Echo of Roses Read online

  “Miss Lancaster has been given her inheritance, an ancient brooch we believe is priceless.”

  “Great!” the male of her friends exclaimed. “Is she ready to go?”

  “Of course, we don’t want her to go home in an Uber. We had one of our private limoseams come around for her. She was—”

  “What?” One of her pretty girlfriends quirked her brow at him. “You said limoseams.”

  “Did I?’ He chuckled. What was it called! He couldn’t remember!

  “Did you mean limousines?”

  “Yes, limousines.” His smile widened on her. “I’m afraid I had a late night.” He waited until her eyes glazed over a little bit. Then he added, “As I was saying, Miss Lancaster was escorted down the side exit by three of our men and will meet you at the car. Leave the building, make a right at the corner and you will see her.”

  Immediately, her male friend touched his phone and held it to his ear.

  “No service,” Luke reminded him. “You will be able to call her as soon as you leave the building.”

  He turned away when they hurried to the elevator and he entered the office. He shut the door and disappeared before they could return. As soon as the enchantment wore off, the entire floor would be gone.

  *

  The sun shone in Kes’ eyes. Her mind couldn’t understand what was happening. Where was Mr. Green’s office? She was just inside an office in Manhattan. Now…now, men were shouting, alarming sounds that frightened her senseless. The smell of leather and blood wafted through her nostrils turning her stomach. She lifted her hand to shade her eyes from the sun and looked up at the most terrifying sight her poor eyes had ever seen. A man covered from his neck down in dark metal sat upon a tremendous, snorting warhorse. The man’s hair was black and damp either with sweat or blood, or both. His eyes, like the heavens before a storm, held her still, though all she wanted to do was fall to her knees and scream. She felt the earth tremble beneath her sneakers and turned to see more mounted, armored men on horses…giant horses like his that ripped up dirt behind them, running toward her.

  This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Open your mouth! Scream!

  Her friends at the society must be doing this to her as a—her knees almost buckled. She opened her mouth as a horse was almost upon her. The red-stained blade of a sword swung over her head. It was blocked by another, slightly shorter blade. Sparks rained down on her head.

  This wasn’t happening! The sound of metal clashing against metal boomed and clanged in her ears. She covered them with her hands and shook her head. “No! NO!”

  The man whose short blade had saved her shouted at her to get behind his horse and continued fighting. There were hundreds of others in the same dark armor that he wore, while significantly less others wore silver. This was no re-enactment group. This was a battle. Men were dead around her. She had…somehow…come to the middle ages. No! But they came close swinging their swords at her. It was real! She screamed as each new foe appeared, his snorting horse breathing its fiery breath above her.

  Her dark knight fought all who came at her. He blocked every blow with a jab or a swipe across the belly or throat. He was quick and strong, and brutal. Kes didn’t want to witness this, but she was thankful he was here protecting her.

  His eyes, staring into those of his enemies were like glaciers and just as cold. He swung his blade as if he were swinging a baseball bat. Blood and guts flew. Kes screamed and wept. Oh, it was real. She was convinced of it when the blood of one of the savage knight’s victims splashed across her face.

  That was it. She couldn’t handle anymore and fainted on the battlefield.

  Chapter Two

  Bridlington, England

  July 1485

  Nicholas de Marre, Earl of Scarborough, barely dodged a swipe that would have killed him. The bloody blade sliced a thin cut along his cheekbone. His opponent should be quite proud of himself, for rarely did anyone make him bleed on the battlefield. If they had, it wasn’t because Nicholas was distracted.

  Nothing distracted him while he fought. It was what made him so deadly. But he’d never seen a woman appear as if right out of the glimmering air just a few feet away from him. For she was not there one moment, and the next, she was. She was dressed…he didn’t know how to describe her clothes. There was no time to examine them further. Or to ponder why her huge anguished gaze made his chest feel odd. He had to kill his way to get to her. She was terrified and screaming, holding her hands to her ears. When the Reds moved toward her with intentions on killing her, he rode into the fray and fought and killed for her.

  She’d finally stopped screaming because she’d fainted. He had to dismount and pick her up. He wasn’t sure if she was solid form or a vapor that would dissipate when he touched her. He was happy to discover that she was solid.

  He tossed her over his shoulder and ran with her back to his horse. He heaved her over the side of the saddle and fought two more men on foot. He disposed of them with full, air-cutting power, killing them both.

  He was tired. His arms were aching. He could hardly breathe. He’d been fighting in Nottingham for the last three weeks. On the way home for a few weeks of rest, away from fighting, he ran into a skirmish just outside Bridlington. About a hundred Reds against his seventy men. Thankfully, his men were making a quick end of their opponents.

  He had a few moments to tear out of his armor, piece by piece and leave it where it fell from his body.

  His heart thundered and his breath stalled when another man charged him.

  Without his armor, he felt lighter, almost weightless. He swung with both hands and the victim’s head flew from his body.

  The fight was almost over. The Reds were retreating. His men could handle the few who were left.

  He motioned to his lieutenant to meet him with the men at the castle. With his path cleared, Nicholas leaped to his saddle and left the field with the woman from the air in his arms.

  What was he to do with her, he thought as he rode home to his fortress in Scarborough. The fighting was over for now. His side had won. He wasn’t surprised. The White forces were trained well—by him. He didn’t celebrate with them though.

  The woman had nothing to do with his sober demeanor. He wasn’t on this earth to make friends. He hadn’t been for many years. He was here to keep the House of York firmly seated on the throne. But it wasn’t. Not since King Edward died and his brother, Richard ruled. For nearly two years, Nicholas fought for a man he hated and a house he loved.

  He looked down at the woman beginning to stir in his arms. Where had she come from? What were the strange clothes she was wearing? What kind of magic was at work here? Surely, she would be accused of being a witch. Was she? Ordinarily, Nicholas didn’t believe in such things, but he saw her appear from nothing with his own eyes.

  She was beautiful enough to be otherworldly. Her glossy, sable hair fell in loose waves around her face and hung a little past her shoulders. Her nose was small and her lips, full and shapely. But her eyes had hypnotized him. They were large deep-set, vivid blue mixed with green, terrified eyes. She had secrets. She wasn’t from around here. He would have remembered her if he’d seen her before.

  She was beginning to wake up.

  What had he done? What was she doing bouncing up and down in his arms while he rode home as if she were a prize? Why had he fought to save…her lush, black lashes were separating, revealing pools as fathomless as the deepest oceans.

  “What…?” she choked out.

  Her eyes, opening wider, mesmerized him.

  “Where am I?” she shrieked, pushing off him, breaking the spell. “What’s happening?”

  He put aside her beauty and hardened his gaze. “You are in England. Why do you not know that?” He wanted to study her further, but she jerked way and almost fell. The terror in her eyes and in her trembling lips appeared authentic. She was a madwoman then. That’s why she wore such odd attire.

  But how had she come out of the air?

  “Are you…are you real?”

  Poor woman. Pity really. “Aye,” he answered.

  “This can’t be happening.” She lifted her cautious, shaking hand to the small slice beneath his eye.

  “You’re bleeding,” she whispered on threads of disbelief and shock. “You can’t be real. That battle—”

  He pulled back as if she had slapped him. “I will not have you poking at me.”

  She drew her hand to her mouth. He watched it. She wore rings on six of her ten fingers and her fingernails were colored light pink!

  “I don’t live in England.”

  He guessed as much since she spoke with a tone and inflection he’d never heard before. It wasn’t French or Spanish, or Scottish or Middle Eastern. “Where do you live?”

  “New York.”

  “New York?”

  “Please, you have to help me.”

  “What is new about it?” he demanded. “And what is wrong with the York we have now?” His voice sliced sharper than any sword, but it had no effect on her.

  “What…what year is it?” she asked as if her thoughts were a thousand leagues away.

  His expression darkened. He didn’t like being made to look a fool. “It’s the year of our Lord, fourteen hundred and eighty-five. Who are you?” he demanded. “Where did you come from?”

  “Stop the horse!”

  She had grown quite hysterical. Her hands were shaking when she brought them her mouth.

  Nicholas brought his mount to a halt. He didn’t need this bother in his life. He had battles to fight to keep the York name alive. When he wasn’t fighting, he had all the issues at home to deal with. Namely, his cousin Reg, Reg’s wife, Adele, Adele’s maid, Margaret, and Reg and Adele’s four children William, Eddie, Char
lotte, and Andrew. They were enough to make Nicholas swear off having children if he ever married.

  “Let me get off!” she shouted again. “I have to get back!”

  “Back to where?” he put to her, for she looked as if she knew.

  “Home.” Her eyes filled with water and appeared like the color between heaven and the sea. “I have to find a way home.”

  “Where?” Why was he asking? He had duties to see to at his own home. Mayhap after that—but no! He wouldn’t keep her with him for so long. Not another person in his castle. He should have realized it on the battlefield, before he took her, but he was covered in blood and exhausted. He hadn’t been thinking straight.

  “Not where,” she muttered. “When.”

  He arched a brow. Should he help her dismount? “When?”

  “Twenty-nineteen.”

  He gave her a hard stare. “What does that mean?”

  “The year of our Lord,” she corrected, wide-eyed, “Two thousand and nineteen.”

  He wanted to laugh, but someone else’s affliction was no laughing matter. He groaned instead. He hadn’t meant to do so as loud as he had. But what the hell was he supposed to think?

  He frightened her. She pulled away and tried to slide from the saddle. He didn’t want her to fall so he hooked his arm under hers and lowered her down. He shouldn’t leave her. He should take her.

  He didn’t want to coddle a madwoman—and he certainly didn’t want to bring one home.

  “Farewell then,” he said and nodded to her.

  She said nothing but looked around. She appeared faint. He closed his eyes.

  “I don’t belong here,” she sobbed.

  He opened his eyes and set them on her. “But here is where you are.”

  “No! No. I don’t want to be here because, you see, I know how crappy medieval times were. There’s…there’s no Advil. No antibiotics. My phone—” She looked at him with a whole new horror in her eyes. “My father, my friends.” She began to walk.

  He kept his horse at a slow pace beside her. “Are you certain you were not hit over the head, Miss? Your family might not be gone. They might be close by.”

  “Look—”

  He did, expecting that she might be about to show him how she had done it. How she’d come from the air.

  “I know this is difficult to believe. I can’t believe it and it’s happening to me. But I…I got some letter in the mail this morning from a law firm telling me to go to their office in midtown. I got there and it was all very sketchy, but, you know, I went in…”

  What in the name of all that was holy was she saying? It couldn’t be a different language. Some words were familiar to him. Some were not. Mail? Office? Sketchy? What did it all mean?

  “…and it changed and looked brand new all of a sudden. The air seemed to sparkle and then I was here…on the battlefield.”

  Sparkle? What was she saying?

  She started up crying again. What was he to do with her? He couldn’t leave her. She was very pleasing to the eyes. Her odd, blue trousers fit her long legs and shapely derriere quite nicely. She wouldn’t last the night with all these Lancasters about. She’d be raped before morning.

  “Come on, then, Miss,” he grumbled. He held his hand down to her. She refused it. Very well then. He flicked his reins and rode away.

  He was glad she didn’t want to go with him. He’d saved her life on the battlefield. He’d done enough for her.

  Still, he couldn’t stop his thoughts from returning to her while he rode. The smell of her, her fear, her sweat, and…a hint of floral. The sight of her sprawled across his lap shook him to his knees. Nothing ever had before. He was glad he was sitting. She was long limbed but weighed little in his arms. Her skin was pale against his tanned fingers. Her hair was dark brown with traces of red. It fell loose around her face, cascading over her shoulders. She wore no adornments or knots and braids. He liked it. He thought of touching it. Her lashes left shadows on her cheeks. Her hose were thick blue fabric with some kind of metal button and a line of tiny silver connecting pieces from her groin to beneath her belly. Curious.

  Where had she come from? How was what he saw possible? He didn’t catch her from a side view. He hadn’t blinked. He happened to be looking straight ahead—in her direction when the air changed, and she appeared. He saw her come to being.

  He shook his head. Time travel? It was impossible. Laughable. She was mad.

  And what were Advil and antibiotics anyway? What did her words mean?

  He rode on for another ten minutes. While he went, he told himself that she had to have come from over the hill and he’d missed her. But why would she walk straight onto a battlefield and then become so terrified?

  She said she came from the future. Two thousand and nineteen to be exact. He slowed his horse. It was over five hundred years from now. Is that how women clothed themselves in the twenty-first century?

  He cursed under his breath for even considering the idea that she was telling the truth.

  He spotted a group of men riding toward the direction he’d left her. His blood went cold. What if they came upon her? Mad or not, she’d been through much today. She likely wouldn’t do well fighting off six men.

  Muttering an oath, he turned his horse around. He’d saved her once today, and for what? So she could die a short while later?

  After half an hour, he realized he couldn’t find her. There was no sign of her.

  “Woman!” he called out. He didn’t know her name. Where had she gone? Had another group of men already come upon her? “Woman!” Damn him! What was he doing? Why did he care? He wasn’t the caring type. Perhaps because he saw her come alive in the shimmering speckled air. He didn’t know the reason. He only knew that she’d been through enough today.

  “What in blazes is your name?” he said in a lower tone and turned his horse around yet again.

  When he saw her stepping forward from his right, he almost let out a sigh of relief, but he held it in.

  “My name is Kestrel L—”

  “What is this?” another mounted rider asked. It was one of the men he’d seen earlier. Nicholas was thankful he’d come back for her.

  Five more men rode forward, brandishing swords. They all pointed them at Nicholas.

  “What strange attire you wear,” the leader remarked on a snarl as he approached her. “But it will not matter when I strip you out of it.”

  “I’d rather be dead,” she said, sounding as if she were close to it. “And if I’m stuck here, that’s certainly the better alternative.”

  “Back away from her before I kill you all,” Nicholas warned them on a deadly growl.

  “Are you her husband?” one of them called out.

  “If I say no, will you think you have a claim on her?” Nicholas asked, watching them closely. He was weary, but he was always ready to kill some Reds, if that was what they were.

  “I’m taking her whether you are her husband or not,” the leader promised with a lusty smile.

  Nicholas’ breathing changed the slightest bit. His eyes burned into the leader. “And I’m going to kill you whether you surrender or not if you continue to put me in a foul mood.”

  “Surrender to you?” The man tossed back his head and laughed. “Who are you but shyte on the bottom of my shoes?” He looked at the shield hanging from the back of Nicholas’ saddle. “You’re a White!”

  Nicholas pulled his sword free and prepared himself to fight. “Not just any White,” he told them, slowly moving closer on his horse. “I am Sir Nicholas de Marre, Earl of Scarborough. Defender of York. I just left the battlefield, where my men and I left over a hundred Reds dead.” He held up his stained sword and snarled at them. “I would not mind killing six more.”

  The leader paled. Nicholas thought he might. “I—we have no quarrel with you, Lord Scarborough.”

  “Then what are you still doing here?” Nicholas asked.

  He wasn’t always so merciful, but the woman…Kestrel—an odd name, just like the rest of her—had seen enough death for one day. He did nothing when the six of them took off running.

  Alone with her, he held out his hand. “You cannot remain alone.”