The Time Traveler's Christmas - Amy Jarecki Page 0,11
the corner of her mouth. “I thought the same.”
“There’s an uncanny resemblance. Made a shiver run up my spine when I first spied him.”
“He looks like a pauper,” growled Hamish from behind. “And who would wear a picture of a hunchback becoming cured? What is that suspicious mural emblazoned on his chest? My oath, I reckon he’s a follower of Satan.”
Lachlan glanced down at the picture of evolution on his favorite sweatshirt. There was no use even trying to explain.
“He’s a heretic for certain,” said another.
“Nay!” Lady Christina stamped her foot. “Satan doesna rescue women from their enemies.”
“Excuse me?” Lachlan spread his hands to his sides. “I’m standing right here.”
“Aye, ye are.” Sir Boyd walked in a circle around him, eyeing him like a piece of meat. “What happened to your weapons? Where is your coat of arms and where are your boots?” He pinched Lachlan’s sweatshirt and rubbed it between his fingers. “What is this garb ye wear?”
“Aye, if he speaks true and has returned from the tournaments, he ought to be laden with coin,” Hamish added.
“All lost to a woman,” Lachlan said. Hell, Angela had taken his townhouse and God knew what else. He hadn’t seen what she’d put into storage. For all he knew she’d robbed him blind. Bloody hell, he hadn’t even had a chance to check the balance in the bank accounts yet.
Hamish snorted with an exasperated shake of his head. “Ye let a woman take your weapons and your boots?”
Dropping his hands and clenching his fists, Lachlan bit back his urge to land a punch to the old guard’s snout. “I haven’t had a chance to fetch them as of yet.” Christ, the more they talked, the deeper he dug his hole. How the hell had he ended up on a battlefield with nothing? But one thing was for certain, he had to take charge now or else he’d end up with a crowd of fifty zealots lining up to take a swing at him. His gaze shifted to Lady Christina, who wrung her hands with worry furrowing her brow. “What are we going to do to find the lady’s son?” Lachlan asked, deflecting the conversation from himself. “The lad was there. She saw him—and then the English attacked.”
She grabbed Sir Boyd by the forearm. “We must make haste afore they take him too far into England.”
“Ye’re right. I’ve sent out spies already. My guess is they havena gone far. I reckon the bleeding English are hell bent on another invasion.”
Christina clasped her hands over her chest and swept her gaze across the crowd. “We must collect our army and ride straight away.”
Sir Boyd shook his head. “I dunna recommend it. Let us find out where they’ve taken Andrew first and then we can plan our attack.”
“I agree with Lady Christina.” Hamish stepped forward, giving her a nod—one that showed respect and fondness. Did he have a thing for his mistress? “If we dunna ride by the morrow, the trail will grow cold.”
Boyd eyed him with a twitch to his jaw. “We shall put it before the king. If he agrees, then we’ll ride at dawn.”
“My new champion needs to be armed,” said Christina.
Hamish coughed out a loud snort. “Champion, m’lady?”
“Sir Lachlan fought off countless blackguards to rescue me.” She poked her man-at-arms in the chest with her pointer finger. “Whilst ye were otherwise engaged.”
“I was battling the same mob of English rascals.”
“Do ye challenge Lady Christina’s appointment, Hamish?” asked Sir Boyd.
Scarface puffed out his chest. “Bloody oath, I do.”
Lachlan’s gut turned over. Fight the old mail-clad, pot-bellied zealot? There’d be no contest.
Boyd pointed. “Do ye put up your sword?”
Hamish drew his weapon and held it aloft. “I do with honor.”
The knight gave Lachlan a deprecating once-over. “And what have ye of value?”
Should he back down? No. He’d not only humiliate himself, he’d humiliate Lady Christina. She might be a little hellion, but he kinda liked her. Lachlan tugged the medallion from beneath his sweatshirt. “Just this.”
“Jesu.” Boyd yanked the leather thong from Lachlan’s neck. “Where did ye find this?”
Christina stepped in. “Didna Eva wear such a medallion?”
The knight turned it over in his palm. “I swear this is one and the same—she and William argued about it time and time again.”
Prickly heat spread across Lachlan’s skin. Surely they didn’t mean Eva MacKay, his mother? And his father always referred to himself as Bill—well, his adopted father. Right? “Who are you talking about?”
“Ye dunna ken?” Suspicion filled Boyd’s eyes. “She was there at Willy’s