Tess Mallory - Circles in Time Read online

  CIRCLES IN TIME

  By

  Tess Mallory

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  SWEET PASSION'S FIRE

  "Are you a witch?" Navarre whispered against her lips. "Tell me truly—are you in league with Richard and Locksley?"

  Kendra buried her hands in his hair and pressed his face next to hers, even as she laughed aloud. "Oh, my brave knight," she said softly, "if I were a witch, I would enchant you and bind you to me forever. I would keep you tethered to my bed and you would fulfill my every wish. Richard and Locksley could never compare to you."

  Navarre jerked back from her embrace, and with a roar rolled away from her and sprang to his feet Startled, Kendra raised up on her elbows.

  "Wrong answer, huh?" She smiled. "Well, that's what I get for trying to be poetic. Now—" she lifted her arms to him, "come back here. I'm freezing."

  Navarre towered above her, his hands curled into fists at his sides. "Witch!" Navarre hissed. "Soon you will be warm enough, for you will burn when we reach Nottingham!"

  Kendra sat up, arms wrapped around herself as she shivered, her teem beginning to chatter. "I am getting very tired of mis. This is my dream and I would think I should be able to have things my way. So cooperate or I might just turn you into someone who will be—like Mel Gibson."

  Kendra started to laugh, but the laughter died in her throat as she saw Navarre's face pale at her words. His strong jaw tightened and the gold in his eyes burned, not with desire any longer, but raw anger.

  He stalked over to the fire where her clothing was stretched across rocks to dry, grabbed them, then turned and threw them in her face. "Dress, before I end your worthless life."

  Other books by Tess Mallory:

  HIGHLAND FLING

  HIGHLAND DREAM

  TO TOUCH THE STARS

  MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S MAGIC

  JEWELS OF TIME

  LOVE SPELL NEW YORK CITY

  For my sister, Cassie—

  Renaissance woman, artist, editor, friend.

  LOVE SPELL®

  March 2003

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  276 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10001

  Copyright © 1997 by Tess Mallory

  ISBN: 0-505-52201-2

  The name "Love Spell" and its logo are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit us on the web at www.dorchesterpub.com.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is my favorite part, thanking my friends. Much love goes out this time to all the folks who still believed this year in spite of everything: my children, Erin, Heather and Jordan, without whom I could not exist; and the rest of my family, Papa Daddy, Bill, Cassie, Jan-Jan, Jewell, Meg, Pat, Tommy, Jason, Julie, Linda, Tom, Marci, and Blake. Thanks to my wonderful friends Laura, Melissa, Greg and Ellen (and their six kids whom I adore), Shannon the faithful, dear buddy Rick, and my friends at the Point. That means you, Leatrice!

  Special belated thanks this time around to science-fiction author Warren Norwood, my long-ago writing instructor, who told me again and again (with an exasperated sigh), "Just finish something, T.C., and it'll sell." I clung to those words then and they kept me going. They still do. Thanks, Warren, now and always.

  There are many more people to thank, and I hope to write many more books so that eventually I'll be able to include them all. Much love.

  Drowning in the darkness, grasping at the light,

  healing, holding, unspeakably bright;

  come now appear, knight on white steed,

  gracious, precious, finally I'm freed.

  —Erin Mallory

  Silhouette upon the glass, that used to hold the time,

  Shadows of my memories, the hours not as kind.

  The fallen sand still haunts me, within that hourglass,

  So tell me now, where are we—the present, future, past?

  —Heather Mallory

  Prologue

  ^ »

  It was a dark place where the old one lived, a place of mystery. In the glow of a dim candle's light, Celtic artifacts—Christian and pagan—fought for dominance on the narrow, cluttered shelves of the circular room. Stone crosses kept company with gargoyles; elaborate knotted designs whirled on the face of a dirty cloth tacked over the solitary window of the hovel.

  The man crouching at the feet of the old one did not notice his surroundings. His attention was riveted on the woman whose wisdom he had come seeking, and on the carved, rectangular stones she now rubbed between the palms of her hands. Silence permeated the musty room, undisturbed, even when she threw the stones to the dirt floor. They fell noiselessly and loose soil rose, marking their communion with the earth. The woman's eyes shut and a low keening sound from deep inside of her echoed through the stillness.

  The man's gaze, shadowed by the hood of the dark cloak he wore, never moved from the woman who now rocked on her knees, wrinkled face distorted as if in agony. At last the motion slowed, then ceased altogether when she opened her eyes. Pale gray, almost colorless, they focused on the one who silently waited.

  "There is danger," she said, her voice low and harsh.

  "What danger, Magda?" he asked.

  The corners of her thin lips tightened slightly, then slackened again.

  "Betrayal."

  "By whom?"

  The one called Magda bent her head over the stones, peering more closely at them. Her lank, gray hair tumbled over her thin shoulders. "By an old friend. A lion." Her voice lowered into a whisper. "It means your destruction. Yours—and another, who also bears the name of lion."

  "The king?"

  She nodded. The cloaked man stood, hands clasped behind him, and began pacing the small confines of the room. "An old friend, a lion—why speak in riddles? Give me information I can use to stop this betrayal. A time, a place, a name!"

  "These things are not told to me," she said, still hunched over the stones. She frowned down at them, then glanced up and smiled. "But there is hope."

  "What kind of hope?" He knelt down beside her once again. "You must speak more plainly, Magda."

  The solemn eyes gazed at him in rebuke for his impatience and the man sighed, jerking the hood from his head. He exposed an aristocratic face, the sharp angles of his cheekbones framed by curling light brown hair.

  "Forgive my impatience, but there is no time to lose!"

  "You have time." She gathered the stones back into her hands and stared down at them thoughtfully. "In a fortnight, when the moon is full and high, your salvation will be brought to you—by powers beyond our ken—to the mystic field of Abury."

  He paled at her words. "Abury?"

  The old woman nodded. "Aye, there is magic there still. Both the catalyst and the catastrophe await you. Salvation comes, yet with it comes destruction. This salvation alone can prevent the danger that it brings, for England, for Richard." She lifted her head
and pierced the man with her pale-eyed stare. "And for you, Sir Robin-of-the-Hood. Guard it well."

  Robert of Locksley, knight of the realm, outlaw and thief, stood again and moved away from her. He lifted the filthy cloth over the window of the hovel and stared out, his gaze determined.

  "You speak in riddles I do not understand. Nevertheless, I shall go to Abury," he promised, one hand resting on the hilt of the sword belted across the plain brown tunic he wore. "I shall find Richard's salvation and guard it with my life."

  Outside Magda's home, a solitary figure slipped stealthily away from his hiding place below the window. Navarre de Galliard glanced quickly around him as he moved with catlike grace through the darkness, smiling without humor. His old friend Locksley had been foolish enough to come alone. It would prove to be his undoing.

  Navarre reached the edge of a clearing and mounted his black stallion which awaited him half-hidden in a small grove of trees. The wind whipped up suddenly, lifting the man's own black mane of hair from his shoulders. For a moment, fragile tendrils danced in feathery contrast about the stern, unyielding face, and he glanced up at the sky, his golden eyes narrow with wariness.

  The moonlight carved shadowy plains into the man's handsome, rugged face, giving him a wild, almost feral look. In that moment, there was not a man in England who would have failed to recognize the knight once known as the Black Lion, once King Richard's most loyal follower.

  Navarre watched the hut thoughtfully. So, he mused, the witch knew of Richard's danger. How much more did she know, and what was the meaning of her cryptic message to Locksley? He glanced up at the half-moon above him.

  "In a fortnight," he whispered to the cold night air, "I shall take Richard's salvation, old friend, and make it mine own. But first, I will make sure that you never reach Abury."

  Silently, Navarre drew his sword from its sheath, easing his horse toward the hut. The wind danced wildly about him, as though it would push him back from his goal. His fingers tensed around the hilt. He would wait until Locksley left the witch; then he would kill him. Like lightning, a picture of him and Robin fighting side by side against a gang of cutthroats during a long ago trip to London flashed through his mind. Navarre pushed the thought away. There was no room left in his life for sentimentality or softness. Robin had chosen the wrong side. He must be eliminated. It was as simple as that.

  Navarre drew his mount beside the hut, then jerked his head up as the wind suddenly stopped and the air around him fell still. He was not a superstitious man, but the sudden, eerie stillness sent chills down his spine. His horse stirred restlessly and nickered softly toward the open field beyond the witch's home. Movement in the distance. Woodsmen. Navarre could see them now, dimly, a dozen or more heading toward the hut.

  Cursing under his breath, the Black Lion quickly resheathed his sword and headed his horse back toward the sheltering grove. Locksley had not been as foolish as he supposed. Once again hidden by the foliage, Navarre watched for a moment as his old friend clasped arms with a huge bear of a man, then turned to greet a slim youth.

  "Another day, Robin," he promised softly and disappeared into the forest.

  High above Magda's house, too distant for human sight, a cluster of tiny blue lights flickered with the regularity of a heartbeat. They swirled brightly for a moment then slowly, one by one, disappeared.

  Chapter One

  « ^ »

  "Just what is this supposed to mean, Mac?"

  Kendra O'Brien slammed the sheet of paper faceup on the startled newspaper editor's desk. Arthur Mackenzie recovered quickly, however, and glared back at the woman standing in front of him, hands on her hips, blue eyes flashing. He met the fire in her gaze with a flame of equal proportion.

  "You want to walk out that door and come back in like a civilized human being?" The gray-haired man folded his arms resolutely across his chest. "Then maybe we'll talk."

  "Damn right we'll talk!" Kendra pushed her long auburn braid of hair back behind her shoulder, resolving to get the unruly mane chopped off to her ears at the first opportunity. Things had been getting a little out of control lately, beginning with the problem she'd had during her last story, and ending with Mac's little surprise that morning. It was time to take charge of her life again, something she'd become very good at in the last three years.

  "What—is—this?" She demanded, punctuating each word emphatically.

  Arthur Mackenzie, editor of the New York Chronicle, gave the crumpled paper a cursory glance. He stood and crossed casually to the entrance of his glassed-in office and closed the door, effectively shutting out the sounds of the clattering newsroom beyond. He returned just as casually and took his place behind his desk, leaning back in his chair and lacing his hands behind his head. "I believe it's a notice of your promotion to editor of our latest new venture. Congratulations."

  "Promotion? New venture? Mac, I'm warning you, I'm not going to stand for this!" Her rush of words tumbled over each other and Kendra caught herself, counting to ten. Mac didn't like it when she got this way, and it could only make matters worse.

  Her Uncle Mac had written the book on stubborn, but as his best reporter, who happened to be his favorite niece, Kendra could get away with matching his obstinance glare for glare. This time she sensed things were different. In fact, as she gazed into the steady eyes that presently resembled circles of steel, Kendra knew she was treading on shaky ground.

  He stood slowly, his bushy eyebrows colliding over his pear-shaped nose. Mac was a large bear of a man, six feet tall and twenty pounds overweight, and suddenly he seemed to fill the room.

  "Do you have a problem with being promoted, O'Brien?"

  Swallowing the hesitancy she always felt when confronted with an angry Mac, Kendra's blue eyes flared to life as her own temper rose to the occasion.

  "You know I do!" She pointed to the paper on his desk. "This says that I'm supposed to go to England and investigate one of those phony baloney crop circles. C'mon, Mac, this is National Enquirer, 'I Was Stolen by a UFO' tripe, for Pete's sake!"

  "And people love it. Besides, I think you've oversimplified the situation. If you'll look at the information I gave you, you'll see that this isn't just another crop circle." He leaned forward slightly. "A man has disappeared—not your typical UFO groupie either."

  "So what?"

  "Well, I thought you would particularly be interested in the story because the man happens to be Ian McKay."

  Kendra's anger faltered for a moment. "Professor McKay? He's missing?"

  "He was in Wiltshire, testing a theory he has about the formation of crop circles and after this last one formed…" Mac shrugged "… well, he hasn't been seen since. Something strange is going on over there, O'Brien, and every major paper has someone covering it. The Chronicle isn't going to be left behind."

  Kendra hesitated, then lifted her chin, the tire returning to her eyes. "Don't think you can play on my sympathies about Professor McKay. Just because I took one physics class from him doesn't make me his keeper. Send Esteban—he loves this kind of garbage."

  "I'm sending you. Listen, brat, the paper isn't doing so well right now financially and we're counting on this new tabloid to perk up circulation."

  "So perk it up—but not with me."

  "Don't fight me on this, Kendra. You're the new editor and my decision is final." He picked up a sheaf of papers from his desk and began absently sorting through them as he talked. "Galaxy will cover stories about celebrities, lifestyle/features, and the unusual, things like this crop circle occurrence."

  Kendra stared at him in disbelief. "I can't believe you'd do this to me," she said. "I can't believe that you'd put me in charge of a new national "I-Had-Elvis's-Alien-Baby" rag-sheet!"

  Mac's gaze was even. "Believe it."

  Kendra lifted her chin in challenge. "And what if I say no?"

  His eyelids flickered briefly but his expression didn't change. "Then you're fired."

  Kendra gasped. He couldn't mean it
. This was just another one of Mac's ploys to get her to slow down, to take some time off. She took a deep breath and forced herself to speak in a more civil tone.

  "Look, I am all set to catch my flight to China to cover that student riot. I promise when I get back, I'll take some time off like you've been nagging me to do, okay. Mac?" Her shoulders relaxed and she laughed. "You've made your point." She pulled up the only other chair in the cluttered office and sat down, running one hand down the side of her jeans. "But I owe you for scaring me half to death. You'll be telling this one around the office for days."

  "I mean it, Kendra."

  Kendra stared at him, the amusement fading from her face.

  "You're serious about this." Shaking her head in astonishment, she leaned toward him, her voice tense. "Mac, the word around is that I may be nominated for an award for my story on Northern Ireland, maybe even the Pulitzer. Do you know what that could mean for the paper?" Her face was flushed, her square jaw locked with determination. "Last year I was recognized for my work in Russia and—"

  Mac cut her off abruptly, slamming both hands down on his desktop, his voice level rising to match her own.

  "And a year before that, you did a bang-up job on the mess in the Middle East. I'm your editor and the closest thing to a father you've got, Kendra, so don't start waving your resume in my face—I taught you every damned thing you know!"

  "Then why are you sending me on this cock-and-bull story when I could be covering real news?" she shouted back, standing to meet him nose to nose.

  "Because you have a death wish!"

  Kendra felt the muscles in her back tighten.

  "Just what is that supposed to mean?"

  Mac moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back. He sighed, then ran one hand through his generous shock of white-gray hair.