Chapter Six

I have a truant been to chivalry

-Shakespeare

Kit did speak French. Although many of the words were different, she could understand. Inwardly, she seethed. A slave? She’d die first. She hadn’t been going to give anything away, however, no matter how hard she would have to bite her tongue. She’d wanted to know his response. And, it had shocked her, honestly. She wasn’t to be a prisoner, slave, or servant? What was she to be? Better yet, where was she, and how the hell was she going to get home?

She also wasn’t sure what this woman’s problem was and why she already hated Kit when they’d not even been introduced. Kit struggled to take all of this in.

She was in an old castle or keep, the likes of which she’d only seen in books and movies. More specifically, a medieval castle. Sweet Bridget, this has to be a dream. I can’t believe this.

She wanted to go and look for Ares but knew that, on foot, there was no chance of escape. Yet, anyway. She needed some information, first. And, for that, she kept her mouth shut and waited.

Kit had no clue why he had ordered her in the room next to his. This entire situation is getting way out of control. She checked out the man who held her life in his hands and took stock. He stood about seven inches over six feet, towering over her by almost a foot. There was no fat on him, at all. He gave a new meaning to the phrase “all man”. Hell’s bells. His body wasn’t scrawny like a lot of tall people she knew, but was heavily muscled, which showed he had worked hard in his life. She imagined that he would weigh in close to three hundred pounds, and all of it was sinfully well toned.

His hair was jet black, so black it boasted blue highlights. His eyes, the color of the rich, vibrant green meadows back home, did something to her belly and nerves. He was a very big man. She told herself that he would be passably…possibly…handsome if he would get rid of the facial hair he had. She detested facial hair any more than scruff. It hid too much. She was lying to herself; he was gorgeous, even with the mustache and beard.

His skin, although darkened by the sun, wasn’t the same brownish tan color as her skin but she didn’t care. She’d never held skin color against anyone and wasn’t about to start, now. Still, Kit measured him up the way she measured opponents before a martial arts competition, looking for any sign of weaknesses.

Kit held her tongue, expecting him to say something. She was used to the game of hurry up and wait. Of trying to make the other person become uncomfortable and say something first. She knew the game and was good at it. For that reason, despite being anxious to find out, not only where but when she was, Kit vowed she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her squirm.

So, while she waited, she worked some things out in her head. Or tried to. Like, how she’d gone from where she’d fallen asleep to being brought into a medieval castle.

Damn the wench. She was supposed to be nervous and show some signs of fear and discomfort. No woman was this content with silence. Marcus grudgingly approved of her for staying strong. However, a part of him wanted to see her writhing.

Beneath me in my bed.

He jerked and glowered. Where had that thought come from? Marcus did his best to ignore the fact that his body was responding to her in ways that it shouldn’t have been. Should it? He was extremely glad he was sitting, so she couldn’t see the state he was in. I am like a young lad faced with my first woman. She is nothing special. Yet, still, he hungrily absorbed the vision she presented.

Trim but definitely not little; perhaps, fit would be a better word. Her hair was short and tightly curled. It looked puffy and gleamed. When he had her on his horse, he’d smelled something subtle. Fresh. Unique. The cut of her hair showed her neck, unlike women he knew who covered their hair and neck. Her height indicative of how she would fit nicely under his chin.

Eyes that were a steely gray currently were calm as they observed, straightforward, him in return. There was intelligence and suspicion lingering in their depths. Her smooth, healthy skin shone a darker tan, creating a magnificent background for her dazzling white, even teeth. Her nose was petite and slightly flat. She had full lips that just cried out to be kissed. She was, in a word, exotic. Very much so. Very alluring. Thick dark lashes framed her eyes, giving her a hooded sensual gaze without even trying. His cock pushed against his braies even more.

“What are you doing here, Katrina Lawson?” Marcus finally broke the silence, stopping the direction of his thoughts. “Where do you come from? What is your purpose here, and how is it you travel with no escort?”

He would discover the truth. She would answer all his questions, and that would be that. In no way would he allow her to realize the effect her appearance had on his body.

She leaned back in the chair with a small shake of her head, appearing completely comfortable with her surroundings. “Look, last thing I knew I was falling asleep in the mountains by my home. I’m from Wyoming. You know, the United States. Where am I, and how did you get here? Although I’m getting a horrible feeling that I’m the one who has been misplaced.” She spoke that last sentence so quietly he almost didn’t hear it.

She may truly well be insane. And, perhaps, she’s not as calm as she is letting on. “What means this Why-ohm-in? What are these United States? I do not understand what they are. Explain. Why were you sleeping by a stream? Have you no home?”

She lifted an eyebrow in his direction. “They are states, you know, as in the fifty states? America? Land of the free, home of the brave. That United States. That’s where I’m from. I was out camping; that’s why I was by the stream. Just like I said, I was doing that near my home. Let me ask you something, now. Can you tell me where I am? And, what year is it?” She worried her hands, and her lip, she rolled in her teeth.

“This is England. It is the year of our Lord eleven hundred and three.”