Lonely is the Knight (Merriweather Sisters Time Travel Romance Book 3) Read online

The guy she thought was the best at fighting bowed to his opponent and slid his sword into an ornate scabbard at his waist.

  “Charlotte, right?” He wore what looked like a pair of dark green leggings. The image of the Jolly Green Giant popped into her head, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from busting out laughing. The jingle from the commercial kept running through her brain.

  Mary seemed to know what Charlotte was thinking, for she elbowed her in the side and gave her a look.

  “Nice to meet you. Thanks again for having me.”

  “Like I said when we chatted online, I’m not sure how much I can teach you in two weeks. Can you stay longer?”

  “No, I’m afraid I only have two weeks. So whatever we can cram into the time would be great. I’m not afraid of hard work and I don’t need a lot of sleep.”

  The breeze tickled the back of her neck, cooling her as the sun shone down. She tilted her head, listening. Yes, it was the sound of someone playing pipes. Almost the same music she thought she’d heard before she left home.

  Charlotte opened her mouth to say something, but noticed the look on the others’ faces. Guy and Mary were looking at each other, and some of the others had stopped what they were doing and were looking around, looks of astonishment on their faces.

  “What? You hear the piper too?”

  Guy stared at her. “This castle belonged to Edward Thornton. The oldest of five brothers. As the story goes, one of the Thornton ladies saved the men from certain death.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “This is the first time we’ve heard him.”

  “You know, it’s funny, I thought I heard the same melody playing right before I left North Carolina.”

  Mary sucked in a sharp breath and looked at Guy. He looked just as interested.

  “What am I missing?” They were looking at Charlotte like she had two heads.

  “The legend says the piper haunts the Thornton castles. He only plays for the lady of the castle. I thought you said your last name was Merriweather?”

  “It is.”

  “Is that your married name? Was someone in your family named Thornton?”

  Jeez, this guy was intense. “I’ve never been married. And no one in my family was named Thornton.”

  Charlotte tilted her head up and closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her. “It sounds so sad and lonely yet calming at the same time.”

  “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Charlotte Merriweather,” Guy said. The piper finished his tune and it was silent. After a few minutes, the spell broke and everyone went back to what they were doing.

  “You’re sure you’re not just playing that for my benefit out of some hidden speakers? You really expect me to believe there’s a ghost haunting the castles?”

  He shrugged. “We weren’t playing any music. No one uses their phone or tablet until they turn in for the night. Technology is banned during the day. We’ve never heard the famed piper play before. As I said, it’s only a legend, but he must think you’re a Thornton, otherwise he wouldn’t play for you.”

  Chapter Five

  Charlotte rubbed her wrists. There were bruises running up and down her arms in varying shades of black and blue, to older greens and yellows. More than she’d had over her entire childhood combined. Spending the days learning so much new stuff was exhausting. She hadn’t gone to college; instead she went on a dig her last year of high school and was hooked on the travel bug. Hitting the books made her head ache.

  Learning how to use a knife and stitch a wound, basic plant medicine, customs, and history. All of it was enough to make her long for a beach, a good book, and a nap. Even her hair was tired.

  Though the good thing about being so busy was how time passed in a blur. The days blending together into one long day. They were located in Northern England, and all she’d seen so far was the camp and the tiny village. Not exactly much time for sightseeing. Only one brief visit to restock a few essentials.

  The people in the village treated them as if they were all a bit off their rockers, but they smiled and were nice enough. It was funny; no matter where you went, people commented on her accent. No one ever thought they had an accent. She could get used to the lovely British accents she’d heard over the past couple of weeks.

  The smack across the back of her knuckles jerked Charlotte out of her thoughts. “Ouch!”

  “Pay attention. I could’ve killed you three times by now.”

  Charlotte bent her knees and thrust out with her left hand. Charlie, the guy who’d picked her up when she flew into London, jumped back.

  “Much better. Again.”

  She thrust upward with the wooden knife. Yesterday they’d made her practice with a real knife on a side of beef. The first couple of times the knife went into the meat, Charlotte’s stomach dropped. She’d thrown up in the bushes. They’d teased her ever since.

  “Come on, Barf Barbie, you can do better than that. You don’t want to vomit when you’re trying to stab one of the bad guys, do you? What, do you think he’ll be so disgusted by the stench he’ll go away? Not likely, luv.”

  At least it was a compliment she was now practicing with Charlie and Guy. Everyone in camp said they were the two best fighters. She sent up thanks to Aunt Pittypat for all those dance lessons when she was young. They’d obviously helped with her balance.

  Charlotte found she was somehow able to anticipate what her opponent was going to do before he did it. While she wasn’t sure she’d actually be able to kill anyone, she’d started to feel comfortable enough that she wouldn’t cut off her own finger.

  Looking like she knew what she was doing should deter the lazy bad guys. And if she drew blood, maybe the rest would leave her alone.

  Charlie came at her. Charlotte leaned back into a partial backbend—thank you, yoga—then straightened, stepped in, and grinned as she noted the surprise on his face. Her wooden blade pressed against his neck.

  “Who’s the Barbie now?”

  Charlotte stepped back, the knife gripped in her left hand. They were both breathing heavily, though she was the only one doubled over and panting. He looked angry, like someone stole his last cookie. It was the first time she’d gotten the better of him, and it felt good. Really freaking good.

  Charlotte noticed he tended to get cocky as he fought, and leaned to the right when he thrust. Some of the people watching started to laugh.

  “Well done,” Guy said. “When you first showed up, as pretty as you are, we all thought you’d go home after the first day or two. But you stuck it out. I’m right proud of you. Sure you don’t want to stay a while longer and learn how to use a sword?”

  Charlotte lifted the braid off the back of her neck, letting the breeze cool her off. She was dressed in a pair of leggings and a t-shirt proclaiming Cats rule, dogs drool. Sweat tickled as it dripped down her ribcage.

  “I wish I could, but I think a sword is way too heavy for me. I’ll stick with the knife.” She handed the wooden blade back to him.

  “Don’t forget the shop I told you about.”

  Over dinner last night, Guy had told her where to go to buy a shiny new knife. Charlotte didn’t want new. She wanted antique, something that would blend in.

  “I’ll remember. I can’t thank you all enough.”

  While she had enjoyed her time with the group of history buffs, the feeling it was time to go had been growing stronger over the past few days. Tomorrow was the day. She didn’t know why, only that she needed to get back to London tomorrow. It felt like time was running out.

  An almost hot shower left her feeling refreshed and not quite as sore. One of the guys had rigged up a couple of solar showers. It was a much-appreciated luxury. Back at her tent, Charlotte threw on a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt, grabbed her journal, and sat down in a chair outside the tent. The east side faced an open meadow, with a low stone wall in the distance. She could almost see knights charging across the field, their colors bright against the sun.

  “Bet you c
ould use this.” Mary handed her a mug of wine.

  Charlotte sniffed. “Apricot?” She took a small sip, the fruity wine sliding down her throat. “Now that’s refreshing. I like it better than the dandelion batch you made last week.”

  “The dandelion recipe needs a bit of work. It’s missing something.”

  “It tasted kind of like whisky.”

  “I’m going to make up another batch of apricot next week.” The chair creaked as Mary leaned back and closed her eyes. Charlotte had grown fond of the older woman during her time here.

  Mary was forty-two, though she looked a good ten years younger. It was hard to believe she was twenty years older than Charlotte, old enough to be her mom. The twinge in her heart made her take a few deep breaths. She would miss her new friend.

  “You’re always scribbling away in that journal. Are you writing a book?”

  Charlotte ran her hand across the leather cover. “No, just useful tidbits. I like to make lists and write things down. Never know when the knowledge might come in handy.”

  “Speaking of handy, thanks for the face cream recipe. It’s amazing. Think I’ll try a batch with roses next time.”

  Aunt Pittypat would be over the moon to know others were finding her recipes useful. Charlotte was grateful for her time here. She’d learned so much. Given the time she had set aside, she was as prepared as she could possibly be. Too bad there wasn’t a guidebook for time traveling.

  “I’ll miss you. You’ve been so kind to me.”

  Mary leaned over to pat her shoulder. “Take care of yourself, luv. I won’t ask the real reason you’re here. I respect your need for privacy. Hearing the piper play every afternoon for you makes me sure there’s something else going on. Perhaps some task you are meant to complete.”

  “Maybe he’ll keep playing after I’m gone.”

  Mary shook her head. “No. My bet is you’ll hear him in London.”

  Instead of saying anything, Charlotte took another sip of the wine. “I admire you for embarking on a new adventure. So many people get set in their ways. You inspire me.”

  Mary looked embarrassed. “I’ll see you off in the morning.”

  Alone with her thoughts, Charlotte stared off into the distance. A while later she opened the journal, paging through the entries for the umpteenth time. When she returned to London tomorrow, she planned to visit the museum.

  While the woman had told her there was no painting, she wanted to see for herself. In case there was another painting that caught her eye. She knew the odds of seeing either of her sisters in a painting hanging on the walls of a museum was like winning the lottery, but she had to try. Then after a lunch of fish and chips, she’d hit the antique shops.

  A woman in the village had made her two dresses and a cloak while she’d been learning how to fight. Each garment had pockets, as requested, and a Velcro strip around the waist and hem, concealing a shallow, long pocket where she could hide the antique coins she hoped to purchase. They were nothing fancy, but Charlotte thought they would keep her from standing out.

  Later that night after dinner, she packed up her meager belongings. She’d given a few things to some of the people here. Stuff she would no longer have any use for.

  The next morning, after a quick breakfast, Charlotte looked around. Would this place look very different in the past? Would the castle be standing with people going about their everyday lives?

  As she shut the door of the truck, the haunting melody started to play. A few days ago she thought she’d caught a glimpse of the ghostly piper. He was on top of one of the crumbling towers. She made out blue clothes and brown hair. She’d waved, but he hadn’t acknowledged her.

  Charlie rolled his eyes. “While I don’t mind the pipes once in a while, enough is enough.”

  “You’re just jealous.”

  “Might be.” As he drove away, the sounds faded. Did the piper truly play for her and her alone? And if he did, what did it mean?

  What was the message?

  Chapter Six

  The healer insisted Henry leave her at a house in the village.

  “I will visit with another healer and see you again.”

  He helped her off the horse. “As you wish.” If he believed in otherworldly things, which he most certainly did not, Henry would have been awestruck by her power. Instead he was simply being chivalrous.

  He threw the reins of his horse to a waiting boy. “Take good care of him.” Henry flipped the boy a coin.

  The child bit the coin and grinned. “Thank ye, my lord.”

  He entered the inn. It was hot and smelly.

  “Henry, over here.” Antoine leaned back against the wall with a wench on either side of him. He was playing cards with three other men.

  He knew Antoine from the times he’d visited court. Sir Antoine would never think of others first. But as Antoine’s home was on the way to Ravenskirk, Henry had been obliged to stop there.

  Another wench brought him ale. “My lord. Is there anything else you require?” She leaned down to display her considerable wares. While Henry loved the company of women, he left wenches to his knights.

  “Care to lose a bit of your gold, Lord Ravenskirk?”

  While Henry enjoyed competing in tourneys, he did not care overmuch for cards. Counting all those numbers made his head ache.

  “Not tonight. I needs see to the men and horses.”

  He made his way out of the smoke-filled inn, to the stables. “Have you eaten, Adam?”

  The boy had come to him by way of his brother Edward. He would serve as squire to Henry.

  “Yes, my lord. I saw to the horses first.”

  “Sleep out here tonight. I don’t like the looks of the men inside.”

  The boy nodded. Restless, Henry stroked the neck of his favorite horse. A few of his men found their way into the inn to drink and wench.

  It was growing dark as Henry made his way back inside. Antoine and the men he was playing cards with were deep in their cups.

  “One hand, Henry. Come, it seems I am short of gold.”

  Henry grimaced, but sat down to play one hand. Antoine threw the last of his coins onto the table, along with something else that glinted in the light.

  “Where did you come by the trinket?”

  He shrugged. “Payment for helping the healer. She was in here moments ago.”

  Henry was aghast. “’Tis not chivalrous.”

  “I care not.” Antoine drank the rest of his ale; a bit dribbled out of the corner of his mouth, down his chin, and onto his tunic. “The witch cursed me.”

  “Do not jest.” Henry felt a chill go through the room. He looked around for enemies, catching the eye of his men. He saw them stiffen. He shook his head. He didn’t know what made him so nervous, only that he was. “In the woods earlier, did you throw her in the water?”

  “Nay.” Though Antoine looked guilty. “She said I would pay for stealing from her. I should have her beaten.”

  Henry spoke softly. “’Tis our duty to help those weaker than we. The healer is under my protection. You should not have demanded payment from her.”

  Henry picked up the necklace. He didn’t know why, but something about it made him want to touch it. It was made of gold. With an emerald, a diamond, a sapphire, and a gold charm in the shape of a horse with a horn? No, ’twas a unicorn.

  Antoine snatched it from his hand. “I need that to wager with, my friend.”

  Henry took Antoine’s wrist and squeezed, making him gasp. “Let go.”

  The arrogant idiot let go of the necklace. Henry took it as the others started to protest. He dropped a bag on the table, the heavy clink quelling their outrage. He opened it and withdrew several pieces of gold, much more than the necklace was worth.

  “This will suffice.”

  Everyone nodded. Satisfied, Henry tucked the necklace into the pouch at his waist. He could stand it no more—he strode out of the inn. He needed to walk. To clear his head before he started a fight. His b
rothers were always lecturing him on thinking first before acting.

  As he paced around the building, one of his men ran out, shouting, “Lord Ravenskirk, come quickly.”

  Henry sprinted inside. Antoine’s face turned from crimson to purple. Everyone watched, looks or horror upon their faces. The healer stood in front of the table, her long silver hair unbound, the purple cloak wrapped tightly around her.

  He pounded Antoine on the back. It was too late—the man fell headfirst into his plate.

  One of the men playing cards said, “He choked on a bone.”

  Henry looked to the healer. She inclined her head to him and quietly made her way out of the inn. No one stopped her, though many crossed themselves as she passed. Had she truly cursed Antoine to die? No. Henry would not believe in curses. Antoine was a glutton. Anyone could choke on a bone and die.

  The next morning, Henry and the men set out from the inn in a somber mood, most of the men still feeling the effects of the ale from the night before. After riding a few hours, they stopped alongside a stream.

  Henry threw the reins to his squire. “I’m going to wash.”

  He hadn’t had time that morning. Wanted nothing more than to be on his way home. He felt the urge to hurry. As he cupped water in his hands to drink, he heard a noise. Henry looked up to see the healer. She had a basket over her arm filled with green things.

  He bowed. “Madam. My apologies.”

  She cocked her head at him. “For what, Lord Ravenskirk?”

  He opened the pouch at his waist and withdrew the necklace. “In the commotion last night, I failed to return this to you. I did not know Antoine demanded your necklace in payment for helping you. There was no payment required.”

  He reached toward her to give her the necklace and found he could not let go. The piece clenched tightly in his fist. For a moment he hesitated. The healer watched him, a smile on her face, and shook her head.

  “You will have need of it. Keep it close. For there is one who must have the necklace.”

  She leaned down to pick watercress growing at the edge of the stream. “The necklace will find its way back to me on its own when it is no longer needed.”