Page 11 of Beloved Enemy
Standing before her was a man who looked every inch the killer he’d just proven to be, with a muscular build and a rugged, almost feral demeanor. Long dark hair, wild and unkempt, surrounded a face that seemed carved from stone. Scars crisscrossed his tanned skin. His hazel gaze was severe, seeming to pierce through her, colder than the frost that had seeped into her bones overnight. His presence was overpowering, his current silence more menacing than any shout.
The man's features were striking, handsome in a brutal sort of way, with a strong jawline and several days’ worth of stubble that added to his formidable appearance. He wore a plaid cloak, tattered and stained, draped over broad shoulders. His clothes, though practical and worn, spoke of a time and place far removed from her own, adding to the surreal and terrifying nature of the last twenty-four hours. As he stood there, his hand still gripping the bloody sword, he seemed every bit the embodiment of a warrior from a bygone era.
Which once again raised questions she’d been avoiding since she’d been taken by those other nitwits: what the hell was happening? Where was she? And Christ, what year was it in this nightmare?
“Please,” Charlotte begged, her fear only increased despite the fact that he seemed just as wary of her as she was of him, “Idon’t know what’s happening or why you killed those guys. But I won’t say anything. I promise. Can you just...can you just let me go?” She winced at the sound of her own voice, plaintive and hopeless, as if she expected him to deny her request.
“Ye are a witch,” he repeated, this time as a statement.
His voice was rich and gravelly, nearly sexy, but it did nothing to dispel any of her huge fright.
Unable to help herself, she groaned her frustration. “No. I’m not a witch. Why does everyone keep thinking that?” She picked up the amulet and held it out. “Is it this thing? Those other guys kept staring at it as well, like it was going to leap off my neck and attack them.”
The man’s fist tightened around the hilt of his sword, and he snarled a bit as he took yet another step backward.
Admittedly, the pendant had served a valuable purpose. As it had freaked out her previous captors so much, she’d begun to use it to her advantage, as a talisman. It hadn’t long been hot to the touch and so when she was forced from the horse yesterday after many hours in the saddle and meant to be dragged somewhere—to her death, she’d horrifically presumed—she’d taken hold of the metal-encased stone and held it away from her neck, her manner threatening even as her knees had quaked. She might as well have been pointing a gun at them, given how they’d recoiled in fear.
It hadn’t saved her completely, though. Obviously, she’d not been set free, and her hands had remained tied, but she’d been left untouched, generally unharmed, if one discounted fright as causing damage to her.
Charlotte expected the horror to have lasting effects, presuming she’d have nightmares for weeks if not years.
This man, too, showed caution toward the stupid necklace, but Charlotte had larger concerns.
“Why does it look like I’m suddenly in the middle ages?” She asked. “Why is everyone riding horses? And God,” she whimpered, “kidnapping and killing people! Where’s the trails? And Achintee House? Where are the roads down there? Civilization?” Nothing was familiar, and nothing had been since she’d been abducted by those—“Oh, my God,” she cried pitifully, sinking to her knees, “those men are dead. People aredead.” She glanced up at the powerful man. “Are you like, vigilantes or something?”
She’d thought he’d been wearing a scowl since he’d caught her and turned her around, but she was mistaken. Now, he scowled, his brows dropping, his gaze darkening, his lip curling. Holy shit, he was terrifying.
“They fired uponus,” he snapped at her in thickly accented English. “Invited death.”
So simple a statement. So fierce his attitude. So fantastic his mentality.
“How about running away from...” she let that trail off. No, this man did not run from danger. Something about his manner, his demeanor, how easily he killed, advised that this man did not run from anything. The very essence of fearlessness radiated from him, making it painfully clear that retreat was not in his nature.
Her shoulders slumped. Above and beyond all the chaos and confusion tormenting her, she wanted to know what came next. “Are you going to kill me?”
Those cold hazel eyes narrowed. “Do ye need killing?”
“What? No! Why would I—I haven’t done anything,” she argued in a high-pitched, desperate voice. “I didn’t need kidnapping either. Please tell me—”
“Cana witch be killed?” He asked.
Gritting her teeth, Charlotte pounded her joined hands onto her bent legs. “I am not a witch,” she ground out. “I onlybought the necklace at the market yesterday—actually, I didn’t even buy it. The woman just gave it to me—she was weird about it, insisting that I take it. I didn’t steal it,” she thought to add, wondering if that was a concern.
Feeling entirely too vulnerable, or rather greatly more defenseless on her knees, Charlotte got to her feet.
At that moment, she noticed sounds coming from the trees that climbed up the hill. It wouldn’t be until later that she realized how little sense it made, but in the moment, fear rising again, she ducked behind the imposing figure of the man as more people emerged onto the long plateau of uneven, jagged rock.
More men, none of them looking as fierce as the one behind which she hid but frightening all the same. Whereas her captors of yesterday had seemed an inept bunch of miscreants, these men appeared more brutal in demeanor, more competent as far as willingness to kill went.
The big man blocking her view did not move even as the ones who came were clearly curious about her. Even as they spoke, they tried to get a better look at her, shifting their positions, angling their heads to one side.
One of the men, a tall man with a scar on his cheek, spoke rapidly in a language she did not recognize, his tone firm. Charlotte listened, straining to catch any familiar words, but the language was completely alien to her.
The hazel-eyed man nodded and tossed his thumb over his shoulder as he responded, clearly talking about her. Having no idea what he was saying either, Charlotte gauged the reaction to his words. Four men stood in front of her and the big man, listening. Their eyes widened at one point, and then darkened, fixing on Charlotte with scalding displeasure.
“Are you telling them that I’m a witch?” She objected.
“Bluidy hell,” grumbled one of the men in broken English. “What kind of English is that?”
