Chapter Seven

The important thing is to never stop questioning.

~Albert Einstein

Is he shitting me? What the fuck is going on here?

Her cool façade vanished, slipping faster than a bobsled headed down its icy course. “Eleven hundred and three? England?” Her voice rose sharply. She stood with a jerk, the heavy chair skidding away behind her. “You’ve got to be kidding me! I belong in the twenty-first century, not…what is this one…the…the…the twelfth one. I’m not even on the right mother fucking continent, for cryin’ out loud!” She started pacing, heart pounding in time with her steps. Suddenly, she spun to face him. “This is a joke, right? Someone put you up to this?” Although, in her heart, she knew it wasn’t. None of her friends would have let her send Ares off a cliff. Ares. Not to mention he knew them and wouldn’t have run. Her heart cried out in pain.

Anger welled up inside her. Ares. Maybe he was hurt. “I have to go. I need to find my friend. Now!” Her voice was laced with desperation and some fear. She didn’t care. He meant so much to her. She had to find him and get home.

Twenty-first century, that phrase got Marcus’ attention. That would mean she was from nine hundred years in the future. Impossible! He may have been an open-minded man, but this was a little too much to ask even for him to believe.

He crossed his arms and told himself to stay in the chair and not approach her. “There was someone else with you? I saw no one. Who were they? What did they look like? I can send someone to look for them.”

Maybe this would be what he needed. He honestly hoped she wasn’t a spy, but one never knew. She spoke nonsense—twenty-first century, indeed. Perhaps, she was just a crazy woman who claimed strange things. He wasn’t sure where he sat with witchcraft.

Her expression closed down and grew defiant.

“You cannot be from the future. Are you a witch? You speak nonsense, woman. Are you a spy?”

She narrowed her gaze on him. “A spy? For who? Shit, I just told you where I was from. And, I obviously didn’t know when I was. I don’t need your help. I just need to go look for myself.” She settled herself back on the chair and ran her hands over her face with a moan.

“You will stay here until I get this figured out. I will provide you with a room. It is for your own safety. And, you should be grateful it is not a cell in my dungeon. Since you are only a mere woman, you do not have understanding on how dangerous the night can be.”

Flames licked at her eyes, and he almost looked down to see if he burned from the heat in her stare.

“Mere woman?” Her voice rose with indignation. “Mere woman? Where in the hell did you get that idea? This must be the blasted twelfth century because no man in their right mind would say such a thing to me.”

There wasn’t a single trace of fear left in her husky voice, and her hands gripped the arms of the chair so tightly he debated if it would leave an imprint on her palms.

Shocked, he growled low in anger. No one—no one—spoke to him in such a way. And, in addition to that error, she had the nerve to question the state of his mind. It was too much. He raised his voice in return.

“Do you dare to question my mind, wench?” His question rumbled much like a bear, gruff and low. Marcus stood, attempting to use his height to intimidate her. He placed his hands on his hips and glowered down at her with a look that would and had quelled most of the men he knew. It had no effect on this woman.

She didn’t back down. In fact, she stood, as well, and matched him glare for glare. With a slash of one hand through the air, she snapped, “I don’t give a damn who you are. Stop calling me a wench. My name, since you seem to have forgotten, is Kit.” She roared just as much as he had done, and her eyes were as hard as the stone of his castle.

“Enough,” he bellowed. “My word is law.”

The door swung open with enough force to bounce off the stone wall behind it. Roger and some other well-armed knights burst in the room weapons drawn.

Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus watched in amazement as she quickly moved to defend herself, back to the wall, the moment the door burst open, and the cries of his men reached them. The position protected her back, ensuring only a frontal attack. She held her ground and waited.

Instead of succumbing to hysterics like most females, she was prepared to put up a fight. Very admirable. He hid a grin. Foolish but admirable. She had no way to defeat trained knights. However, the look on her face said she believed she could do just that.

“Hold, men. Roger. Just a misunderstanding. I am fine. Close the door on your way out.” Marcus waved them away.

“You yelled. You never yell. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Roger questioned.

“I did not yell. I do not yell. I…we will be fine. I can handle a simple woman,” Marcus answered, a little piqued at having his decision questioned, once again, by one of his knights in front of her.

This little woman had, in fact, gotten past his defenses and made him show emotion. Roger was right; he had yelled. That was not like him. It was truly no wonder they all had come in, swords drawn.

Marcus gathered himself and looked at Kit where she stood warily by the wall. The moment the door closed them in together, once more, he beckoned to her.

“Come, sit down. We will not be disturbed, again. We have some things to get resolved.”

He was in control of the situation, not her. She would not make him lose his composure, again.

She glided from her position and yanked on the heavy chair, moving it with ease before she reclaimed the seat. “There’s nothing to get resolved. I want to go and find my friend; you said no. We’re at an impasse. My friend is my top priority. Will you let me go look for him?”

“Him?”

A sudden bolt of bitterness—unexplained and unwanted—shot through Marcus. It was a male, a male, for whom she was concerned. He didn’t like that, at all, nor how it made him feel. He knew he had no claim on this woman but realized that he would like to have a claim on her.

“If it is a man, then he should be able to take care of himself. You are not going. No more discussion on the matter. And, Katrina Lawson, you should be concerned for yourself and not some man.”

Who was this woman who would put the welfare of her friend, a male friend, before her own safety? What was he to her to have earned such devotion? More importantly, Marcus wondered what would it be like to have that type of devotion from her himself?