Read Online Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) by Diane Darcy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diane Darcy
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Jerry, still at the tree line. “This man, yer own companion, named ye such. We all heard him speak it.” He waved a hand at the gathering crowd. “Did we no’?”
She glanced down at her dress, but it was modest and covered every inch of her. What was the man talking about?
There were murmurs of agreement and, as they studied her, actual fear on the faces of the men, women, and children moving closer. Most women hid their children behind their skirts.
She swallowed again. The 13th century?
Samantha shook her head, putting that thought aside. “You’ve got it all wrong. Jerry and I are colleagues, competitors. Sometimes things get a little heated. Tell them, Jerry.” Samantha looked to the tree-line, but he was nowhere to be seen. She glanced at the crowd, pressing closer, and felt a trill of fear race up her spine. “Jerry?” she yelled, unable to believe he’d left her. She could only hope he’d gone for help.
The man holding her pressed her forward and spoke for the first time. “Come, witch,” the man’s deep voice was slightly breathless, fear lacing his tone. “The sooner we begin, the sooner we put an end to yer miserable existence.”
She kicked back at him with her running shoes and he squeezed her tight, cutting off her air until she stopped. “Okay.” She gasped. “Okay. But I’m not a witch. And I’m certainly not living a miserable existence. I like my life just fine.” They were taking this way too far. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I have rights, you know. I insist on talking to the person in charge.”
She looked at the grizzled man in front of her, at his sinister, hostile expression, and really hoped it wasn’t him.
Another man, this one thin and anxious, stepped forward to confer in Gaelic with the two in front of her. The way they gestured toward her made her nervous.
Were they trying to frighten her? Teach her a lesson? If so, she was learning it really well. Never, ever trespass on MacGregor land. These people were crazy.
The crowd watched—interest, fascination, and fear in their gazes.
The three men ended their conversation and the old guy straightened importantly, his chest puffed out. “Witches have no rights.”
Apparently that was all the man behind her needed to hear. He shoved her forward again, closer to the monument, closer to the guys playing cut-and-stack-the wood just beyond.
“Wait!” She tried to resist the immovable object behind her and the guy actually stopped. “I’m not a witch.” Desperation tinged her voice. “Just because you say I am does not make it so. Anyway, why are we arguing about this? There are no such things as witches.”
“Nae such things?” The old man repeated, his tone full of scorn. “Only a witch would make such a claim.”
She struggled again. “Let me go. Do you guys know how freaky you’re being?” She tried to shake off the man’s grasp, but he simply shoved her forward, through the crowd of people who scurried back, women pulling their children and skirts aside, as if fearful of contamination. “Look, can I please talk to someone in charge? Don’t I have that right?”
“Himself does no’ have time for the likes of ye. Think ye to fool us?” The old guy’s lips curled, showing missing and yellowed teeth. “Look to your hair, your dress. ’Tis obvious ye serve the dark one. Hair that color could only have come from the realms of Satan himself.”
There were murmurs of agreement from the gathering crowd.
“Or from a bottle of hair dye,” she said loudly, deciding to withhold the fact that it was called Hades Red. “Look. Some guy I had never met was hired to color my hair. Normally it’s more like,” she looked around and spotted an auburn-haired teen. She jutted her chin forward. “That boy’s hair color. This is supposed to fade quickly back to my natural shade.”
The old man’s stone-faced expression said he didn’t really care. “What of your dress? Only a temptress of Satan
She glanced down at her dress, but it was modest and covered every inch of her. What was the man talking about?
There were murmurs of agreement and, as they studied her, actual fear on the faces of the men, women, and children moving closer. Most women hid their children behind their skirts.
She swallowed again. The 13th century?
Samantha shook her head, putting that thought aside. “You’ve got it all wrong. Jerry and I are colleagues, competitors. Sometimes things get a little heated. Tell them, Jerry.” Samantha looked to the tree-line, but he was nowhere to be seen. She glanced at the crowd, pressing closer, and felt a trill of fear race up her spine. “Jerry?” she yelled, unable to believe he’d left her. She could only hope he’d gone for help.
The man holding her pressed her forward and spoke for the first time. “Come, witch,” the man’s deep voice was slightly breathless, fear lacing his tone. “The sooner we begin, the sooner we put an end to yer miserable existence.”
She kicked back at him with her running shoes and he squeezed her tight, cutting off her air until she stopped. “Okay.” She gasped. “Okay. But I’m not a witch. And I’m certainly not living a miserable existence. I like my life just fine.” They were taking this way too far. She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I have rights, you know. I insist on talking to the person in charge.”
She looked at the grizzled man in front of her, at his sinister, hostile expression, and really hoped it wasn’t him.
Another man, this one thin and anxious, stepped forward to confer in Gaelic with the two in front of her. The way they gestured toward her made her nervous.
Were they trying to frighten her? Teach her a lesson? If so, she was learning it really well. Never, ever trespass on MacGregor land. These people were crazy.
The crowd watched—interest, fascination, and fear in their gazes.
The three men ended their conversation and the old guy straightened importantly, his chest puffed out. “Witches have no rights.”
Apparently that was all the man behind her needed to hear. He shoved her forward again, closer to the monument, closer to the guys playing cut-and-stack-the wood just beyond.
“Wait!” She tried to resist the immovable object behind her and the guy actually stopped. “I’m not a witch.” Desperation tinged her voice. “Just because you say I am does not make it so. Anyway, why are we arguing about this? There are no such things as witches.”
“Nae such things?” The old man repeated, his tone full of scorn. “Only a witch would make such a claim.”
She struggled again. “Let me go. Do you guys know how freaky you’re being?” She tried to shake off the man’s grasp, but he simply shoved her forward, through the crowd of people who scurried back, women pulling their children and skirts aside, as if fearful of contamination. “Look, can I please talk to someone in charge? Don’t I have that right?”
“Himself does no’ have time for the likes of ye. Think ye to fool us?” The old guy’s lips curled, showing missing and yellowed teeth. “Look to your hair, your dress. ’Tis obvious ye serve the dark one. Hair that color could only have come from the realms of Satan himself.”
There were murmurs of agreement from the gathering crowd.
“Or from a bottle of hair dye,” she said loudly, deciding to withhold the fact that it was called Hades Red. “Look. Some guy I had never met was hired to color my hair. Normally it’s more like,” she looked around and spotted an auburn-haired teen. She jutted her chin forward. “That boy’s hair color. This is supposed to fade quickly back to my natural shade.”
The old man’s stone-faced expression said he didn’t really care. “What of your dress? Only a temptress of Satan
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