When he saw her stepping forward from his right, he almost let out a sigh of relief, but he held it in.
“My name is Kestrel L—”
“What is this?” another mounted rider asked. It was one of the men he’d seen earlier. Nicholas was thankful he’d come back for her.
Five more men rode forward, brandishing swords. They all pointed them at Nicholas.
“What strange attire you wear,” the leader remarked on a snarl as he approached her. “But it will not matter when I strip you out of it.”
“I’d rather be dead,” she said, sounding as if she were close to it. “And if I’m stuck here, that’s certainly the better alternative.”
“Back away from her before I kill you all,” Nicholas warned them on a deadly growl.
“Are you her husband?” one of them called out.
“If I say no, will you think you have a claim on her?” Nicholas asked, watching them closely. He was weary, but he was always ready to kill some Reds, if that was what they were.
“I’m taking her whether you are her husband or not,” the leader promised with a lusty smile.
Nicholas’ breathing changed the slightest bit. His eyes burned into the leader. “And I’m going to kill you whether you surrender or not if you continue to put me in a foul mood.”
“Surrender to you?” The man tossed back his head and laughed. “Who are you but shyte on the bottom of my shoes?” He looked at the shield hanging from the back of Nicholas’ saddle. “You’re a White!”
Nicholas pulled his sword free and prepared himself to fight. “Not just any White,” he told them, slowly moving closer on his horse. “I am Sir Nicholas de Marre, Earl of Scarborough. Defender of York. I just left the battlefield, where my men and I left over a hundred Reds dead.” He held up his stained sword and snarled at them. “I would not mind killing six more.”
The leader paled. Nicholas thought he might. “I—we have no quarrel with you, Lord Scarborough.”
“Then what are you still doing here?” Nicholas asked.
He wasn’t always so merciful, but the woman…Kestrel—an odd name, just like the rest of her—had seen enough death for one day. He did nothing when the six of them took off running.
Alone with her, he held out his hand. “You cannot remain alone.”
She stared at him. “Your name struck fear into them. Are you famous?”
He shrugged and waved his hand at her. Elia was going to kill him for bringing the waif home.
“You said you were aWhiteand a defender of York? You…you were killing Reds?”
“That is correct, Miss.” He put his hand into his lap. “I can only hope that the blood draining from your face is the result of fear and the belief that you have traveled over five hundred years into the past, and not because you are a Red.”
Her huge eyes rounded. “A Red? No. Do you see a red rose badge on me anywhere?”
He raked his gaze over her and shook his head, relieved that she wasn’t his enemy.
“Do you still insist that you have come back in time from the future?” He was hoping she’d had a change of thought.
“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked looking up at him on his horse. “It’s the truth.”
Her eyes were bloodshot from crying. Somehow, they appeared even bluer.
“A truth,” he countered stiffly, “that could see you tied to a stake.”
She gasped and reached for his horse’s bridle. “Burned?”
“Where did you come from?” he asked. Was she a witch? Would she tell him if she was?
“I…fell and hit my head. I don’t remember where I come from.”