for the rest of the day. Or ‘til ya can admit the truth.
Cathe braced to run, but he grabbed hold of her arm and twisted it behind her back. “Ain’t gonna happen, witch lady.” He propelled her forward, stopping in front of the medieval-looking contraption. “Now step up.”
“I can’t be locked in that thing,” Cathe pleaded. “You don’t understand. I’m extremely claustrophobic. I’ll die if you put me in there.”
“Jump up there,” he barked, twisting her arm to the point where she thought surely it would break.
She stumbled onto the platform, scanning the grounds for anyone who might help her. “Please.”
He ignored her plea, forcing her head and wrists into the pillory and snapping it closed. The loud click that followed cemented her fate.
“Help!”
“Yell all ya want. Ain’t nobody gonna help ya.” He strolled back toward the castle doors, disappearing from her sight before she could process what had just happened.
* * * *
Cathe couldn’t feel her feet. Panic had long since disappeared and in its place settled acceptance. She was going to die out there in the middle of a courtyard, in a strange place without her underwear.
It had been a long-standing joke growing up to always wear underwear in case you were in an accident, yet there she stood, bent in half, freezing to death in full-on commando.
Her legs gave out, and she momentarily sagged, sending shooting pain through her arms and neck before locking her knees once more. That was the intended torture of the device, she assumed. It involved physical as well as mental anguish.
She turned her head and studied her right hand once again. The youthful appearance of her skin astounded her. How was it possible? Had the book she’d fallen asleep reading the night before been cursed? She didn’t believe in curses or magic…so how had she come to be there?
Footsteps sounded nearby, and Cathe strained to see around the sharp angles of wood on her torture device. “Hello?” When no answer came, she tried again. “Can you hear me? Please. I just want to ask you a question.”
“Yer that witch. I ain’t supposed to talk to ya.” A woman stepped into Cathe’s line of vision, wearing a black and white dress that flowed to her ankles and an apron tied around her waist. Her blonde hair was tucked up under a frilly white cap that had seen better days.
“I’m not a witch. I’m just lost,” Cathe muttered, thinking that the woman would be pretty if she invested in a pair of tweezers, a brush, and a good scrubbing.
“That ain’t what Ansel says. He says yer soft in the head and don’t know what century it is.”
With an inward sigh, Cathe pasted on a smile. “Okay, then why don’t you tell me what year it is?”
The woman’s head tilted to the side, and she stared back at Cathe as if she truly were addled. “This is the month of February, 1767.”
Cathe’s heart stuttered and her vision faded. The ground tilted momentarily before righting itself. “Did you say 1767?”
The woman nodded. “Seems to me that yer insane. They should’ve put ya down instead of displayin’ ya out here for all to see. Inhumane, if ya ask me.” She meandered off before Cathe could question her further.
It’s 1767? So it’s true. I fell asleep reading that book and awoke in a different time. But how is that possible?
If she’d have been told that time travel was possible and someday she would be a victim of it, she would have thought that person crazy. Hell, she doubted her own sanity at that point. But there she was in the center of a courtyard locked in a pillory in the eighteenth century, freezing her bottom off.
Her teeth continued to chatter and not just from the cold. Something inside that book held the power to send her back in time nearly two hundred and fifty years, and if she didn’t find it soon, she had a feeling she’d be stuck there...if she didn’t die first.
* * * *
Bryne Adair pulled on his pants and wandered over to the window just after daybreak when the fog rolling in from the Matanzas Bay was at its thickest. He watched as the mist drifted by, reflecting off the glow of a distant lighthouse.
St. Augustine wasn’t his home, but he’d grown fond of the place with its warm summer winds and tolerable winters.
He stared out over the water, admiring its beauty and serenity before settling his gaze on the sexy blonde witch restrained in his courtyard. His stomach tightened with the memory of her scent…his hand on her rear.
With a growl, he marched back toward his bed and pulled the thick golden cord hanging from the ceiling to signal a servant.
Betty rushed in almost immediately, tucking a stray blonde curl back into place and pinching her cheeks. Her hair color wasn’t as bright as the witch’s, he noticed.
“What can I do for ya, Master,” she purred, sashaying across the room with her bosom spilling out over the top of her nightgown. Her eyes lit up with desire as she took in his shirtless form.
Bryne scarcely noticed, his thoughts too wrapped up in the deceptive female freezing to death in his courtyard.
“Have my bath drawn,” he ordered, turning to stare out the window once more.
The maid sidled up behind him. “Want some company, Master?”
“No, thank you,” he muttered dismissively, never taking his gaze from his prisoner. “Have Miss Grier brought to my room also.”
“Miss Grier?” the maid questioned, backing up a step.
“Yes. She is locked in the pillory. Bring her to me.”
“But—”
“Now, Betty.”
Betty ran from the room without another word, and for that, Bryne was grateful. Out of all the servants he employed, she was the most talkative one.
Bernie and Walt came in a few minutes later, followed by a couple of teenage boys carrying pails of hot water, which they promptly poured into the tub.
Bryne thanked them and clapped Bernie on the shoulder. “Congratulations on the baby boy.”
“Oh, thank ya, Master. His name is Wiley,” Bernie proudly announced with his chest puffed out more than usual.
“Wiley. That is a good name,” Bryne praised, stepping back as more servants entered with pails of hot water.
“It’s my wife’s dead father’s name, Sire.”
“Well, it is a good name, Bernie.” Bryne waved his hand at the rest of the servants. “That will be all. I will ring if I need any further assistance.”
“Yes, my Lord,” the men chorused as they filed out one by one.