Chapter Nine

He fashioned hell for the inquisitive.

~Augustine of Hippo

Marcus paused, unsure of what to make of the woman he’d run across this morning. His whole life had turned upside down in the span of a few hours. She didn’t breakdown but she’d expressed gratitude for the room. Not what he expected, at all. Though, in the short time that he had met her, she had done nothing at all to his expectations.

She spoke strange words, wore stranger attire and wasn’t visibly scared of him. She didn’t scream like most women over the fact she was captured, and she didn’t try to get her way with feminine flirtation or tears. She didn’t even think that she was captured; she had the audacity to demand to be let out of the castle to look for her friend, her male friend, damn it. Once in his room, he’d sat on one of his chairs, not expecting her to be ready for quite a while. He’d redressed into something a little cleaner and sat back down.

And, now, she stood in his room, appearing unconcerned by the fact his room was so dark and it was just the two of them. In fact, all she did was stare and cock an eyebrow at him.

Marcus was astonished she’d ignored his order to dress appropriately. He didn’t think she had time to do much of anything and he understood why. Then, he really looked at her. His mouth grew dry, and his braises became tight. Again.

She wore more of the same kind of leggings, just blue, and they stuck to her a little more, outlining her nicely formed legs. Along with what was at the juncture of them. She still wore the same sleeveless jerkin that showed the whole of her arms and the firm muscles in them. No softness in her. She was a true warrior woman.

“What are you wearing?” he demanded after clearing his throat and gripping the arm of his chair.

She scowled and crossed her arms. “Clothes. I only have three sets with me. Are we going or not?”

“That is not what women wear. When you are properly attired, we will go.” He gestured at her, upset at his visceral reaction to her.

“Excuse me, but this is what we wear where I am from, and since I don’t have anything else”—she shrugged—“this is going to have to do.” Her defensive stance alone brought his wandering eyes to her full breasts.

That was the problem. His and what could become everyone else’s if she walked out like that. It was the way her clothes molded themselves to her body. They hid nothing. Up until now, there had been nothing provocative about them, and yet, they were extremely stimulating.

“We will have some made up for you. That will do for today, only.” He nodded once, as if he had given her the momentous gift of allowing her to wear her own clothes. Marcus accepted that he wouldn’t be able to function with her wearing those kinds of clothes. Against his better judgment to order a seamstress to make something for her, now, he just enjoyed the sight of her body.

Without comment, although the eyeroll spoke volumes, Kit opened his bedroom door and left. He followed immediately. While he shut his door, he gestured for her to precede him down the hall. Clarissa stood there, shooting daggers at her with her gaze. Kit flicked her glance over Clarissa in a dismissive way, straightened her shoulders and headed off down the hall. Marcus knew this tension between them would present a problem.

Marcus noted, with a hint of smugness, the look of anger on Clarissa’s face when she saw them coming out of his bedroom. He understood she was after him for his money and his title. Marcus was well aware of how much he had and what her goal was. Since she knew he needed a wife she seemed to have permanently placed herself at his holdings. He was, however, getting weary of her treatment of his servants and the villagers alike.

His gaze drifted back to the strange woman in front of him, and he wondered what her plan was. Her anxiousness to get outside, obvious. Her stride, while much shorter than his, still ate up the ground, and he found himself not having to slow himself overly much for a woman for once in his life. It had a nice feel to it. She strode like a man, but even her less than feminine walk couldn’t take away the erotic sway of her hips. Nor could the fact her derrière enclosed in her odd garb moved with hypnotic grace. It snared his attention, and everyone else’s that they passed. This woman was going to be trouble.

As they returned to the great hall by way of passing the solar, she cast a glance at him over her shoulder, raising a brow. Her question shone plainly. Where to, first?

He stalked around her, needing to see something other than her firm, not fleshy, backside encased in tight material. With a singular jerk, he pulled open the doors of the keep and headed outside. Without so much as a glance behind him, he knew how close she was. He halted at the top of the stairs, not quite sure where to take her, first.

Was she guest? Prisoner? Why am I, the lord of the keep, showing her around?

He had told Clarissa and Roger that Kit wasn’t a prisoner, despite the fact he wasn’t sure how he would classify her. She stepped up beside him, and he looked at her as she took in the grounds of his keep. All familiar to him and sights and sounds of everyday. Servant children ran and played with wooden swords as dogs chased them, barking with joy.

Marcus studied her expression, spying only interest, no desire to go back in. She advanced forward and trudged down the stairs where she pivoted, turned her hands up at her sides and shrugged. She’s impatient to begin.

His mouth began to curve into a smile, and he had to concentrate in order for it not to do so. He wasn’t a man who smiled often.

Hard. That was the descriptor used for him. Along with a few others.

Cold.

Even fair.

But never smiling, or fun-loving.

It was an odd feeling, this one of satisfaction. Satisfaction of sharing his keep with someone who looked forward to seeing it. One who didn’t view it as a chore. Or someone who strove to make him believe it wasn’t with the sole purpose of impressing him. Only because they wanted to see and enjoy it. For a moment, as he observed her as she gazed about his keep, he forgot where she came from as well as the numerous reasons for her being in his presence.

Kit searched her memory for those numerous history lessons. This, right here, was something out of a book. Better, almost, for the experience. She’d always enjoyed renaissance festivals, but this took the cake, so to speak. Being how she wanted to see what things were like during medieval times. Might as well make the best of it since she wasn’t going anywhere until she found Ares, anyway. Assuming she did reunite with him, there was no one hundred percent they were getting out of here and back to her time. Big difference with fairs. I knew I was heading home at the end of the day. There is no guarantee, now.

Who knew? Maybe she could pick up a new language or hear some of hers spoken like they used to be. Never one to back down from an adventure, Kit consciously made the decision she was too intrigued to be properly scared. Once she maneuvered her way beyond the fear thing. She had a downright gorgeous man for a guide. She may be able to overhear some news about Ares. Or more specifically where “here” was, and then, work out a way home.

Kit peered over her shoulder at Marcus. He seemed so harsh, at least by all outward appearances. Yet, she could sense gentleness in him. It wasn’t on the surface, but for some unexplained reason, she believed it wanted—no, needed—to be set free.

Not quite sure what he wanted with her or what her fate could be, she decided to play nice. No reason in ending up dead or in a dungeon. I have that room; may as well keep it. His eyes longed for something that she couldn’t quite place. His people appeared content, so he couldn’t be an evil man. Then, again, what the fuck do I know about him? The keep was cleaner outside than in. The inside could use some elbow grease. She shuddered slightly. Lots of elbow grease.

As they walked, Kit ran over all she currently knew. The woman he’d called Clarissa seemed to be the lady of the castle. Or she angled to become so. If she is the one in charge, she’s very lazy and not up on the cleaning. Granted, I know it’s harder to keep things cleaner, now, but…still. Okay, perhaps, it’s not my place to judge.

Marcus would give off a much gentler appearance if he would shave. In my opinion. His beard and moustache made him appear much more rigid and unforgiving.

Kit looked over the space before her. It was very busy. For some reason, she’d thought it wouldn’t be. Soldiers practiced, and young boys tried to copy the movements with wooden swords. For a chaotic scene, it ran smoothly.

The neigh of a horse from the stables captured her complete attention. Ares. She recalled her saddle was still out where they’d captured her. She waited for Marcus to reach her side, unsure how to broach the subject of her saddle. She had her rifle attached to her saddle in its scabbard. Kit was wise enough to know that they did not have rifles at this time. She did not want someone else to find it and get killed.