Page 2 of Beloved Enemy
With each passing moment, as the weight of Marcus’s glare grew heavier, the last of the witch’s optimism faltered.
Finally, Marcus turned toward Reid, dismissing the witch as he said, “I dinna ken who this is. Do what ye will.”
The witch fell forward, her hands reaching out to the cold stone floor, looking for all the world as one bereft of hope.
“I’ll thank ye nae to waste my time on such drivel ever again,” Marcus growled to Reid.
He pivoted and strode angrily toward the door.
Before he exited, the witch cried out desperately, her voice breaking, “Your grandfather used to tell you tales of dragons. He said he fought with them. You might have believed him as a child but then you kind of questioned why you never challenged him on those implausible tales.”
She picked up her head, turning her face toward him.
Marcus stopped at the door, the shadow of his imposing figure silhouetted against the bright light outside.
Knowing she had his attention, the witch threw more words at him with some attempt to make Marcus acknowledge that he did, indeed, know her.
“You were engaged—betrothed,” she said, “to Ysabella and then Agnes and then Miriam. You might have been in love with Miriam but when she betrayed you, you convinced yourself that you were not.”
Reid turned his frown upon Marcus, knowing these words to be true, even though Marcus never had admitted any grand affection for Miriam.
Marcus turned and snarled at the woman, likely as perplexed as he was furious with what he might think was only witch’s magic.
She pushed herself to her feet, her bonny face twisted with her own annoyance. Because Marcus would not acknowledge her?
“Aelred has only one hand and Osgar is sometimes called a goblin by Gibbon,” she said urgently, referencing some of Marcus’s soldiers. “Eadric has a limp, one he was born with. He lost his inheritance due to his perceived weakness.”
Marcus stomped toward her as she spoke of men in the McInnes army. “By my oath, woman, I will nae hear of—”
“You have a scar on the top of your right shoulder,” she rushed out, with an outrageous lack of fear. “It’s shaped like a comma,” she said, holding up her hand, curling her forefinger a bit. “It’s one of dozens on your body.” She wept. “I stroked it with my fingers. You said it brought you peace.”
Marcus stopped within a foot of her, his scowl as dark as Reid had ever seen.
The woman was not cowed, but stiffened her spine and met his gaze.
They both went very still, silently seething at each other.
“Who the bluidy hell are ye?” Marcus asked.
“I am Autumn, and you are in love with me,” she whispered to him. “I saw it on your face, before I was ripped from your arms.”
Marcus’s expression advised that though he conceded nothing, he was beginning to question everything.
“I dinna ken ye, nae at all,” he said gruffly. There was a question in his ragged tone, asking how she knew so much about him.
“We loved in another time that is not yet...lived. I begged you not to let me go,” she said, her voice very small now, difficult to hear.
Reid came around the table, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“I begged you to find me,” the witch continued. “You were as afraid as I was, and you said,When? Where?You promised you would find me.”
Bluidy hell, but it looked as if Marcus was beginning to waver, to doubt his own recollection.
As were the dozens of witnesses, Reid was overwhelmed by confusion, provoked for the most part by Marcus’s sudden uncertainty.
“I...I dinna—I ken nothing of that. I’m sorry, lass.” And he looked it, too, like he really was sorry that he couldn’t trust her.
“Marcus,” she said, “I won’t touch you. I’m not a witch. I can’t hurt you.” She lifted her hand between them. “But just take my hand. You’ll see.”
