TWO
1334—England
“Bloody English,” Connor McTavish muttered as he crouched beneath the scaffold, boots sinking in the muck, the stench of death filling the air as he breathed shallowly through his mouth, tasting the sweat-stained cloth tied around the lower half of his face.
“Hush, ye wee bastard.” He cuffed the man crouched next to him, glaring at the Englishman, willing the man to be quiet. Damned Thorntons.
“This is the last time I save your womanly hide. When next we meet on the field of battle, I will end you. Though I may be an outlaw, I am a Scot and you are English, not worth my breath nor my neck in a noose.”
Edward, the eldest of the Thornton brothers, snorted. “I swore to repay you tenfold for saving my hide last winter. Though if I had not been unsteady, I could have taken all eight men myself.”
“And fetched the healer as ye bled out in the dirt? Who would have tended ye until the fever broke? A serving wench?” Connor clicked his teeth together. “She would have robbed you blind and slit yer throat while you slept. Then again, the wench likely would have told the bastards where to find you and collected a coin for her efforts.”
“You have my gratitude for tracking the cowards down and ending them.” Edward scowled. “A Thornton always keeps his word. I will see those you care for are taken care of. But know this: when I next meet you on a field of battle, I will grant you a quick death and then say a prayer after, Scotsman.”
Connor rolled his eyes in the gloom. “Perhaps I should let you hang and wed your woman.” He put a finger to his mouth. “’Tis a jest. Future women are troublesome wenches. I would sooner wed a pig.”
“Why is Gilbert not here to hang me himself?” The Englishman grunted as he shifted, his hand going to his side, where he’d been beaten and bloodied when he was taken.
“The Armstrong had a fire and is feverishly trying to save his stores of grain.” Connor grinned. “He’s the reason there’s a price on my head. Aye, now the score is even.”
A sound made him turn his head to locate the source, and when he was satisfied they were undiscovered, he turned back to Edward.
“The executioner has been well paid and will not remove the hood.” From a hole in the planks, Connor watched the crowd, jeering and throwing rotten vegetables at the doomed man. The Johnston, chest puffed out, held up his hands.
“My people, you are safe. Edward the Terrible will not steal away another child to take back to his dark fortress and roast over a spit. No more children will be eaten.”
“Harrumph.” Connor brushed dirt from his face, stepping back as the trapdoor opened and a man fell through, jerking before falling still.
“That might have been me at the end of that rope.” Edward crossed himself. “Tell me, who was the man?”
“A thief sentenced to death. I offered him gold for his family.” Connor grinned. “Aye, you can repay me and then some. I want two of your finest horses as well as the gold.”
“I will see it done. Many thanks, Connor.”
The spectacle over, the crowd wandered away, returning to their daily lives, though a few curious souls lingered to watch the villain’s body being removed. ’Twas to be left as a warning to others not to trifle with the mighty Johnston. However, on the morrow all they would find was an empty grave, the body vanished. Connor had paid the executioner well to burn the man. ’Twas the gravest insult to burn a body, but he could not risk the truth. Later people would hear Edward was alive and well, and the bloody Thornton’s legend would grow even larger along with the man’s opinion of himself.
“’Tis said the Thorntons have powerful protection,” Connor said. “Some speak of deals with the devil, others of pacts with faeries.”
The Englishman grinned. “Nonsense.”
“Many believe you and your brothers to be immortal.” Connor kicked at a rock in the dirt with a booted foot.
Edward brushed off his tunic and hose. “I won’t soon forget what you’ve done for me.”
Connor arched a brow. “Wait until we arrive safely at your castle before you thank me, Thornton.”
They waited until nightfall before leaving the cover of the scaffolding. Through the village, they crept as thunder rumbled across the night sky. By the time the moon was high, they were already deep in the forest, making their way back to Somerforth when clouds hid the moon and rain fell, lashing their skin as the sky lit up. With a terrible storm of such making, Connor could believe evil spirits were following them, making him wish he was settled in an inn, a serving wench on either side, a tankard of ale in front of him.
Perhaps God was displeased he had a man’s body burned. Ach, well, he had no time to dwell on what the almighty did or did not approve of. When he faced his maker, he thought saving an honorable man would outweigh the burning of the thief’s flesh.
Edward for once did not speak, his breath coming in rasps as they made their way back to the man’s home, where Connor would saddle his new horses, bags of gold safely hidden, and be on his way. ’Twas not wise to linger overlong in any one location.
Mellie stretched, working out the kinks in her shoulders, leaning left and right, gazing at the house as she spun the Lazy Susan to and fro, checking for cracks in the slabs of clay. In front of her on a wire shelving unit, houses stood waiting, leaning precariously, dressed in bright and crazy colors, and inside every house, only seen by peering in a window, was a woman. Always barefoot. Some read; a few bathed or napped; others washed a dish or stood gazing out a window. The houses were two feet tall, and by her count there were almost thirty on the shelves, waiting patiently for her to find her nerve and send them out into the world.
With a dispassionate eye, she noted all the glaring imperfections as she wiped a smudge of clay from the back of her hand. Was her work as horrendous as Aunt Jilly’s?
The jarring ring of a cell phone snapped her out of an argument with her internal critic.
“Hi, Jacob.” Melissa frowned as she listened. Someone was out sick, and they needed her to fill in at the museum gift shop today. “Wait, I don’t work weekends, and you know I usually work six or eight hours.”
The young voice cracked. “I’m sorry, but we’re short-handed, I need you the full twelve hours. I’ll pay time and a half.”
Mellie absently twirled a curl around her finger. “Throw in meals and beverages from the cafe?”
“Done.” The sigh of relief told her she should have asked for more.
A glance at the clock told her the museum opened in half an hour, and wow, Greg was really late. “I’ll try to make it by opening chimes, but I might need another half-hour.”
“I’m sending a car. Don’t tell anyone.”
A smile escaped. “Thanks, I won’t say a word.” The museum kept a sedan on call. She’d eyed it with envy when she left work during a storm or on a wintry day. “See you soon.” The food and transportation more than made up for losing the entire day, not to mention time and a half.
Used to working quickly, Mellie cleaned up the small work area she’d created out of the tiny guest bedroom. Before shutting the door and locking it, she took a final look around, making sure nothing was out of place.
The door stayed locked at all times—not only did she want to keep Greg and her friends out, she didn’t want the maintenance guys laughing at her series of women living their day-to-day lives. Sure, the manager always gave notice if there was work to be done, but still, Mellie worried that someone would see her work and sneer at how childish it was.
Soon. By fall or winter, she’d be good enough to approach the gallery and see if they’d be interested in showing her houses.
Out of the shower in record time, she checked her phone again. Still no word from Greg. Not even a text. He was never this late. What was going on? Worried, she settled into the back of the dark sedan, cranked the air up, and enjoyed the ride, knowing if something bad had happened, his assistant would have let her know.
The ping made her jump, almost spilling her lemonade.
Sorry, hon, work’s been crazy, pulled an all-nighter. Call later.
That was it. No other explanation or apology, which meant Greg had to be super busy. Whenever he was wrapped up in a case, his impeccable manners sometimes slipped. She sent back a text.
No worries, ended up having to work today. Still on for antiques tomorrow?
He didn’t respond, but she was confident he’d received the message and they’d spend the whole day together Sunday. The antique market would be the perfect place for him to propose. After all, it was where they first met six months ago.
The attack came an hour or so before dawn. One of the villagers had caught sight of the thief’s face as the man burned and knew ’twas not the wicked Thornton. The rain turned the ground to mud as Connor fought, and when he turned to take a man out at the knees, he missed the archer to his right. The arrow went through his hand, dropping him to one knee. Sensing victory, two men came at him, blades raised as lightning flashed across the sky and the ground trembled. Connor buried his dagger deep in the man to his left and, with blood streaming down his arm, cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders.
A terrible rumbling filled the air, as if an army of horses thundered toward them, but there were no advancing armies; ’twas the ground beneath their feet. Several men crossed themselves and ran, fear giving them speed.
His hand came away crimson as Connor wiped the blood from his face. The very air crackled and the hair on the back of his neck twitched and itched, his entire body shivering as if wee beasties feasted on his skin. Had death come for him? Or perhaps an ancient spirit was among them on this day of death and destruction.
The earth rumbled again, and he shifted, finding his balance, the blood in his eyes almost costing him his life. The fatal blow came toward him, achingly slow, the smell of unwashed bodies and fear filling the air. He’d only seen one blade, but a score of blades stabbed his body, and a screaming filled the air. He saw flashes of colored light and heard noises unlike anything he’d experienced in his life.
Edward rushed across the field, reaching out as Connor watched. The Thornton faded into the trees; the trees vanished, as did the men around him, until there was only Connor standing in the middle of an empty, muddy field, the rain pouring down, and yet not a drop touched him. Was he dead? Then there was silence and nothing but a gray mist in front of him.
Before he took two steps, the sky screamed, and the ground opened up and swallowed him whole, the mud filling his mouth and nose. But before it covered his eyes, he caught sight of something in the water on the ground—people dressed strangely, towering buildings—then Connor winced and felt warmth rushing across his hand before the earth embraced him.