Page 15 of Beloved Enemy
In truth, Charlotte had no idea what questions to ask to help her understand. The very obvious ones that came to mind, if asked, might have her suspected not only of being a witch, but crazy as well. Frankly, though, at this point, she didn’t know that shehadn’tlost her mind.
She frowned presently, contemplating the whole witch thing. Why were these men so obsessed—and afraid—of the very idea? It was baffling. Who did that? Leapt to that conclusion? No one she knew would so easily make that leap, assuming a woman was a witch simply because she was different. Sure, there were stories and movies about witches, but they were fiction, pure entertainment. No one actually believed in them, let alone feared them to this extent. Yet here, it seemed the mere suggestion was enough to invoke suspicion and fear. She could see it in their eyes, the way they looked at her with a mix of curiosity and wariness.
Even as she feared she might only annoy this man with what might seem some strange questions, Charlotte gathered her courage anyway, knowing she would go crazy—if she weren’t already—if she didn’t get some answers soon.
She turned her face toward him, her gaze meeting with his broad chest.
Her eyes traced over the plaid pattern of the heavy wool fabric draped across his body, a rough-textured material that seemed practical and warm. It was woven in muted shades of green and gold and red. Beneath the wool that crossed his chest diagonally he wore a leather vest that looked padded and was stitched in a quilted style. The dark brown leather was worn and scarred, hugging his broad chest and powerful shoulders tightly, accentuating his muscular build. Straps and buckles secured the vest, so that it leaned toward a tactical design.
Her gaze traveled upward, following the strong column of his neck, where a vein flexed, and his skin was tanned and covered by several small scars and nicks. Hints of dark red were highlighted in the dark stubble of his jawline and in the darker brown hair that fell wildly just to his shoulders.
Just as it occurred to her that riding with him was so much more pleasant than that man she’d been with yesterday—thisone was blessedly warm and didn’t smell horribly—he glanced down sharply at her, glaring a bit, maybe wondering why she was staring.
“Um, I was just wondering—” she blurted, and then had to backtrack. “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
He sighed and lifted his gaze over her head, staring straight ahead. “'Tis Reid. Reid Nicholson.”
“Very good. Well, Mr. Nicholson,” she started again, “I was just wondering why you all ride horses and how...or why are you all armed with swords? Is that common here in Scotland? In the States, a lot of people like to carry guns but over here do people have a preference to swords?”
“I dinna ken yer query,” he said, a bit gruffly.
“Okay, I’m just a bit confused. Suddenly everyone is riding horses and dressed really old-fashioned, no offense, and you’re all carrying weapons, not even concealing them.”
He looked down at her, his frown increasing once again, slanting dark brows low over his light eyes.
Charlotte noticed that a scar crossed the bridge of his nose, perfectly level, and shaped like a sickle.
“How else would I get from one place to another but with a horse?” He asked. “How would I defend myself if I carried nae weapon?”
“But the clothing, the weapons, the horses, traveling as you are with what looks like a small army—good heavens, killing people so... nonchalantly—it all suggests you’re living in a time long past.”
“Long past?”
“Hundreds of years ago,” she clarified.
But he remained confused by what she was trying to ask, she guessed, judging by the now quizzical glower.
“What year is it?” She finally asked point-blank. And held her breath.
Though his reaction was subtle, Charlotte felt it, the stiffening of tension hardening the arm around her middle and surging against her back in the form of a slow and deep inhale.
He guided the horse to leap over a small chasm in the terrain, and Charlotte bounced a bit against him when the animal landed. His arm tightened even more around her, holding her in place.
But he didn’t answer her, and Charlotte’s alarm increased.
Though admittedly strange, it was a simple question.
Fear gripped her, forced now to consider what she had thought both implausible and impossible, what she had so easily dismissed even as it had stared her in the face several times since yesterday. Tears surfaced again and she faced forward, grimacing hard to stifle the huge urge to cry in earnest now.
She still refused to even consider the very idea, instead choosing to believe she’d simply lost her mind, believing that a preferable alternative. Her shoulders shook as she struggled not to cry. It took her several minutes—in which time he said not a word—before she felt she could speak in a sure voice.
“I think I need to go to a hospital,” she said, trying to come to terms with it. “Something is not right with me.” Despite her efforts, her voice broke after all. “This is not a dream, I’m almost certain. I don’t think I’m hallucinating either. But this clearly isn’t the twenty-first century. So, evidently, I have lost my mind.” She turned her face again, but did not look upward, afraid to meet his gaze. She wasn’t even sure what she thought he could do, or why he might want to help her. “Do you think you can take me to a hospital?”
“I dinna ken hos-pi-tal,” he said.
“Oh, God,” she groaned. “Please tell me you are just playing a really awful prank or something. How can you not know what a hospital is?”
“How can ye question why we ride steeds and carry arms?”
