"I said, hold, witch."

Kendra turned. The crazy knight was three feet away from her, back on his horse, this time brandishing his sword. It was funny, but he almost seemed to be afraid of her. Squaring her shoulders she composed her thoughts. She'd once talked a man out of jumping off a building, and another into releasing a hostage. This couldn't be too different, could it?

"Look," Kendra said, keeping her voice calm even as she slid the strap of her bag onto her shoulder and slipped one hand inside the satchel. "I don't know what your problem is, but calling me names isn't going to help. Now, just put down the sword and we'll try to work this out, okay?" As he hesitated, she tried a haughtier tone. "I'm an American citizen and if you dare hurt me you'll have the FBI and the CIA down on you faster than you can say-"

"Silence!" the man roared. Kendra's mouth snapped shut. Okay, so it was different. This man wasn't some criminal desperate to cut a deal-yet-or a man who seemed out of control. On the contrary, he seemed to be very much in control, both of himself and the situation. Her trembling fingers closed around the hidden pistol.

Navarre stared down at the woman standing in front of him, his sword hand shaking. A woman! When she had suddenly appeared in front of him, he'd thought he was going mad, seeing things-then she'd opened her eyes and he'd known she was real. She wasn't beautiful by his standards. Her face was too strong to be considered fair, with its square jaw and pointed chin, but her hair was incredible, long and thick, auburn and gold curls intermingling almost to her waist. It was the kind of hair a man wanted to bury his face in, to twine around his hands while making love to her. Her eyes, the color of the English sky, had been dazed when they opened, her long lashes wet with mist as she gazed up at him in sudden horror.

If she'd been a man he'd have killed her on the spot, had intended to do so at once. Richard's salvation. Was she a witch? A changeling? Her clothing was that of a page or a serf, and a masculine one at that. She wore a blue tunic with strange black patterns on it, black leggings, and soft, ankle-high black boots.

Her words, too, were spoken in the Saxon tongue, not Norman, so she likely was no one of consequence. Yet, she had an unusual box that looked quite costly hanging around her neck by leather straps. He'd shaken himself out of his stupor and grabbed her. When she shrank away from him, her eyes wide with fear, he'd realized it was his helm that frightened her.

She'd calmed as soon as he removed it and, still dumbstruck, he'd released her when she'd asked. He realized her vision was somehow impaired as she squinted at him, then listened in perplexity as she began to chatter in a nonsensical way, saying things that made little sense.

Was she trying to enchant him? Weaving some kind of spell with her strange, disjointed words? FBI? CIA? Navarre prided himself on not being a superstitious man, but the last few minutes had sent him plunging backward in his thinking. He could find no other explanation for the strange and mystical way the woman had appeared in front of him but magic. In spite of his past devotion to the church, he had never ceased to believe that forces he could not ken still worked in the world. This woman must be a witch and she must be silenced before she enchanted him. His sword at her throat had produced the desired effect. It had also sent her running as though facing all the demons in hell.

He'd thrown himself and Kamir after her. Richard's salvation must not escape to aid him. Now as he stood a few feet away from her he knew he should kill her and be done with it. He could take no chances. He...

A face, brown-eyed and gentle, swayed in front of him and Navarre clenched his eyes shut to dispel the illusion, but she was still there, behind his eyelids, pleading with him. Talam. He felt cold beads of sweat break out across his forehead and shook himself back to the present. Was this the witch's magic as well? Had the witch sent his dead love's face to his mind to stay his hand? He opened his eyes.

The woman walked toward him, one hand behind her back. He watched her warily. It wouldn't do to get too close. She had touched him before. Did her touch give her power over his mind?

Navarre was shaken. His mother had been an educated woman and he had been raised a good Catholic. However, as a boy he'd had a nurse who believed without question in fairies, elves, and other nonsensical beings. He'd believed in them too, as a child, until he'd grown up and away from such nonsense. Though there were many in the Crusades who had carried charms and talismans with them to ward off evil spirits, Richard had scorned such things as ridiculous. According to the king, a man needed only his faith in God to withstand any enemy. Except perhaps the enemy who calls himself friend, Navarre thought bitterly. He passed one hand over his face as the image of Talam danced once again in his mind. He had come home to England, turned his back on the new ways, come home to the old ways, and magic was one of the oldest ways of all.

"Stay away from me," the woman said, her voice low and cultured, though oddly inflected. "I don't want to have to hurt you."

He shook away the hesitancy and noticed that the woman had something in her hand. Something silver, made of metal, yet it wasn't a knife or dagger. What was it she had said? She didn't want to hurt him? He snorted to himself and resolutely moved Kamir a few paces toward her, his face set in grim lines.

"Don't come any closer," she warned, waving the small lump of metal in her hand.

"You will not escape me," Navarre said, pulling Kamir up short in front of her. Suddenly a sound unlike anything he had ever heard before-louder than thunder, deeper than the tumult of a raging waterfall-rang out between them. At the same time something struck his chain mail with the force of a mace's blow, and his upper arm began to burn in the deepest part of the muscle. He looked down to see blood pumping from his arm. Incredulous, he looked back at the woman and saw she had begun to run, glancing back over her shoulder, tears streaming down her face, the lump of metal clutched to her chest as she sped away from him.

Navarre swore roundly and wheeled Kamir to follow her. She was headed for the forest and once there, she would be easily lost. He didn't know what had happened but he knew he could not let "Richard's salvation" escape. Kamir pounded across the field as the woman tossed one frightened look after another back over her shoulder. Navarre had almost caught up with her when she reached the edge of the forest and disappeared into the dense foliage. Throwing himself off the back of his horse, the knight plunged after her, cursing Magda and all of her ancestors as the branches snatched at his hair and tore at his body. He needed to staunch the increasing flow of blood from his arm but could not take the time as he hurried after his quarry.

Fool, he thought silently. Be still and she will lead you to her.

Stopping in his tracks, Navarre listened and was not disappointed as the sound of another person crashing through the underbrush reached his ears. She was to the left of him, and if he remembered correctly there was a rather wide stream nearby. She would have to slow down, if only to cross it.

Quickening his pace, Navarre parted the forest, then paused and grinned as the sound of a woman cursing then screaming, followed by a terrific splash and more screaming, filled the forest. Navarre pushed through another yard of bracken and he had found her. The auburn-haired wench sat in water up to her waist, shivering with cold, the lump of metal on the bank of the stream, her face twisted with anger and fear.

"Cold, isn't it, milady?" the knight said, giving her a mocking bow. After a moment of enjoying her predicament, Navarre took pity on the woman and crossed to her side, extending his arm to her. "Here, let me-"

Before he could react, Navarre saw the woman hook her feet around his heels and jerk with all of her might. He fell backward into the stream as her laughter pealed out around him. Navarre shouted as he hit the icy water, his back thumping against a sharp rock, his ankle biting into an extended tree root. Cursing and groaning, he hauled himself quickly out of the freezing stream and unceremoniously jerked the woman to her feet, his fingers biting into her arm. She glared up at him, but as he reached down and picked up the lump of metal beside the stream and shook it in her face, her arrogance faded and her lips began to tremble.

"You are coming with me," he said, his voice little more than a growl. "And if you run again, I will kill you."

Kendra studied the man sitting across the fire from her and sipped water cautiously from the wooden bowl he had handed her moments before. The blanket he had given her after the stream episode was coarse and rough and kept slipping off of her bare shoulder. She felt more than a little disconcerted to be sitting naked, except for the blanket, facing her captor.

As soon as he had hauled her from the icy water, he had first dropped the gun into a bag that hung from his saddle, then without warning, collapsed. Kendra had hurried to his side, her heart pounding as she examined the bleeding hole in his arm, trying to gauge just where the bullet had entered and if it had exited or was lodged inside of him.

She hated guns, always had, but especially after the time she'd spent as a reporter in battle-weary lands, she hated them. Even now she could scarcely believe she had actually fired the pistol. She'd only intended to frighten the man into stopping, but she hadn't counted on him ignoring her command to halt. Pulling the trigger had been a reflex action, a survival action, and as the bullet exploded from the gun she was immediately sorry. Kendra had prodded the wound and found that the bullet had apparently struck the man in the upper part of his arm, then passed cleanly through the other side.

"Lie still," she had ordered, one hand on his chest. "You'll be all right, but I've got to find something to bind this with."

Kendra had gasped as the knight's hand closed around her wrist. Their eyes met for a long, breathless moment, then the knight reached inside the heavy leather tunic he wore and pulled out a kerchief. He handed it to her wordlessly, sweat pouring down his face, the skin around his lips white.

Quickly Kendra had tied the makeshift tourniquet around his upper arm, noting the strength in the bulging muscle there. She had no more than finished tying the knot than the crazy knight stumbled to his feet, picked her up and carried her-kicking and screaming-back to his horse. There he had mounted the huge, black stallion and balanced her in front of him, both of them dripping wet, one strong arm encircling her waist in a viselike grip, apparently none the worse for having been shot with a .357 Magnum and dumped into an icy stream.

After a while Kendra had given up fighting, realizing that all she was doing was wearing herself out against this magnificent hunk of a man who even a bullet couldn't fell. The smart thing to do was bide her time and use the skills that had gotten her out of worse situations than this. He stopped long enough to extract a blanket from behind his saddle and wrapped it around both of them, but Kendra was still freezing, clad in her soaking wet clothing. She tried to protest but soon gave up even that, since her shouted entreaties were met with silence.

As they rode, Kendra had begun to grow increasingly alarmed. She was in England, but something was desperately wrong. She had passed out when it was summer with sheaves of grain waving in the wind. When she had awakened the stubbled ground was covered with frost. A strange weather distortion? An unseasonable cold snap? Then, there was the matter of Innusbury. She had passed through Innusbury on her way to investigate the crop circle and had read a very impressive marker about what was left of the one-time village.

Innusbury had been abandoned in the year 1340, by order of the local aristocrat. Lord Somebody-or-other. Apparently the lord needed the land for his sheep and it was easier for the remaining few inhabitants to seek other housing than to rebel against their liege lord. When Kendra had passed through on her way to the hotel, there had been nothing left of Innusbury except the stone foundations where the village had once sat.

But the Innusbury she and the dark knight had ridden through only hours ago was a bustling little village filled with houses, a chapel, and a dirty inn, which in no way resembled the empty remnant she had visited the day before.

Kendra shifted her position near the fire and eased the pressure on her bottom. Riding on a horse for five hours, bouncing against a man encased in metal, had done little to improve her humor or her backside. Almost worse than the ride was the strange feeling she had that as long as the crazy knight had his arms around her waist, she was safe. She'd leaned back against him with no doubt that he would support her and never let her fall.

Eventually though, even his strong chest grew uncomfortable. She'd hoped he'd stop at Innusbury-or wherever they really were-and let her rest at the inn, let them dry their clothes and get warm. But the dauntless knight had dragged her across the countryside for two more hours before making camp in a secluded, rocky crag. He had then proceeded to build a roaring fire, for which she was very grateful, and ordered her to take off her clothes.

When she'd hesitated, he'd snorted, thrown her a blanket and stalked off to deal with his horse, staked a good ten yards away. After she'd stripped and wrapped herself in the blanket, her jailor left her for a few minutes, though his own lips looked fairly blue with the cold. He returned with a dead rabbit, skinned the hapless creature, and cooking it over the open flames, prepared a meager meal. Even with the memory of its dismemberment fresh in her mind, Kendra had pounced on the meat hungrily.

Now she glanced around her, feeling incredibly tired. The sun was just beginning to rise above the tall rocks surrounding the campsite, and with a shiver, Kendra realized that this was the perfect place to kill someone. How long would it be before her body was found? she wondered. Would Mac ever get over if? She pictured his craggy face drained of color, twisted with grief. All her reckless chances, her thoughtless risks had been the epitome of selfishness. Too bad she'd never realized it before. With a pang, Kendra suddenly understood what her death would mean to her uncle. Just as James and Nicole's deaths had shattered her life, so would her death break Mac's gentle heart.

Taking a deep breath, she set aside the bowl the knight had given her. There was no sense in growing maudlin. She had to get away from this madman. She would keep her wits about her until the right opportunity for escape presented itself.

Kendra glanced over at the silent figure crouched in front of the fire. Thank goodness his wound had stopped bleeding and he seemed fine, except that he was shivering with the cold and likely to catch pneumonia from the icy plunge in the stream. Since he'd thrown her on his horse, he hadn't spoken a word to her, and no matter how she begged him to tell her where they were and what he wanted with her, he had remained stone faced and silent. Kendra knew from long experience that there was no way to negotiate with someone if the person wouldn't talk to you. It was time for questions-and answers.

"Listen," she said in a soothing voice, "I'm sorry I shot you. I was frightened, I mean, look at the way you're dressed. Pretty menacing." She tried to smile to soften her words but the knight with the golden eyes simply stared at her and continued to eat the last of the rabbit. Her smile faded and she cleared her throat nervously. "Look, I don't know what your problem is, but I'm sure I could find you some help. This is really common these days, you know."

He stopped in mid movement, the meat in his hand halfway to his lips as he stared at her across the fire.

Kendra stood, laughing nervously. "I mean, everybody wishes at one time or another that they could run away, join the circus, become part of a fairytale." She moved slowly around the perimeter of the stone-enclosed campfire, hands behind her back, until she was only a few feet away from him. "And I know that you don't really want to hurt me, do you? You've probably been under a lot of pressure on your job, under a lot of stress and-"

"Silence!"

She had just reached his side when the man barked the command, flinging the meat to one side, rising to tower over her like Atlas preparing to shoulder the world. Kendra gulped and, feeling her kneecaps melt into jelly, sank down at his feet.

"Sorry," she whispered.

Navarre picked up his sword and strode a few feet away from the woman. What was the witch trying to do, get information from him? For witch she most certainly was. Her words made no sense. Circus? Stress? Job? He glanced up at the sky as daylight stretched pink-gold fingers across the fading gray of night. It would take another day of riding to reach Nottingham, but before he arrived he wanted to know exactly what the witch had to do with Richard and Locksley.

He had traveled at night in the hopes that if no one saw him with his beautiful burden, Locksley wouldn't know he had taken Richard's salvation from Abury until after they had safely reached Nottingham. They would spend the day in the crag, and at sunset, start out once again.

Navarre wiped the back of one hand across his face and his shoulders sagged. He was weary, exceedingly weary, and his arm ached where the witch had pierced him with her sorcerous weapon. Zounds, it had hurt like the very devil! How had she done it, he wondered? How had she burrowed a hole in his arm from such a distance with only the help of a strangely shaped lump of metal! He wanted to examine the lump but was fearful she could cause it to hurt him again, even kill him, just by his holding it.

Magda had said in her prophecy that Richard's salvation would also bring with it the king's destruction. Was the lump of metal that destruction? Or was it the woman? Which was salvation and which the danger? Or were they either? He drew one hand cross his face and released his pent-up breath. He would lie down, he would rest, and when they arrived in Nottingham, he would seek Garrick's counsel.

With one eye on the woman, Navarre moved back to the fire and shrugged out of the open-sided tunic he wore, wincing at the pain that laced down his arm as he did so. He unfastened his leather hauberk and bent over, letting the heavy armor fall straight down, trying not to disturb his arm again. One side of the leather brushed the wound and he grunted as the piece slid to the ground, then turned away from the woman's open curiosity as he began unfastening the chain mail he wore. Used to having his squire remove his armor, he struggled with the small fastenings at the side, his fingers too large and too square and at the moment, too cold, to accomplish much. His arm pained him more than he wanted to admit even to himself.

Kendra watched the knight struggle for a minute, shivering with cold, then, resolutely stood and crossed over to him, mildly slapping his hands away from the straps at his side.

"Here, let me help you," she said, her smaller hands making short work of the latchlike apparatus. She had quite a time keeping the blanket from falling off and totally exposing her nakedness, but at last she had the metal sheath unhooked and the man grunted what could have been thanks, as he pulled the long tunic of chain mail off. "Honestly," Kendra went on, "men take the simplest things and turn them into major-"

She stopped, her voice catching in her throat. He looked back at her, almost defiantly, his long, black hair rumpled around his face. But it wasn't his face that commanded her attention. Under the mail he wore a long-sleeved white tunic with no collar and straight sleeves, which currently lay plastered coldly against his skin, and leggings which molded themselves to thick, muscular thighs. The costume showed his magnificent physique to its best advantage, and as she watched, with her blurred vision, he shed the undertunic as well, giving her an unobstructed view of his wide, well-muscled chest.

Kendra took a step back from the knight, running her tongue across her lips as she gazed up at the slightly blurry, yet still incredible specimen of manhood standing in front of her. No man on earth really looked like this-and particularly no nuts-for-brains psycho who thought he was a knight in shining armor. Kendra sat down again, feeling as though the air had been knocked out of her.

Suddenly she knew the answer to the strange things that had been happening since she blacked out. The reason there was no wheat, the reason Sean had disappeared, the reason Innusbury was now a bustling little village, the reason it was cold, the reason everything had this strange, hazy, dream-like quality to it. Because it was a dream. She had been knocked out, maybe hit by lightning, and was probably at this moment being rushed to the nearest hospital in Wiltshire.

Chapter Four.

It all made sense now: a tall, dark, handsome, silent knight in shining armor appears out of nowhere, sweeps her up on his black stallion and makes her his prisoner. C'mon, O'Brien! This is the stuff dreams are made of! Even as the realization she was probably unconscious, maybe even in a coma, sent a wave of fear through her, the thought of sharing a dream with this now apparently harmless, handsome apparition seemed suddenly very attractive.

Kendra gazed up at the knight and felt her heartbeat quicken. It had been a long time since she had felt attracted to a man. After her husband died, it was a year before she even acknowledged there was an opposite sex. Mac had begun "fixing her up" with blind dates, but every one of them had been a disaster. She'd never again met a man who could thrill her the way James once had, just by walking into the room. Until now. Too bad he wasn't real.

Her sudden silence got the knight's attention in a way all of her ranting and questions hadn't been able to accomplish.

"Are you ill?" he asked, kneeling beside her. Kendra blinked at the sound of the deep, husky voice next to her ear. She turned and found her lips inches away from his. He was wearing only the blanket now over his leggings. His chest was broad, smooth except for a dusting of dark hair that ended in a V between his pectoral muscles. His scent was heady, masculine. It should have repelled her, but somehow it did the opposite.

"What the hell," she whispered, never taking her eyes from his mouth, "it's my dream."

Slowly she ran both hands beneath the blanket and up the front of his bare chest. He stiffened and drew away from her.

"What-what do you think you are doing?"

"This," she said softly, pulling him back to her and taking his face between her hands. Opening her mouth slightly, Kendra brushed her lower lip against his and the knight's golden eyes turned to burnished amber. Thanking her subconscious mind for its attention to detail, she moved to deepen the kiss. He jerked away from her and jumped to his feet as if she had branded him with a hot iron. Hot iron, she thought languidly, is what I chiefly need right now. Navarre moved quickly away and in a matter of moments was brandishing his sword again.

Kendra tossed her long auburn hair back from her shoulders and frowned up at him. "Give it a rest, will you?" she said crossly. "This is my dream and if I want to kiss you I will."

The man looked genuinely puzzled and took another step back from her. "You will not use your witch's wiles against me," he said.

Kendra stood, clutching the blanket to her chest, moving toward him with a slight roll to her hips. Boldly, she pushed aside the sharp sword he had raised to make a barrier between them. The knight stood openmouthed as she reached up and linked her arms behind his head. He was so tall she had to stand on tiptoe to curve her hands against the back of his neck, but she managed. The blanket slid to the ground behind her and his sudden intake of breath was quite gratifying. His eyes were golden-golden! Kendra felt laughter bubbling inside of her. Those eyes should have been the first giveaway she was dreaming. No one on earth had golden eyes!

"Do you have a name, Sir Knight?" she asked softly, wondering absently how a dream could feel so intensely cold.

"N-name?"

Navarre ran his tongue across his lips and saw the witch's gaze follow, her own mouth curved up in a satisfied smile as she pressed her lithe, naked body against him. He was being seduced-no, bewitched-by a woman who didn't even come up to his shoulder, by a woman he could crush with one hand, by a woman he suddenly wanted to possess with every fiber of his being.

"My name is Kendra. What's yours? You know, your name?" she said huskily, pulling his head down closer to hers. "You know, what your friends call you when you aren't busy slaying dragons?"

"Navarre," he whispered, then dropped his sword.

Kendra gasped as, with a groan, the man gathered her into his arms, crushing her against his chest. His lips devoured hers like a white-hot flame licking through a building made of straw. He swung his blanket around both of them, enclosing them in a tent of sudden heat as the mad knight possessed her mouth. From the way his hands were moving, Kendra realized he had no intention of stopping with a kiss, and that was just fine with her. She arched against him, pulling him closer, his touch sending tremors of desire coursing through her. His hands roamed over her body, caressing, stroking, and Kendra found herself responding with an eagerness that should have shamed her-even in a dream.

His tongue continued to warm her mouth as deft fingers moved over her body. Kendra had always prided herself on being broad-minded, liberal in her thinking, but the truth was she had grown up in a small Texas town where even sex after marriage seemed to have certain limitations. She had tried to shake off her inhibitions, but since James didn't seem to mind that she was often a little shy with him, she had settled into patterns of lovemaking that seldom changed.

As she stood clasped in a stranger's arms totally naked, Kendra felt a sudden freedom and exhilaration, and the hungry look in the knight's hooded eyes filled her with a heady sense of power she'd never known before. His hands moved over her, sliding down her back, cupping her buttocks, then around and up to caress her breasts.

"Like lily-white pomegranates," he whispered.

Kendra gasped as he bent his head and his hungry mouth moved to rake the tender skin that had for so long been neglected. Her eyes slid shut as a euphoric lethargy swept over her. She scarcely noticed when Navarre scooped her into his arms and lowered her to the earth, her blanket beneath them, his atop. She was conscious only of the incredible Utopia of feeling, of long dormant emotions breaking free as his lips, two searing flames, moved to caress her mouth once again.

Kendra clung to Navarre and suddenly she became the aggressor, as though to assert her own equality in their dance of passion. Her fingers tangled in his long, dark hair and she arched against him, her breath hot and fevered, her hands touching him intimately even as she was being touched. Kendra lifted her mouth to his throat, almost sobbing from the relief of being touched, of having someone hold her again, kiss her again, love her again. Then suddenly, the mad knight stopped. He drew back from her, staring down at her, his golden eyes confused, his face troubled.

Kendra smiled up at him and, lifting her heavy hair from beneath her, spread it behind her head like a waving, red-gold fan. She was freezing, but the fire between them was warmth enough. She reached for him, for her knight in shining armor, but he just stared at her, his eyes burning with an inner fire. He made no move to touch her again.

"What is it?" she said softly.

"This changes naught," Navarre said, his jaw tightening. "You are still my prisoner. You are still my enemy."

Kendra smiled again and without a word, lifted her hand and caressed his inner thigh with her fingertips. With a groan, Navarre covered her mouth with his own, her body with his, and Kendra knew he was as lost as she was, lost to the heat driving him, lost to the enchantment weaving around them, lost to the fire burning between them.

Kendra closed her eyes. She wanted him, like nothing she had ever wanted before in her life. And because it was a dream, she could have him, in a way that in real life she would not allow.

Hot iron, she remembered suddenly with a gasp, as their flesh collided. Hot iron.

Tears filled Kendra's eyes as she felt the burning flame that was Navarre begin to chase away the cold emptiness that had been her constant companion since James's death. Warmth, dark and desperate, danced through her veins and she clung to the knight, her hands caressing his back, feeling the hard muscles beneath the skin, the scars that told too much and yet so little.

She opened her eyes and for a moment their gazes locked as something strangely tender passed between them. Navarre stopped his movement again, and Kendra felt bereft until a rough laugh brightened the harsh lines around his mouth. Then her face was between his hands and laughter was forgotten.

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

She 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, her expression one of bemusement.

"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 in all of his naked, outraged glory, his hands curled into fists at his side. "Witch!" he hissed. "Soon you will be warm enough, for you will burn when we reach Nottingham! I should have listened to my instincts-think you to ensorcell me by possessing my body? Or do you seek a child from me by which to bind my soul to yours?"

Kendra sat up, arms wrapped around herself as she shivered, her teeth beginning to chatter. "I am getting very tired of this. 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-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 with 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, whore, before I end your worthless life."

Kendra's eyes flashed rebelliously and her chin lifted. "I am not a whore, or a witch."

The knight raised both dark brows and one corner of his lips lifted sardonically. "You've just admitted to being a witch and your wanton behavior proves you a whore as well. Now be silent before I finish what you started, in a manner which, I assure you, will leave no doubt in your mind who has been possessed."