The Very Thought of You Read online

  "And you're a fool."

  He shrugged. "Maybe so. But I'm not blind."

  She had to leave before the last remaining shreds of reasoning she possessed slipped away from her. Saints, this was a danger she had never anticipated. No man had ever looked at her thusly. Or perhaps they had, and she hadn't been interested enough to notice. Obviously Alex was not a man who found himself ignored very often.

  "If you've nothing better to speak than empty words," she said, grasping for something to say, ' 'then I will leave you."

  He stood up suddenly. "Let's go walk. I think better when I'm on my feet."

  Before she could even open her mouth to agree, for she, too, thought better while moving, he had pulled her up and was towing her toward the door.

  "Which way out?" he asked.

  "Left. Down the stairs."

  She found herself following him—likely because he had hold of her hand and seemed determined not to let go. Margaret was overwhelmed enough by the sensation to let him lead her where he willed it. His hand was warm and secure around hers. As she walked next to him across the great hall, she felt for the first time in years that she might not be ungainly. Alex was at least a hand taller than she. It was an amazing thing to have to look up to meet his eyes.

  He was also broader than she, even with her mail on. It was the most ridiculous thing she'd ever experienced, but she actually felt fragile. Protectable. By the saints, it was a pleasurable feeling! To feel as if she could actually lay aside the burden of being the defender, even just for a few moments.

  "—outside the gates?"

  She looked up at him. ''Forgive me. You were saying?'' What had he been saying? Had he been speaking this entire time?

  There went that infuriating grin again. Margaret scowled up at him, but he only laughed.

  "My, my, but we are distracted," he said.

  "I have a stone in my boot."

  "I'll help you take it out—"

  " 'Tis none of your concern," she said, backing away from him. She didn't back far. He wouldn't let go of her hand.

  He smiled. "I asked if we could walk outside the gates. Is your sword enough, or should I call for another guard for you?"

  "I could have a sword fetched for you." Surely with arms like that, he could wield a sword with ease.

  He shook his head. "No swords for me, Madam Shield-maiden."

  "Then you cannot wield one?"

  "Can, but won't. It's a long story. Now, shall we go?"

  "I have time to hear the tale," she said, digging in her heels.

  "You may have the time, but I don't have the desire. Maybe I'll tell you over supper some night. Now, let's go."

  Stubborn man. Margaret vowed she would have the tale when she so pleased. Perhaps later. When she was less distracted.

  She walked with Alex out through the gatehouse and across the drawbridge. She felt her men staring at her and knew she was blushing furiously, but she could do nothing about it. Alex didn't seem inclined to release her hand, nor was she inclined to pull it away. She liked very much how it felt there.

  Alex stopped at the top of the road that wound down the hill. He looked out over her lands, then turned and smiled at her.

  "Your land is beautiful."

  She had to agree. The keep was perched on a hill in the midst of other rolling hills, though the others were not so tall. The land was rich and lush. Her fields were productive. Her serfs were well-fed and, for the most part, contented. She worked hard to see them protected and treated fairly.

  The late-winter sun came out from behind a cloud and shone down on the fields. Planting would begin soon enough. Spring was her favorite time of year. She loved to see things grow.

  But all that would cease if Brackwald had anything to do with anything of hers. She sighed deeply. Her holdings would look as wretched as his did inside a pair of years. The man had no head for managing farmland. His peasants were half-starved and ill-treated. He used the soil 'til it could bear no more, then continued to plant. She shook her head. Nay, she could not allow Brackwald to have this beauty before her.

  Alex let go of her hand, walked away a few paces, then returned. He stared out over her fields, rubbed his jaw with his hand, then took to pacing again.

  He stopped suddenly, and turned to look at her.

  "The king has seen your lands, hasn't he?"

  She nodded.

  "Hmmm." He walked away again, then came back. "How does he feel about Ralf?"

  She shrugged. ' 'I know not. Brackwald is loyal enough to him to have sent the king gold for his crusades, though unwilling to go himself. He seems very thick with the prince, but that is likely something he will have hidden from the king. Not that it matters. The gold means a great deal."

  "You lost your brothers crusading, didn't you?"

  She looked away. "Aye. I have no love of it. Holy wars I do not understand."

  She felt Alex take her hand again. "I'm sorry, Margaret. It has to have been hard this past year, doing all this on your own."

  She looked at him, wondering where he'd learned that. "Did Edward tell you as much?"

  Alex nodded. ' 'He said that your father had just recently passed away and that you've been keeping things going since then."

  She felt a strange sense of relief that she had managed to fool the rest of England for so long. And along with that sense of relief was another, more foreign desire to inform Alex how long she'd been at the helm just to see how he would react. Would he be impressed? There was only one way to know.

  "My father died ten years ago."

  His jaw went slack. "You're kidding."

  Margaret looked up at him and frowned. "Kidding?"

  He looked stunned. "It means to jest. You can't be serious. You've kept this keep running for ten years? Alone?"

  "Who else would do it?"

  "Oh, Margaret, honey," he said, squeezing her hand. He looked at her and shook his head. "I'm so sorry," he said gently. "I can't imagine what you've gone through. It must have been very hard."

  He sounded so sorry for her that she found herself feeling the same way. By the saints, it had been difficult. She had rarely let herself dwell on just how dangerous a thing it was she did. If the crown had ever learned of her subterfuge, she likely would have been hanged for it.

  For the first time ever, she felt tears begin, tears of fear and sorrow. Saints above, she hadn't cried when her family had died. And she had certainly never wept from the burden she'd carried. But to do so now, some ten years later? It was madness.

  The next thing she knew, she had been gathered against a solid chest and wrapped in Alex's strong arms. That she could have borne. But when she felt his hand skimming over her hair, reason fled and she wept in earnest. She clung to him and bawled like a child. She wept for her father, who had done the best he could with a girl-child he hadn't known how to raise. She wept for her mother who had died giving her life. She wept for brothers who had teased her and loved her.

  And she wept for herself. For the childhood she hadn't had. For the husband she would never have. For the exquisitely comforting embrace she enjoyed at present, but which she knew she could not keep. Saints above, if she'd had any idea her foolish plan to kidnap Edward of Brackwald would have gone this awry, she would have agreed to wed Ralf months ago!

  She pulled away. It fair killed her to do so, but she knew she couldn't remain. She dragged her sleeve across her face and turned away. There was no sense in humiliating herself further by having Alex see her in this state.

  "Forgive me," she said in a choked voice. "It has been a most trying day."

  She felt hands on her shoulders. Alex turned her back around and, despite herself, she allowed it. She looked up into his eyes and almost started to weep again. That wouldn't do. She straightened her spine.

  "Aye?" she asked, trying to sound curt.

  He only smiled. He brushed away her remaining tears with his thumbs.

  "You've had to do it all by yourself for so lon
g," he said gently. "Will you let me help? Just this once?"

  "What can you do?" she whispered.

  "I'll think of something." He took her hand. "For now, let's just send Ralf's messenger back to tell him that I'm here as your guest. Ralf will make of it what he will, but it will buy us some more time to think of a better plan."

  "I suppose," she said slowly. "He will of course think I'm lying."

  "Let him. He'll send someone else to investigate, and by then we'll have a better plan in place. Let's go back home and at least do this much. We'll worry about the rest later."

  And Margaret, who never let herself be led, never followed orders, and certainly never intended that any man should control her life, found herself walking back to her keep with her hand in a stranger's, feeling more at peace than she had in years. No matter that his garments were the strangest she had ever seen. No matter that his speech was a convoluted tangle of foreign tongues. No matter that he was the most handsome man she had clapped eyes on in all her score and five years.

  His shoulders were broad. Surely they could accept some of her burden for a few hours. But only for a few hours. It had been a most trying day and she wasn't at her best. Soon she would feel more herself and those broad shoulders wouldn't seem so appealing.

  Alex smiled down at her.

  Margaret flinched. She would also have to invent a way to become impervious to that smile.

  She felt him lace his fingers with hers and sighed deep within her soul. This would be more difficult. No one had ever warned her what a devastating impact holding hands with a man could have on a woman's sensibility. She would have to give that more consideration later.

  For now, all she could bring herself to do was smile back up at him.

  By the saints, she was fast losing her wits!

  And, more distressingly, she was enjoying it!

  Seven

  A week later alex stood in william of Falconberg's bedroom, cinching a leather belt around his waist. Margaret had given him her father's clothes without comment; he could only assume it didn't bother her. He had stashed his leather jacket in a trunk by the bed, hoping it would remain undisturbed. He was tempted to destroy it just to be safe, but it was his favorite coat—the only one he'd ever been able to keep from finding its way into his sister's closet. At least he'd managed to forget his wallet back in the twentieth century. Heaven only knew what the maids would think if they found that while cleaning.

  He took one last look around, then left the room, pulling the door shut behind him. The plan was now in place and he hoped it worked out. Ralf had held true to form and sent another messenger to find out just what was going on. Margaret had sent the second man back with much the same story. Alex was hoping it would keep Ralf distracted long enough for Edward to sneak out of the keep.

  Sir George had found a bribable guard at Brackwald who had delivered a request to Edward to meet Alex at a predetermined place for a little tete-a-tete. After giving it a great deal of thought, Alex had come to the conclusion that the only way to keep Ralf out of Margaret's hair was to convince Richard that wedding her to Ralf would ruin a very profitable estate. Richard, being Richard, would hopefully see the monetary impact on his tax-collection efforts and decide maybe Ralf wasn't such a great choice.

  What Alex hadn't said to Margaret, however, was the other item of business on his agenda. Even though Ralf was slime, Edward was actually very nice. Much as his nineties guy mentality balked at the idea, he knew Margaret would need at least a husband's name to use as a front. And if she had to marry someone eventually, well, why not someone nice, like Edward?

  But somehow now he just wasn't as enthusiastic about the idea as he had been the night before.

  He walked down the hallway to the stairs before he could give that any more thought. He brushed the stone of the walls lightly with his fingers. It was a wonder he hadn't gotten claustrophobia before now. Modern man was very spoiled with their spacious hallways and graceful, straight stairs. Alex maneuvered himself down the tight, spiral staircase, uncomfortably aware that he was clearing the sides by only a couple of inches and that he was definitely having to duck not to hit his head.

  That was another thing. Medieval man had been shorter, from what he had seen. It was no wonder Margaret was so self-conscious about her height. He considered her only a few inches above average but the rest of the household no doubt thought her a giant. Maybe she had Viking blood in her. He smiled at the thought. Somehow he had no trouble envisioning her at the helm of a Viking warship, bellowing for her comrades to pull harder at the oars so they could land and conquer that much more quickly.

  He rounded the last corner and breathed a sigh of relief to be out in the great hall, away from those uncomfortably steep stairs. Man was not meant to tread those kinds of steps in hiking boots. Maybe Margaret's counterparts had smaller feet, too.

  The hall was empty except for an old man dragging a stool toward the hearth. He didn't look like anyone from the kitchen, so Alex didn't spare him much thought. What he wanted was breakfast, and the sooner the better.

  He walked across the back of the hall and stopped at an opening in the wall. It seemed to lead down a short passageway to another room. Alex closed his eyes and sniffed deeply. Yes, definitely the kitchen. He started down the passageway, already salivating at the smell. Maybe he could just pull up a stool to the worktable and sample a little bit of everything. He hesitated, wondering if he should have brought some sort of offering for Margaret's cook. A man couldn't go wrong with a bouquet of flowers.

  Alex stumbled suddenly, courtesy of a shove in his back. He threw out his hand to catch himself against the wall.

  "What the—" he began.

  "Beg yer pardon, m'lord," a boy gasped out, slipping past him and bolting for the kitchen. ' 'I must tell the others!"

  "Tell them what?" Alex asked with a frown. He pushed himself away from the wall. Maybe the kid knew something—such as the fact that the last call for breakfast might just have been sounded. Alex was ready to start sprinting himself.

  He entered the kitchen only to find everyone going the wrong way—away from the pots and kettles. Young boys and girls, kitchen help by the look of their food-smeared shirts, scurried past him. It was the sight of Margaret's cook coming toward him, however, that worried him the most.

  "Good woman," he began with his best smile, "if you would be so kind—"

  "No time, my lord," Cook said, shooing him out of her way.

  "But—"

  "Not now," she said, setting him aside bodily and hastening down the passageway. "The tapestries must be saved!"

  "The tapestries?" Alex echoed. What possible tapestry mishap could be more important than fulfilling a culinary duty, especially when he was feeling so faint from hunger? He paused and sniffed carefully in the direction of the hall. The smell of smoke was no more pervasive than it had been when he'd been there a moment ago, and he certainly hadn't seen any wall hangings on fire.

  Well, whatever Cook and her helpers had gone to check on couldn't possibly need more manpower than they could provide by themselves. Alex looked at the kitchen, then shrugged. If there wasn't anyone here to help him, he'd just help himself. He poked around the tables, then polished off a couple of apples, a hunk of bread, and cheese that was starting to go a little green around the edges. It was nothing he wouldn't have found in his own refrigerator, so he didn't think too much of it.

  There was a kettle of porridge sitting off the fire looking somewhat abandoned, so Alex made himself at home in front of it. He helped himself to a couple of bowls, then poured himself a generous mug of ale. Once he'd quenched his thirst, he stood and stretched. At least he could now be chivalrous on a full stomach. And the sooner he did his good deed, the sooner he could get home. The sooner the better, as far as Fiona MacAllister was concerned.

  Though, compared to Margaret, Fiona was starting to look much less interesting.

  "Don't even go there," he warned himself.

 
; The last thing he needed was to start looking at Margaret as anything but a rescue project. To help her was the reason he'd been plopped back in the Middle Ages; he wasn't here to date her.

  He ambled out into the great hall and paused at the sight that greeted his eyes. Most of Margaret's household seemed to be gathered over by the hearth in the far wall, watching something. What were they up to? A morning battle ritual of some kind?

  He'd had a look at the keep the night before—his first night of freedom—but things were much clearer in the light of day. Margaret's hall was comfortable and tidy, and the furnishings were well-made and seemingly well-cared-for. Alex looked at the wall hanging he currently stood near and ran his fingers over the stitches. Then he frowned.

  The bottom of the piece was hanging in tatters. It was completely at odds with the rest of the hall, and he wondered if Margaret had a serious rat problem.

  He strolled across the floor and stopped next to the lady in question.

  "What's up?" he asked.

  The group, as one, whirled on him, shushing him. Margaret clapped her hand over his mouth.

  "Don't interrupt him," she whispered frantically. "He's well into today's offering."

  Alex looked over her fingers at the old man standing atop his stool. He pulled Margaret's hand away.

  "Who's that?" he whispered.

  "Baldric, my sire's bard."

  Alex looked at Baldric the Bard and found himself being regarded with a look that made him back up a pace. Alex smiled weakly and clamped his lips shut.

  "Ahem," Baldric said, thrusting out his chin and causing his beard to bristle up like a cat's tail. "Where was I? Oh, no matter. I'll begin again."

  Alex could have sworn he heard the audience groan under its breath, and he smiled. How bad could this guy be?

  There once was an ogre from Kent,

  Who found that his waistcoat was rent.

  He searched high and low

  for a needle to sew,

  As he fancied himself a fine gent.

  Alex gaped. A limerick? He was listening to a limerick in 1194? He could hardly believe his ears. But no one around him seemed to find it out of the ordinary. They were all listening intently.