Now Navarre looked wearily at the dawning sky of their second day in Nottingham, knowing full well he should forget the witch and get on with his usual duties. He should put the thought of her fear-filled eyes as he locked her into the dungeon out of his mind. He should forget the sound of rats squealing in the darkness. Navarre squeezed his eyes shut against the image of rodents tearing at Kendra's soft white skin.

Kendra.

Navarre ran one hand through his dark hair, spinning away from the window and the tendrils of dawn. He had tried not to think of her as Kendra, a woman, but only as the witch who sought to ensorcell him. Even during his vivid fantasies of the night he had not called her name in his mind. But today, in the cold light of morning, he knew that when he brought her before Garrick and related the story of Magda's prophecy and all the details of Kendra's strange appearance, and the fearful weapon she had brought with her, the sheriff would think her a witch and order her death.

And knowing Garrick these days, it would be a decision he would enjoy making. Navarre frowned and began once again to pace across the stone floor of the small room. Garrick had grown increasingly cruel of late. It would seem that the power of becoming both sheriff and Prince John's advisor had begun to affect his friend's thinking. Navarre had tried to remind him, when they were alone and had no need to keep up the pretense of being sheriff and custodis pads-keeper of the peace-that their mission in Nottingham was not to persecute helpless serfs and villains, but to bring a revolution to the heart of England. Garrick had only laughed.

Why did the thought of Kendra enduring Garrick's idea of justice cause him anguish? Why did her face continue to haunt him like Talam's? Would another woman die because he couldn't protect her? Did she deserve to die? Perhaps she spoke the truth. Perhaps, after all, she was a victim of bizarre magic or events over which she had no control.

Navarre stopped pacing. Could he successfully evaluate the situation himself before the sheriff arrived? He had a little time. John and Garrick were still in London where they had gone to seek secret support for their plans of usurpation. They were not expected to return to Nottingham for yet another week. Given what he knew now, Navarre would have no choice but to bring Kendra before them for judgment once they arrived. But what if he could prove his own suspicions wrong before that time?

He sighed and sank down on his bed, running his hands absently across the coverlet. It was golden, the color of the lion, the color of his eyes. Richard's mother, Eleanor, had given it to him after he had been knighted, just before he left for the crusade. Navarre glanced around the small room. He had purposely taken a smaller chamber, for he didn't think it proper for a knight to wallow in comfort. His life was one of sacrifice and moderation, and he felt his living place should reflect those duties as well. But between Eleanor's gift and the lady Marian, it was not an uncomfortable room at all.

His bed was not large, but it was ample, even for his big body, with simple but stately lines and the relief carving of a lion at the head. Fanciful, he had called it, but Marian had insisted on giving it to him for his birthday. He had laughed and told her that young ladies should not give men such things and she had smiled her shy smile and told him she wasn't a young lady yet, so that made it all right. That had been years ago of course, and now Marian was a young lady.

The rest of the room was fairly austere, a table and stool for writing on the rare occasion that he did, one tapestry on the wall depicting a crusading soldier- Marian's needlework. Luxurious drapes, the color of his coverlet, flanked the one window in the room. He had brought the material back from the holy lands and given it to Marian as a present. She had surprised him a month later with the window hangings.

He frowned as he glanced around the room again. New decorations had been added, he saw, since he had been gone-dried broomweed had been fashioned into a wreath and hung above his door, bright ribbons dangling from the top. A new rug brightened the stone of his fireplace hearth, and on the mantle was a wooden statue of a lion. Marian's handiwork again, of course. No one else in the world cared whether he lived or died-with the exception of Garrick.

At the thought of the sheriff of Nottingham, Navarre shook himself from his reverie and crossed to the chest where he had left his saddlebag. The weapon must be examined, even though he feared touching it again. The one time he had held it, the cold, dull metal had frightened him in a way a sword never had. Foolish, superstitious nonsense, he told himself sternly, and opened the bag.

A sharp knock came at the door, sounding several times before Navarre shook himself from his reverie.

"Come."

The door swung open, and a young woman, slight of stature and plain of face, timidly slipped into the room. Her russet dress was unadorned and an overdress of dark brown only served to make her already sallow complexion seem even muddier. She wore her dull blond hair twisted into a haphazard bun at the base of her neck.

"Navarre," she said softly, hovering just inside the door, "is it true?"

Navarre sighed. "Marian, what are you doing skulking about the castle at this hour? You should still be asleep in your bed like all good children."

The fleeting grimace of irritation across her plain face did not pass unnoticed, and Navarre masked the beginnings of a smile by turning away from her. Lady Marian, the king's sixteen-year-old ward, thought herself a woman fully grown. Were it any other maid in the city Navarre would have agreed, but Marian... ah, sweet Marian lived in a dream world of her own making filled with heroes and fairies. Although she had been of marrying age for almost two years, Navarre had discouraged Richard from promising her in marriage. But that was two years ago, and all had changed, except Marian. Marian was still the same sweet child. Navarre haled deceiving her.

"I heard you brought back a witch from Abury and threw her in the dungeon." Her pale blue eyes widened and the hesitancy disappeared as she moved quickly across the room to lay one hand lightly on the knight's arm. "Is it true, Navarre? What does she look like? Does she have a horrible face with warts and discolored splotches? Did she try to cast a spell on you?"

Navarre sighed indulgently. Marian was the only part of Richard worth tolerating. He had known the ward of the king since she was a child, and although Navarre was but a bastard who had bought his knighthood at the auction block, Richard had welcomed him into his family as well as his army. Navarre had spoiled the child, treating her as though she were his own daughter, and even Richard's fall from grace in Navarre's heart could not change the knight's love for her. At the moment, however, she was trying his patience.

"Marian, where do you hear such nonsense?"

"From the servants, of course." She lifted her chin. "From whence else would I hear it? No one in this household knows that I exist except the servants. Faith, I believe they think perhaps I am a servant."

"I shall try to be more attentive in the future," Navarre said dryly. "Now, off with you. Back to bed, or if you have so much energy, go help cook with the morning meal."

Tears welled suddenly in her eyes. "Do you see? Even you order me about as though I were a serf. I am the ward of the king-is it so much to ask to be treated as such?"

"You have everything you could possibly desire," Navarre said impatiently.

The pale eyelashes blinked and two tears trickled down her cheeks. She quickly brushed them away. "Yes, of course. Forgive me, Navarre. Being alone so much, I fear I grow melancholy."

Navarre felt a brief prickle of guilt and he patted her shoulder awkwardly. "You need to get out more," he said. "I'll talk to the groom about taking you for a ride twice a week."

"I'm afraid of horses," she reminded him, her voice once again faint and listless.

"You need to overcome that fear, sweetling." Navarre turned away from her to a small chest at the end of his bed where he kept his extra clothing. With his back to her he shrugged out of his filthy tunic and lifted the lid, reaching into the chest for a cleaner one.

"And you need a bath," Marian said softly, the trace of a smile in her voice. She gasped, then, and Navarre spun around.

"Your arm!" she cried, rushing to his side. "What happened?"

He shrugged and turned back to the chest. "A scratch," he said. "Do not worry about it."

"It must be bathed-you must be bathed," she added sternly.

Navarre glanced over his shoulder and his granitelike countenance split into an answering grin.

"Aye," he agreed, "that I do. Well, Maid Marian, who would rule the household of Nottingham if only we mere men would let her, why don't you bring me something to eat and then I promise I will scrub this journey's dirt from my body."

"I shall, and I shall put a fresh, clean bandage on your wound," she said, a brief spark of mischief lighting her eyes, "if you let me see the witch."

He sighed. "There is nothing to see," he said, as he chose a golden-colored tunic and pulled it over his head, his back still to her.

"Of course there is-is she the one? Is she Richard's salvation?"

Navarre spun around in time to see Marian clap her hand across her mouth and her eyes fill with sudden terror. "What did you say?" he demanded, crossing the short distance between them and glaring down at her.

The fear in Marian's eyes quickened as the black lion glared down at her.

"I... nothing, Navarre. I was only jesting."

"Nay, 'twas not a jest." Navarre gestured toward a small stool sitting in front of the fireplace. "Sit down." The girl obeyed immediately. "Tell me where you heard this," he said. She started to speak and he lifted one hand to silence her. "Take care that you do not lie to me, for I know when you are lying, little girl."

"I am not a little girl," Marian protested, then lowered her voice. "I am a woman- something no one around here seems to realize."

"Enough. Where did you hear these words, Richard's salvation?"

Navarre stood beside her, one foot balanced on the edge of the fireplace hearth, hands folded over one knee. Marian met his burning gaze, then dropped her own to her folded hands.

"I overheard it."

"Where? From whom?"

"In the forest. From Magda."

Navarre straightened, his foot coming down to the floor with a thud. "Magda! How do you know of her?"

Marian looked up and her light brows rose in a silent plea for mercy. She found none in the gaze of the furious knight.

"Answer me, girl. How do you know of Magda and how did you hear of Richard's salvation?"

Her voice trembled as she answered. "I... followed you."

"You did what?" Navarre stared down at the girl, thunderstruck by her admission. Marian was sixteen years old, an age at which many girls were married and already bearing children, but to Navarre she was still little more than a child. Besides, Marian had always been a shy, timid little thing, and the idea of her having the gumption to sneak out of the castle and follow him to Magda's hovel was incredible.

"I followed you to Magda's home," she said, then sighed. "I am tired of being treated like a child," she said, echoing Navarre's thoughts. "I know you and John and Garrick are plotting against the king and I wanted to find out what you intended to do."

"We are not plotting against Richard," Navarre said carefully. "We are trying to keep England safe in his absence, and that involves doing things you cannot possibly understand."

Marian stood and walked slowly toward the narrow window. She stopped, her back to Navarre. "Things like spying on Robin and Magda?" she asked.

Navarre frowned. "You say their names as though you know them personally."

Marian glanced back at him. "You forget, Robin of Locksley was once a welcome member of this household. In any case, I did follow you, I did hear Magda's prophecy, and I do want to meet the woman you have banished to the dungeon."

"I should turn you over my knee and spank you," Navarre said, folding his arms across his chest. "Now, go back to your room before I do exactly that-and no more arguments."

Marian opened her mouth, then clamped it shut again as Navarre raised both brows in warning.

"Very well," she said, lifting the hem of the long gown she wore and making her way toward the door. She stopped and looked back, her eyes filled with a firm, yet gentle pleading. "But know this, dear Navarre-either make me your ally, help me understand why you wish to destroy Richard, or." she paused eloquently, her pale eyelashes fluttering down, "I shall become your enemy."

Without another glance, she slipped out of the room. Navarre stared after her, speechless for a moment, shaking his head.

"Women," he said finally, under his breath, then jumped as a second pounding shook the door. Scolding himself for his jittery nerves, he jerked open the door to find a buxom young woman smiling up at him. He recognized her as one of the scullery maids he had tumbled once, not too long ago, when the demons inside of him had driven him to seek out a woman for the night. She had been lusty and enthusiastic and he had tipped her well.

"Sir," she said with a bob of a curtsey, her dark eyes twinkling boldly, her rosy complexion deepening under his gaze. "I am so happy you have returned safely. Lady Marian says you desire food." She licked her lips provocatively. "What may I bring you, m'lord?" She tossed her flaxen, none-too-clean hair back from her shoulders and moved a little closer to better display her ample cleavage to the keeper of the peace.

Navarre wasn't seeing the heavy breasts practically spilling out of the wench's tattered blouse, nor her round, healthy peasant face so eager to please. He was seeing Kendra, auburn-haired Kendra, slim and firm, elfin-faced, writhing beneath him, her eyes closed, her passion unrehearsed, unrestrained.

"I am not hungry," he said flatly, "neither for food nor your earthy wares. Gel you gone."

The pleasant look on her face changed swiftly to pouting insolence and with a flounce she turned and started back down the hallway. Navarre watched her go, feeling a terrible sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Before he found Kendra he would have happily bedded the wench. Now he had turned her down simply because she did not compare with the woman from Abury.

He turned away from the door and strode to the window, his fists flexing in frustration, his eyes staring out, unseeing, at the distant horizon. Was there no way to be free of the witch's spell? Would he always desire her? Would the insanity of his need pound through his blood throughout eternity?

Navarre shook his head, passing one hand across his eyes shakily. Nay. Why was he so concerned? There would be an end to this, and very soon, once John and Garrick returned. If he did not prove to himself that she was not a witch before they arrived, he was duty bound to present her to Garrick's court of justice. Navarre closed his eyes as a wave of nausea and pain swept over him. He did not want her to die.

Enchanted.

His mind whispered the word and it echoed into his soul. Expelling his breath raggedly the knight spun away from the window and picked up a pair of leather gauntlets from the long, narrow table nearby. He pulled them on. A hard ride, that was what he needed. Physical exertion would chase away these superstitious remnants of his old beliefs.

Enchanted.

Navarre scowled and with a savage oath, strode out the door of the chamber and headed for the stables.

Kendra screamed as another rat touched the edge of her boot. She lashed out with her foot and sent the animal squealing and scampering off into the dark corner from which it had come, like all the others that had dared to venture over to her side of the tiny cell during the night.

After the prisoner in the other cell across the dark corridor had announced that it was 1194, Kendra had first sat stunned, until she began to cry, haltingly, later hysterically. At first she thought she had gone insane. Then again wondered if perhaps she was still asleep, dreaming. But she knew the truth even as she tried desperately to deny it. This was no dream. The pungent smell of rotting hay, dead rats and human waste was too intense to be any mere dream. If she had been honest she'd have admitted to herself during the sensuous interlude in the forest that it couldn't be a dream.

And she could not, would not accept insanity as a possibility. If losing her husband and child had not driven her crazy, nothing could. All at once she realized she felt just as she had when they had died-adrift, anchorless, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

James and Nicole. How long had it been since she'd allowed herself to think of them? How long since the whirling merry-go-round she had made her life had paused long enough to picture their faces in her mind? Kendra leaned her face into the palms of her hands and let the hot tears flow unimpeded for once by any noble thoughts of self-restraint. She conjured them now into her mind, a tall, thin man with deep-set blue eyes and thick brown hair, a tiny little girl, redheaded like her mother, dimpled face and sparkling blue-green eyes.

She clung to the hazy photograph in her mind, connecting herself to the fragile memory, tying herself to the reality that once had been, that was no more. As though she viewed the two through a director's lens, Kendra brought James's face into a close-up. Lovingly she traced the fine lines around his lips and knew, with a pang, that she had put them there. He had never wanted her to be a reporter, had resented it so much. They had fought almost daily their last year together.

Kendra frowned. She had forgotten that, had not thought of it since before the funeral. All the pain, the trials of their marriage, their problems, had dissolved into a misty watercolor that continued to fade as the years passed until the memory of their lives together had been enshrined in her thoughts, pure and perfect and whole. Still, she had loved him, and he had loved her, and if he had lived... Kendra bit her lower lip. If he had lived, would they have stayed together? She'd never thought about it and even now shook the question away. It didn't matter. James was dead.

Next she traced Nicole's features with her thoughts. Disturbingly enough, this picture was hazy, her daughter's face fuzzy and indistinct. Kendra sighed and let the image of her child's smile disintegrate into nothingness. She had not opened the photo albums she collected since Nicole's birth, since the day of the funeral. She couldn't stand to view photographs of happier days. Was it any wonder then that she recalled her baby so poorly? And now she couldn't ever look at the pictures of her daughter again and refresh her waning memory. Never again would she have the opportunity to open the taped up box filled with Nicole's little dresses and shoes and favorite doll and remember her child.

As quickly as they had begun, Kendra's tears stopped as the full implications of what had happened to her sank in. She sat for a long time in the darkness, her tears dried upon her cheeks, her mind carefully blank. Then at last, she felt her breath quiver inside of her and, using every last ounce of strength she possessed, Kendra unhooked the lifelines she had tossed around the memories of her family and once again, shut the door to her past. The present was what she had to concentrate on now. She shivered. The present, 1194 the present? She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, fighting for composure.

Evaluate the situation. That was what Uncle Mac had taught her when she first became a reporter. If and when a reporter found herself, or himself, in a precarious situation, Mac said, the first thing to do was evaluate the situation and gauge one's options. Kendra had spent the rest of the long night and all of this endlessly long day evaluating her situation. Now as she stared at the stone walls of her cage, she realized she was no closer to an answer than she had been when she started. All she had was the same suppositions she had turned over and over in her mind throughout the night With a sigh she began the process again.

The storm on the Avebury Plain had not been just any storm, that was obvious. She thought back over Sean's words about the mystic fields. Was it possible that the myths and legends surrounding the ancient place were based on reality? Was it possible that some kind of time portal existed there? No, how could it? If that were true, then people would be disappearing left and right. Avebury was a big tourist attraction. No, it had to be something else, something more transient.

Concentrating to shut out the sounds of the rats in the corner and the man across the hall who had begun an eerie kind of singsong chant, Kendra forced herself to remember the details of the strange storm.

There had been blue lights hovering above her, she remembered that. But wait, before the lights appeared she had felt a strong, magnetic current that seemed to pull her across the field and into the crop circle. The crop circle! Of course, it all made sense now. Hadn't she read the theories of scientists who believed that England possessed the strongest magnetic poles on the planet? Hadn't she even read Ian McKay's belief that the magnetic "storms" that formed the circles disrupted the time-space continuum?

Suddenly it all made perfect sense. Whatever the power was, whatever the blue lights were, they were the source of the mysterious crop circles that had appeared in England for decades, perhaps centuries. If indeed they had created some sort of time portal-which suddenly seemed altogether reasonable given the events of the past day-then she had actually been taken back in time to the year 1194, to medieval England, to the days of knights and crusades and the burning of witches.

"Oh my God," she gasped. Running her tongue across suddenly dry lips, Kendra forced the panic from her mind. All right, if she had done the impossible and traveled through time, then she could do the impossible again and travel back to her own time. If she survived that long.

Kendra's hands turned suddenly clammy. Navarre had made it plain she was his enemy. She frowned, thinking back to their days together. Not only had he accused her of being a witch, but he had called her "Richard's salvation." What did that mean? He had mentioned the name "Locksley" too. She wasn't an expert on history, but as a teenager she had loved stories about medieval times, especially the days of Robin Hood, and Robin had been the Earl of Locksley, hadn't he? Robin of Locksley. Robin Hood. Richard. King Richard the Lionheart?

Kendra shivered and kicked out with her feet just to insure the vermin inhabiting the cell kept their distance as she thought about her hunch. Locksley and Richard. Navarre's accusations revealed that he believed she was working for the two men, or with them. That in turn had to mean that Navarre was not one of the guys wearing a white hat in this scenario.

She grimaced and shifted her position on the rotting haystack she'd been forced to use as a bed. The fact that Navarre was obviously not a hero came as no surprise to her. What she couldn't understand was how she could have been attracted to him. The image of Navarre, naked and hot against her, flashed through her mind and resolutely she pushed the picture away.

Locksley and Richard. But those were just fairy tales, weren't they? At least, the ones about Robin Hood. Of course there really had been a King Richard. She bit her lip, trying to recall the college class she had taken on medieval literature. Richard the First, so courageous he was known as the Lionheart, had journeyed to the Holy Lands to make war on the Muslims, leaving England unprotected and unguided. His brother John had tried to take over in his absence, initiating unfair taxes and harsh penalties. According to legend, Robert of Locksley had become an outlaw, called Robin Hood, sworn to defend England from John and the Sheriff of Nottingham until Richard returned. Wasn't that how the story went?

She shivered again, rubbing her arms vigorously against the dank chill of her prison. How long would he leave her in this hellhole? she wondered. How could he have left her there at all after what they had almost meant to each other? One corner of her mouth quirked up, and she was glad that in spite of the madness of the situation she still had her sense of humor. Or was she simply losing her sanity? That would be easy to do under the circumstances, and yet, she'd never felt so sharp, so clear minded, now that she knew what was happening.

It was the reporter in her, she supposed. Strange, even in the face of this incredible danger, every bone in her body screamed out "What a story!" It was silly, because even if she could get back to her own era, who would ever believe she had journeyed back in time? She'd be just another tabloid headline: "Journalist Travels Back In Time-Meets Robin Hood!" Kendra smiled. At least it would give Mac's fledgling paper a boost in the right direction.

Her smile faded. What was she thinking? She would likely never see Mac again. In fact, it was very likely that within the next twenty-four hours she would be burned at the stake or however they executed witches in 1194. Or maybe they would just let her starve to death in this horrible pit of despair. Kendra closed her eyes and shuddered. To die amid the stench, the filth, the rats, that would be the most terrible fate she could imagine.

"Navarre," she whispered aloud, "don't leave me here to die."

"I will not."

Kendra jumped to her feet at the sound of the deep, familiar voice. She almost rushed to the door but stopped, reminding herself that this man was not her rescuer but her captor.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked, hating the trembling sound of her voice. "I haven't done anything to you."

She could hear a key grating in a lock, then the door swung open. Navarre entered and the cell suddenly seemed much smaller. Kendra swallowed as the intensity of the golden eyes flickered in the light of the torch he held, boring through her.

"You have done much to me," he said softly. Reaching up he slid the torch into the metal wall socket designed to hold it, then moved through the dim light to her side. "You have done all you set out to do."

One hand lifted to cup her face, tilting her chin toward his, and before Kendra could protest, she was drowning once again in Navarre's embrace. His mouth plundered hers with a tenderness that, under the circumstances and considering the things he had accused her of, made little sense.