The way Gawaine glared at him, he figured he hadn’t been all that successful at hiding it.
“You cannot just disappear and escape,” Sir Gawaine warned.
“Escape what?” Michael asked him.
“Notice,” the knight said. “You are talking too much, telling too many people too much. You’re not even supposed to be here. Someone tampered with the brooch. You were supposed to lead us to King Arthur.”
Michael wanted them to continue to believe the brooch had nothing to do with the king. But, of course, it did. He was one of three people who knew who and where Arthur Pendragon was. He looked at his wife and tried to reassure her with a smile. He wasn’t going back. “Oh, so you think you’re going to send me back without my wife?”
Luke slapped his forehead and turned his horse away, mumbling about Morgan skinning them alive.
“We’re not leaving you here,” Gawaine promised. “You’re too much of a risk. You all are. I don’t know why we must keep doing this. Here!” He was shouting by now. “Take the brooch. If you don’t, we will take you to Morgan and let her deal with you.”
He tossed the charred brooch to Michael. This was it. His chance to go back home.
But this was his home now, where he wanted his home to be. With her.
Michael let the brooch fall into Charlotte’s lap.
Someone else snatched it up.
“What do I do?” the Baron of Surrey asked without taking his eyes off the brooch. “Where will I go?”
“No!” Michael tried to grab it from him, but the brooch began to shine as if it were new. It was already enchanting Surrey. The name of the king appeared in the stone. Michael turned away and then heard Surrey say one word. Pendragon.
He disappeared. The brooch fell to the ground. No.
No! Michael stared up at the two riders. Were they working with Morgan? Were they dangerous to Arthur? He didn’t know. He only knew what he’d read in books. Mordred kills the king. “You better go find him. And you better hurry.”
“We do not know where he went,” Gawaine told him. “The brooch appears to send people to their true love. The last time someone used it without authorization, she went to the twenty-first century. It took us a month to find her.”
“Ah, aye,” said Luke, smiling. “Elia. We should pay her a visit and see how she is doing with that Charles Lancaster fellow.”
Charles Lancaster? Michael’s heart raced. Yes, they knew of him. They were the ones who had sent Kestrel to the past. They had no idea how close they were to King Arthur.
“Why do you express such urgency about us finding the rogue?” Gawaine demanded, pulling him from his thoughts. “Who is he?”
“He’s Mordred.”
*
Charlotte rested inher bed at the manor house. It had been three days since Preston shot her. She liked to believe that the pistol fired accidentally, that Preston hadn’t meant to shoot her, but she knew he likely had.
She would miss him, but she was glad he was gone. As for Sebastian, what madness surrounded him and Michael. Brothers! Sons of King Arthur! She’d never believe it if she hadn’t met Mr. Simeon, and if her father didn’t believe it. Oh, she had quit defying him. He wasn’t so bad. He sent for the best physicians and paid for her constant care. Even after she’d confessed to being the Dark Horseman, he promised that she would receive a fair trial. She hadn’t truly done anything as a Horseman. It had been Sebastian who’d killed the earl. Laws weren’t as strict here as in the twenty-first century. Because she’d been there did not make her guilty. Still, she vowed to put in as many hours as she could in a day to doing things for others.
Her mother hadn’t been home in four days. It was the longest she’d been gone. Charlotte didn’t think she would be back. And she didn’t care. Charlotte would have liked a relationship with her, but it was up to her mother now. If she ever returned. Her father didn’t seem overly concerned, and he knew his wife best.
Rosie and the others were doing well, helping her father and Michael’s men rebuild in the village. Charlotte would like to live among them eventually.
With Michael. He’d forgiven her. She thought she might go mad if he hadn’t. She smiled, thinking of it all. Her, the pampered daughter of a duke, who had learned years ago how to use her wiles to their best advantage, had lost her heart to a stoic stranger who’d appeared in her life like a flash of light, leading her toward true happiness.
“Time for your medicine, my lady,” Old John said in his gravelly voice as he entered.
“The nurse is to bring it to me, John. You have enough to see to. And I think ’tis a bit early.”
He handed her the small cup he was carrying and waited for her to drink it. The moment she put it to her lips the smell of whiskey assaulted her nostrils. She eyed the butler and smiled then downed the drink. It was the good stuff. She knew because it burned her eyeballs.
“Ah, that will help, old friend.”
