Bewitching the Knight: (A Medieval Time Travel Romance) by Diane Darcy Page A

“You’re too used to the king’s court.”
    Ian met Dugald’s ironic gaze as the man cleaned under his fingernails with his blade on the far side of the table. He was well aware Dugald thought this place more of a viper’s nest than even the king’s court. “If I wasn’t, I dare say I’d be dead already.”
    Her brows drew together. “Perhaps when the last dog died, the food was simply spoiled?”
    Ian wanted to laugh. She clearly did not wish to think unkindly of another. “Spoiled food doesna act so quickly. I appreciate that one as tender of heart as you could not understand the dark intents of others, but believe me, I’ve seen enough of the world that I no longer doubt the lengths some will go to in order to achieve their own ends.”
    She still looked distressed. Perhaps he shouldn’t put so much effort into disillusioning her. He liked her as she was. Sweet, loving, and untainted by the schemes of others.
    He waited a few moments more, then, when the dog didn’t die, he finally took a bite of beef and cabbage. He barely kept himself from moaning aloud as the flavors melded against his tongue. So much better than the apples.
    She watched him, a pleased expression on her face, while he chewed and swallowed. “There, then. That’s better.” She took up her tapestry and needle. “How are you doing this day? Is there aught I can help wi’?”
    He sincerely doubted she wished to count stores, chop wood, or train men, though she might enjoy helping him with his latest hiding place as she alone seemed to appreciate the hard-won gold he’d brought with him. “Thank you for your kind offer, but ye’ve your own work to occupy you, and grateful I am for your skill at running the castle.”
    Her gaze dropped, and she looked pleased.
    Besides, he didn’t wish her involved in his main task of working out who the possible assassin could be. Especially as her own son still topped the list. If not Brecken, it could be anyone, could it not? And perhaps for reasons he was unable to fathom. For all he knew, it might be the lot of them, every man, woman, and child in the castle or the village beyond.
    She lowered the tapestry again. “You’re scowling. Is the food not to your liking?”
    “It’s good.” He took another bite. He might even think to suspect Janetta, if the idea weren’t so ludicrous. She was Brecken’s mother, after all. Ian’s father’s sister. But she was the only one he did trust to keep him alive. When he’d arrived so unexpectedly by the king’s command, she’d admitted her son wasn’t ready for such responsibility as Laird, and that Ian could teach him much. He’d seen the relief in her eyes.
    “Weel, keep eating. When you’re finished, I’ll bring more.” Janetta plied her needle through linen. “You’re decreasing to skin and bones.”
    He pulled his plate forward and took another spoonful when the front door was thrown wide and a young boy came running into the hall.
    “There’s a witch in the village! And they’re to burn her in the square. Hurry, or ye’ll miss it entirely.” The boy, having delivered his message, scurried back out.
    Every eye in the hall turned toward Ian as he stood so fast his chair overturned and crashed to the floor. He grabbed an ax off the wall and ran out the door—heat, anger, and violence surging inside him until he saw red. He tore down the road, a well-armed Dugald at his heels.
    They thought to burn a woman in his village? On his watch? Right beneath his very nose? Not while he yet lived and breathed. He was sick of the superstitious lot of them, and now they’d gone too far. Burn a woman in the very location of his own mother’s murder? After he’d recently erected a monument to honor her? While his people, who should and did know better, looked on? Had another priest sneaked into the village without his knowledge?
    He should send the craven lot of them straight to Satan’s dark realms. If so much as the hem of the woman’s skirt