Kendra glared up at him, then began jerking her clothes back on with quick, angry movements, thankful they were almost dry, as she grumbled to herself. "Why can't I even have what I want in my own dreams?"

Navarre began pulling on his clothes, never taking his eyes from her. When she finished dressing, the woman stood, her lips swollen from his kisses, her chest rising and falling with indignation. Navarre swallowed hard. The witch was even more alluring now as her azure eyes glimmered with anger instead of seduction. Navarre realized with a dawning comprehension that from now until they reached Nottingham he must guard himself every moment, or else kill the woman and be done with it.

He pressed his lips together grimly as he finished tying his leggings, remembering the way her gentle hands had worked a wondrous magic of their own without spells. He frowned as his desire quickened once again at the thought. To kill her would be the smartest thing to do, but to do so would be a mistake. Who knew what information she might have concerning Richard and Locksley's plans? Prince John would never forgive him if he killed her before questioning her thoroughly.

Navarre ran one hand through his long, dark hair. It was obvious that someone else was going to have to do the questioning. He couldn't trust himself around her. Even now, fully clothed and with six feet between them, he felt the desire wrapping itself around him, twisting his insides as though they were as supple as the mass of tangled auburn curls she was trying to braid. She lifted her gaze to meet his and Navarre narrowed his eyes as the force of her power hit him again.

"I want to know who you are," he said. "Who you are, where you come from and whom you are working for."

Kendra sighed and dropped her hands to her lap in resignation. "My name is Kendra O'Brien, I'm from New York, I'm a reporter and I work for my uncle who is the editor of the New York Chronicle."

"Chronicle?" Navarre frowned at her. "A chronicler? What do you mean? Are you a scribe then?"

"A scribe, yes, that's what I am, a scribe."

"What value is a scribe to Richard?" he muttered to himself as he paced around the small area. "How does his salvation lie in one that knows how to write?" Navarre shook his head. Then he glanced down at her, his eyes keen. "But I do ken what destruction you have brought with you." He lifted his hand to the bandage on his arm. "What manner of weapon did you burn me with? With what spell do you control it?"

"I'm tired of this dream," Kendra said, moving closer to the fire. "I need to get out of it." When he continued to stare down at her, a puzzled expression on her face, Kendra released her breath explosively. "I say, fair knight, I need to rest awhile and I am freezing."

Navarre strode over to his horse and jerked another rolled up blanket from behind the saddle. "Here, lie down," he ordered, "and take your rest. We ride at dusk. Do not think to overcome me with your spells again. You may be Richard's salvation, or his destruction, but you are still mortal. And do not think you have escaped from my questions. You will answer them, eventually."

"Why," Kendra muttered as she plopped herself down in the dirt, "why couldn't I have at least conjured up a mattress and pillow in this dream?" She pulled the rough blanket around her and put her satchel bag under her head for a pillow, then looked up and saw the fire in the knight's eyes quicken at her words. "Sorry," she corrected herself, "I didn't mean to use the word 'conjure'-maybe 'created' would be less dangerous around you."

Navarre picked up his sword from the place he had dropped it. "There is one Creator," he said with disdain. "Even a witch would not dare to compare herself to Him."

"I didn't mean-oh, what's the use?" Kendra jerked the blanket around her shoulders and tried to get comfortable on me rough bed of dirt and rock. This was the way most of her dreams ended, she reminded herself. She lost the guy and went to sleep. Then when she awoke again, she was truly awake. Maybe all this nonsense meant that back in the real world she was beginning to fight her way back from the state of unconsciousness to which the lightning-or whatever-had plunged her. With a sigh, Kendra closed her eyes.

Navarre stretched out a few feet away from the woman, feeling spent and troubled. Who was she really? And what was the sorcerous weapon she had wielded against him? He wanted to examine the metal thing again, but mere would be time enough the next day, time enough to force her to show him how it worked. He watched the rise and fall of Kendra's chest as she slipped into sleep, watched and envied her cheeks the touch of the long eyelashes against the skin. How would it have been, he wondered, if he had not stopped their joining? How would it have been to experience the full consummate fire of their union? Angrily, he shook the thought away.

He watched the woman for quite a while, expecting some last-ditch attempt at escape, but finally he decided she was, indeed, doing as he had bid her. Even witches needed sleep he supposed. Only after her breathing slowed did he allow himself to relax. At nightfall they would journey on to Nottingham and once there, he would him her over to the sheriff and be done with her. Navarre was unable to suppress a shudder as he envisioned what his friend, the sheriff, would do to the beautiful witch. What had she said her name was?

Kendra.

Resolutely, Navarre cleared his mind, determined to dispel the ridiculous feeling that he should protect this woman who had injured him, who had tried to ensorcell him, this fascinating woman who was his enemy, and England's. He should tie her but somehow could not bring himself to, which of course, was even more proof of her power. The throbbing in his loins had not ceased entirely since he had pushed her away from him, and he burned with the want of her. A sudden, paralyzing thought seized him.

Had he stopped their lovemaking too late? Had the partial possession of their passion resulted in his total enchantment? With an oath Navarre rose and began to pace around the crag. One thing was certain, he must stay awake, and he must not allow the witch to touch him again. He moved to his horse's side and for a moment leaned his head against Kamir's rough mane. His arm pained him but it was nothing compared to the burning need inside of him.

Even now, the memory of her skin against his, her touch, the smell of her hair, made him want to turn and take her in his arms.

He lifted his head. He was a soldier, used to facing grim realities. Somehow the auburn-haired witch had enchanted him, and somehow he must find a way to quench the fire in his loins. He groaned softly. Even now he felt fear wash over him. He must not allow her to control him, and yet, he was just a man. If she indeed were a sorceress, this searing, overwhelming desire she had created inside of him might forever rule his destiny, place him at her beck and call. What was it she had said-"I would enchant you and bind you to me forever, I would tether you to my bed and you would fulfill my every wish."

Navarre pressed his lips tightly together as his fingers unconsciously reached up to brush against the crude bandage she had tied around his wound. If he could not conquer these feelings, this fervent desire, there would be no other alternative-the woman must die.

Kendra awoke with a smile on her face. She didn't open her eyes right away because she wanted to savor the sensual aftermath of the very intense, highly remarkable dream. It had seemed so real, so vivid, and had starred none other than herself and a huge, handsome hunk of a knight in shining armor.

She shifted in the bed and winced as her body ached in protest, then she shivered as a cold gust of air swept over her. Moving restlessly, she felt the roughness of the blanket against her skin and decided drowsily to change hotels as soon as possible. Granted, she'd had a wonderful dream, but sleeping in this bed was like sleeping on rocks and the blankets were awful, not to mention the lack of heat and- Kendra opened her eyes. Six feet away lay a man, broad-shouldered, dark-haired. He lay with his eyes closed but she knew they were as golden as the sun that even now was setting quickly below the distant horizon. Navarre. The knight in her dream. She squinted, her memory returning swiftly. The haze that had permeated her vision ever since the storm had knocked her senseless, was gone. Nothing marred her view of the handsome man who, in her dream, had almost ravished her on the ground.

On the ground. Kendra sat up, a twig beneath her leg biting sharply into her skin. She stared around her. The crag. The campfire. Navarre. Kendra passed a shaky hand across her eyes, then smiled hesitantly. Of course-she was still asleep. She'd had many dreams within dreams in her life. That would explain the fact that it was the middle of winter when it should be summer and that a mad knight had captured her. Of course it was a dream.

Sure, O'Brien, she scoffed at herself, feeling a rush of fear sweep over her as she slowly stood and moved toward the sleeping man. When did you ever have a dream like this?

"This is no dream," she whispered, feeling the blood rush away from her head and the strength from her legs. She sat down, quietly, quickly, where she stood.

What have I done, what have I done, what have I done? The frantic thought echoed through her mind. This was not a dream. This was real. That meant yesterday had been real as well. She had almost made love to a man holding her hostage, a man who thought he was a knight!

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

Kendra ran her tongue across her lips and tried to bring her racing thoughts back under control.

All right, so it isn't a dream. It's real. He's real. No harm done. No harm done? Are you crazy O'Brien? Count yourself lucky he didn't decide to go through with it, although given how far you actually went can you honestly say you didn't make love?

Kendra felt a quick flush of shame and fear warm her cheeks, but she pushed away the emotions. There was no time for such considerations as pride or modesty. She had to get away from this lunatic. He had become quite violent toward the end of their encounter. She grimaced. What was it he had kept yelling at her? Something about being a witch. Who was he? What did he want? Those were the questions she had to find an answer for.

Kendra knew she had made enemies on her way to the top of the investigative reporting racket, enemies who might pay someone to get rid of her. Or was this man working on his own? Even now a ransom note might be winging its way to Mac in New York, demanding a few hundred thousand dollars for her safe return. Or perhaps "Navarre" was involved in some sort of terrorist activity and wanted to exchange her for a political prisoner. It wouldn't be the first time.

But it would be the first time her captor had thought himself to be a medieval knight.

She groaned inwardly. She had to get away, but Navarre's long form was stretched across the entrance to the rocky crag, his head butted up against one tall stone and his leather-clad feet against the other. Kendra rose from her sitting position, uncurling herself slowly. If she could step over him without waking him, perhaps she would have a chance of escaping.

Kendra wiped her sweating palms down the sides of her thighs, ignoring the dirt clinging to her leggings. Grabbing her bag, she crossed to the knight. He lay with his hands comfortably folded over his broad chest, which rose and fell in rhythmic movement. His sword lay at his side and she could see the bag he had taken from his saddle and put the gun in was underneath his head. Kendra traced the harsh angles and planes of his face with her gaze, noting how the hard lines around his mouth had softened with sleep; how his lips were still tense, as though a part of him remained ever vigilant, ever ready for battle.

Tiny wrinkles radiated from the corners of his eyes. Laugh lines? Somehow she had a hard time picturing this stern-faced Goliath ever cracking a smile, much less indulging in a hearty laugh. Still, he had smiled briefly she remembered, in the midst of their lovemaking. Lovemaking. Kendra groaned softly.

She jumped as the knight suddenly yawned and stretched his arms above his head. He froze, then, as if sensing her gaze upon him, turned slowly to face her, the full brilliance of his golden eyes stunning her. Once again Kendra reminded herself that she faced a dangerous adversary, a lion waiting to pounce.

"So, you are awake, witch," he said, his voice like rough gravel. He rolled to his feet in one quick, lithe movement. "Did you think to escape me-or did you intend to try to seduce me again?"

"Please," Kendra began softly, "there's really been a terrible mistake. I thought-" she flushed. "I really thought I was having a dream and you were-I mean that's why -" She released her breath explosively. "Please, just let me go home and I promise I won't press charges."

Navarre stared down at her for a long moment, then lifted his hand to touch her face, drawing one finger lightly down the side of her jaw. He stood as one transfixed and Kendra felt, with horror, the slow burning flame of desire beginning anew within her. The knight must have felt it as well, for something flickered in the depths of his golden eyes and he lowered his hand from her face.

"We ride for Nottingham," he said softly.

Nottingham. Kendra's hopes had risen when Navarre finally told her their destination. There was no way he could parade her through that city on horseback without attracting immediate attention. Hopefully her captor's brains really were so addled he would do exactly that and her rescue would virtually be assured by his actions. At that thought, Kendra felt a little of the tension ease away, even though she was forced to ride in front of Navarre, turned sideways in the saddle, her body crushed against his. It didn't matter. Once they reached Nottingham, everything would work itself out.

Night settled across the land like a velvet cloak, and as the gentle sound of the stallion's hoofbeats began to lull her to sleep, Kendra had the strange sensation that she and the knight were somehow caught in time, suspended between reality and fantasy. Wearily, she allowed her body to relax completely against the heat of Navarre, the swaying motion of the horse's step rocking her to sleep. Kendra found herself wishing this crazy adventure had turned out to be a dream-with Navarre as a noble knight in shining armor, not an escaped lunatic in tinfoil.

She should be frantic, upset, but the promise of finding help in Nottingham had somehow calmed her fears-or was it the shelter of Navarre's arms enclosing her so completely, with such strength? Kendra closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting into a confused jumble of fantasy and reality. In some rational part of her mind she wondered how long this strange calm would last.

It lasted until they reached Nottingham.

Kendra stared in horror at the dim, dank cell Navarre had just unlocked using a heavy, ancient-looking key. He had pushed her inside and now stood silhouetted in the open doorway, his face hidden in the shadows.

"You are not going to leave me in here," she said, in a tone that, in the course of her career as an investigative reporter, had shaken presidents and press secretaries alike with its tenacity. To her horror he backed out of the door and slammed it suddenly shut in her face.

" 'Tis only for a time, witch," he informed her through the small window at the top of the door, "until the sheriff sends for you.'"

"No!" Kendra threw herself against the wooden door, feeling splinters gouge her fists as she beat impotently upon the barrier. "Don't leave me here, you bastard!" she cried. There was a silence, then she heard his footsteps echo down the stone corridor. Panic swept over her with the same cloying strength of her prison's stench.

Wide-eyed, Kendra turned to face the cell. A dim light from the tiny window stretched across the room, exposing clumps of straw in various stages of decomposition, as well as three dead rats. The stench of urine and filth rose up to assault her senses and Kendra covered her nose with her hand even as she fought the urge to vomit. A dark form the size of a kitten scurried across the room and with a gasp she backed away, colliding with the solid frame of the door. Leaning there for a moment, eyes closed, Kendra tried to still the thundering of her heart and took a deep, shuddering breath.

They had arrived at their destination just before dawn. Kendra had known immediately something was desperately wrong. She had been to Nottingham before, once as a child, and later on her "trip abroad" after college. It was an industrialized city, with over a quarter of a million people. There were many tourist attractions, including a statue of the legendary Robin Hood. She had been disappointed to find there was no castle, only a manor house which had been renovated into a museum and art gallery. Kendra had loved every minute of her time there.

But when Navarre's horse had carried them through gigantic wooden gates and he announced they had arrived in Nottingham, Kendra had stared around in disbelief and confusion. Flanking a large, open square of mud were dozens of shops crammed together, most of them looking like a good stiff breeze would send them tumbling. Signs hung outside a few, apparently depicting by picture the type of service the shop provided. There were no words. A wooden boot swung outside one, a crude anvil above another.

Here and there a few early risers shuffled along what passed for .the village street, wearing ragged tunics and dirty cloaks, barefooted or wearing sandals, their faces so coated with dirt and grime as to be scarcely recognizable as human beings.

Numbly, Kendra had stared as the knight's horse picked its way through the rutted street, leading them past the shop where the anvil sign hung outside. Inside, the blacksmith pounded on a length of metal, the crude beginnings of a sword. Hawkers began calling out their wares and suddenly Kendra's calm facade crumbled into hysteria.

She began to scream and fight a startled Navarre, and as she did, several people came running out into the street. They gawked for a moment at the sight of a young woman struggling with a knight on horseback, then simply turned and walked away.

Kendra stopped screaming out of pure shock. The people had come as she'd hoped, but acted as though there wasn't anything wrong with what was taking place. What was going on? When she finally stopped struggling, Navarre had tied her wrists to the saddle and continued through what was not an industrial city, but a bustling village. When they arrived at the gate of a huge castle, Kendra knew something was terribly wrong. When she'd visited the castle museum she'd seen pictures of the original Nottingham Castle. This was it.

Paint with hunger and exhaustion, Kendra had closed her eyes and sagged limply against Navarre. When she finally opened her eyes again, they were no longer on the horse. She was lying near a trough of water and Navarre was using a cold, wet cloth to wipe away the dirt of the road from her face. Kendra caught a glimpse of concern in his eyes before his mask of implacability slid into place. Once she had revived somewhat, he had given her a cool drink of water and produced a kind of meat pie. She wolfed it down without any pretense of manners. After she licked the last crumb from her fingers, the knight had picked her up and carried her down several flights of stairs, then through a long hallway illuminated only by the light of occasional torches held in iron sconces embedded in the stone wall. He had stopped in front of a large, thick wooden door with bars at the top, and looked down at her with something like regret in his eyes.

Now, Kendra turned and beat her fists against the rough door until she felt her hands bleeding from the impact of splintering wood. Standing on tiptoe, she grabbed the iron bars in the small window at the top of the door and hoisted herself up.

"Let me out of here!" she shouted, barely able to see over the window sill. "My editor will pay you well for my release, but not if you leave me in this pigsty for another minute!" Kendra couldn't stop the trembling of her voice and it infuriated her. Nor could she hold herself up for long, and as her feet touched the floor again, she spun around in dismay.

Kendra O'Brien, top investigative reporter for the Chronicle, never lost control of her emotions or the situation. Never.

Right, O'Brien, you were really in control when you tried to seduce your crazy knight, she thought.

Pushing the embarrassing memory away, Kendra paced back and forth in the small area in front of the door, shivering, wishing Navarre had at least left her the blanket, her aching hands clutched behind her back. There had to be a way out.

There was always a way out. He would come back. Of course he would. He had to. There was no reason why he shouldn't come back. After all, he couldn't hope to gain anything if he left her down in this cesspool.

Unless-her pulse quickened-unless he didn't hope to gain a thing and was simply a crazy man who wanted to keep her locked up for some twisted reason of his own. Now that she thought about it, why would a sane man refuse a woman who wanted his body? And why would he spout all of that nonsense about witches and Richard? She'd thought at the time it was just pan of his plan to confuse and frighten her. But now...

Her heart started pounding, throbbing through the skin of her chest even as she stared down at the nasty piles of infested straw. Willing herself not to panic, Kendra focused on the stream of light pouring through the window and took several deep breaths in an effort to slow her rapid pulse.

"Concentrate," she ordered herself aloud in a trembling voice. "You will get out of here. You will! Say it, O'Brien! Believe it!" She spun around and faced the door. "I'm going to get out of here!"

"Save yer strength."

Kendra jerked in surprise at the sound of the croaky voice outside her cell. Her fingernails bit into the narrow sill of the door's window as she pulled herself up to the opening again.

"Who's there?" she cried, her words echoing down the stone hallway. "Where are you?"

"Over here," the voice said, "jest acrost from yer lovely chamber."

Kendra squinted through the window, torchlight illuminating the space between her door and the identical one opposite. She could barely make out what appeared to be the top of a head, then caught her breath as two hard, black eyes appeared in the opening.

"Ye kin tell yerself lies 'till yer gullet's raw but ol' Ben knows the truth. There ain't no way out of 'ere-'cept the noose or the blade." The black eyes squinted at her. "Or the fire, mayhap. Pretty 'un, ain't ye? But t' won't matter a whit when they drag ye before the sheriff. I 'eard the keeper say ye be a witch. Is ye?"

"No." Kendra retorted. "I was kidnapped by that big ape. He probably means to try to ransom me from my uncle."

"Aye, that happens. Why then is 'e saying ye be a witch?"

"Because he's crazy," Kendra said, lowering herself from the window and flexing her fingers. She glanced around the cell. He would be back any moment. "How long have you been here?" she asked, raising her voice slightly.

"Me? I been in the dungeon for a year now, I figures."

Kendra went cold. A year! Dear God! Was it possible that a person could simply disappear for a year and not be found? But in her case she knew someone must be looking for her by now. Mac had surely called the hotel and discovered she was missing.

"Why are you here?" Kendra asked. "Are you a political prisoner or are you being held for ransom?" She held her breath as she awaited his answer.

A cackling laugh echoed through the stone and Kendra shivered, involuntarily rubbing her hands up and down her arms. The chill of the cell was beginning to seep into her bones, along with a terrible fear.

"Ransom? I be no one of fortune. Po-lit-i-cal? What be that? Nay, wench, I be in this pisshole for thievery. The sheriff has forgotten me, and likely I'll never see the light of day again. And neither will ye. The sheriff 'e 'ates witches-fears 'em 'e does -an' e's a bloodthirsty bastard, make no doubt o' that."

Kendra leaned against the door, then wearily turned and grasped the bars above her head, once again pulling herself up. The man's black eyes were curiously bright in the dim light. "Where am I?" she said across the hallway, her knees braced against the door, her voice now a defeated whisper.

"This be Notting'am." the man answered, "Notting'am Castle."

"Nottingham," she repeated with a sigh. So the game continued. This man had probably been planted in the opposite cell purposely to frighten her. Of course, that was it, just more of the insane play acting that Navarre had subjected her to from the beginning. Mac would start a search for her soon. Sean Taylor, the boy that had guided her to the crop circle, would report she had been missing since... Kendra rubbed one hand across her eyes. What day was it? Since this adventure had started the days had meshed together until she was no longer sure just how long she'd been missing. The night she'd crouched in the field of the crop circle in Wiltshire had been July 16.

"What day is this?" she asked her unseen companion in the darkness. There was a pause, and Kendra could hear the man counting.

"It be the Sabbath."

Kendra closed her eyes and swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the iron bars, her arms aching with the effort, her heart pounding fearfully.

"What date?"

Another pause, then the rough voice spoke again, this time its tone wary.

"Date?" The question seemed to puzzle him. "This be about the middle of Feb'wary," he said at last, his voice thoughtful. "Aye, Feb'wary, in the year o' our Lord, 1194."

Kendra felt her hands uncurl of their own volition and the bars slip from her grasp. The rough surface of the door scraped her face as she slid to the cold, stone floor, oblivious to the sound of scurrying rodents in the corner of the cell.

Kendra stared into the blackness and began to tremble, nausea choking her with its intensity, terror seizing her as the full import of the man's words struck her with the force of a hurricane.

The year of our Lord, 1194.

Chapter Five.

Navarre gazed out of the narrow window of his chamber, hands clasped behind him, dark brows knit together above stormy golden eyes. Dawn broke softly in Nottingham. Pale pink fingers of light shot through the mist-gray sky illuminating the castle walls, shadowing the hodgepodge of houses and hovels scattered within those wooden barriers. Normally Navarre enjoyed watching the sun rise over his adopted city, but not today.

He had not slept as he intended after throwing the witch into the dungeon. Instead, he had lain upon his bed and thought about the softness of her skin. Over and over again the scene in the crag replayed itself in his mind and he tasted of her lips, caressed her soft breasts, sheathed himself in the dark, giving warmth of her body. He knew it was sorcery, yet some irrational part of his being did not care.

Eventually he had forced himself to leave his daydream and his warm bed to pace the room in hope that the cold would shock him back to his senses. He had finally slept for a few hours, only to awaken feeling more unsettled than before.