No! her mind shouted, as desire began to churn inside of her. He was her enemy. He was the bad guy. He had thrown her in a dungeon, how could she possibly want him?

But she did. When Navarre gathered her more tightly against him, she twisted her fingers into the dark texture of his hair and met him, passion for passion. His mouth devoured hers, his hands burned as they slid down the sides of her face, her shoulders, her breasts. His legs, hard and muscular pressed against her, forcing her backward until her spine touched the cold stone wall of the dungeon. It was the cold that brought her to her senses.

"What have I done to you?" she said breathlessly, pushing away from him, only succeeding in separating them slightly. "What have I done?"

"Bound me to you," he whispered, crushing her against him once again. "Made me burn with a fire that only you can quench. I cannot be near you without touching you. I cannot sleep for thinking of how I long to make love to you. I went into the forest to try to escape the thought of you. I cannot."

He squeezed his eyes shut. "God have mercy on me-you have ensorcelled me."

"No." Kendra heard the pica in her voice and fought for control. If she didn't know better she'd think it was the other way around-that he had used magic on her. Never in her life had she felt such passion, such flame, such raw desire as the knight pressed himself against her. "What I said about casting a spell on you, it was a joke -" she choked out "-a jest. I told you, I thought I was dreaming. I had hit my head, I didn't know I was awake!"

"No," he said, their faces inches apart, his golden eyes like a living flame. "You are a witch and you have enchanted me."

He turned away from her abruptly, leaning the flat of both hands against the wall in front of him. Kendra saw the tension in the set of his shoulders, the muscles straining taut beneath the soft fabric of his tunic. She longed to reach out and touch him, caress the knotted muscles.

"When I do my duty and bring you before the sheriff," he said, his voice low and muffled, "then I must watch you die and it will be like a knife thrust deeply into my heart." He sighed and Kendra saw the tension ease from his shoulders with the admission. "I beg you, in the name of God, release me from this torture. Repent and go to your death in a state of grace. I can fetch a priest." He lowered his hands from the wall and straightened, lifting his head with a kind of stoic resignation. "He will hear your confession."

Kendra moved to stand beside him. "I haven't enchanted you-I swear I haven't. I am not a witch. Let me go, Navarre." Kendra reached up and touched his face lightly. He closed his eyes and the look on his face was that of a man going through a great tribulation. "Let me go back to where I belong. Please, Navarre." Her hand slipped to rest lightly on his forearm.

"I cannot." He tried to move away but Kendra tightened her grip. With obvious reluctance he looked down into her face. For a long moment suspended in time they gazed at one another until at last Navarre shook his head slowly. "Nay," he said hoarsely, "I cannot."

"I am not what you believe me to be," she whispered. "I am not a witch, nor am I Richard's salvation. I am..." she stopped, aware that if she began babbling about being from the future he would no doubt think her completely mad. What did they do with madwomen in medieval times? The word "bedlam" crossed her mind, and with it pictures of dungeon-like rooms inhabited by the insane.

"I am just a peasant girl who got lost." She lowered her gaze. "Please, Sir Navarre, please let me go home."

"Nay," he said softly, then turned and to her surprise, took her back into his arms. "But neither will I treat you in this manner. Your sorcery will at least insure you of a warm place to sleep and decent food."

"I'm not-" Kendra broke off, too tired to pursue the argument further.

"Come with me," he said, pushing the rough planked door open. Stunned for a moment, Kendra quickly recovered and hurried out of the dank cell, not daring to question why her captor was releasing her. She stopped abruptly and went back inside, searching the floor of the cell in a kind of panic. Her bag. Her bag contained all she had left to her in the world, all that she was.

"What are you doing?" Navarre said crossly. "Do you wish to remain here?"

"No, I'm just looking for my-there it is." Kendra pounced on a pile of straw, remembering belatedly that she had hidden the bag under the filthy covering and sat on it in the hope that the rats would not find and destroy it. One was gnawing on the strap as she crossed the cell and she kicked it away, ignoring its squeal of protest.

"Give it to me," Navarre ordered, holding out his hand. "Where did it come from? I do not remember you having it when I brought you here. Did you conjure it from the air?"

Kendra clutched the bag to her chest obstinately. Then, with a sigh, she held it out to him.

"No, I did not 'conjure' it," she said, spitting out the word. "I've had it with me the whole time. Can I help it if you aren't very observant?"

"Be silent," he said, almost casually. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he motioned for Kendra to walk in front of him.

When she hesitated, Navarre glanced back into the cell and with a muttered curse, she complied. Silently they walked down the dark corridor until they reached the end of the hallway where a flight of steps led upward.

Clenching her fists tightly to keep herself from making a futile attempt to escape, Kendra could hardly contain herself when they reached the top of the stairs. Daylight streamed through a long, narrow window and Kendra rushed over to it, drawing in great, ragged breaths of the clean, extremely cold morning air, so different from the putrid stench she had endured all night. She sighed with relief.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, as Navarre took her by the elbow and began propelling her up yet another flight of stairs.

"To the tower." His square face was taut with resolve. "It is clean and has a place for a fire. I will bring food to you." He wrinkled his nose. "Or have it sent. Zounds, what a stench you make, girl."

Kendra blushed, then lifted her chin defiantly and stopped in her tracks halfway up the stairway. "It isn't as though I asked to be thrown into that pigsty," she said. "I need a bath."

Navarre glared down at her, but all at once one corner of his mouth twitched and a slight smile crossed his stern features. "Aye," he said, "that you do."

"You could use one yourself," she said, tossing the now leaden mane of hair back with as much impudence as she could muster, then drew in a quick breath as the hard gold of his eyes softened to liquid fire.

"Aye." His husky voice slid across her shattered nerves like a soothing balm. "That I could."

For a moment she thought he might smile again, then the sternness returned to his lips, but the heat did not fade from his gaze.

"Come," he said.

"Where are we going?"

One dark brow arched upward. "Why, to take a bath."

"Both of us?" Kendra demanded.

This time a true smile stretched across his handsome face and it was a wicked sight to behold. Kendra shivered and wondered again just who was bewitching whom.

"Afraid, my little sorceress?" he asked softly. "Do not tell me you have never bathed with a man."

She opened her mouth to speak but once again Navarre took the advantage. Kendra felt the hot flame of passion course between them as his lips covered hers, coaxing them apart, burning into her with a fire that was almost painful in its intensity. She moaned aloud and felt Navarre's arms tighten around her, his own breath catch in his throat as he suddenly released her and took a step back, almost stumbling down the stairs. Kendra reached out to steady him and he stared down at her hand on his arm, a dazed look on his face.

"All right, witch," he whispered, his golden gaze flashing back to hers. "This time we will finish what you began in the crag, but this time it will be you who are ensorcelled and not Navarre de Galliard."

Chapter Six.

Navarre led Kendra to the bathhouse, a building the sheriff had devised for the specific purpose of always having warm water available when he wanted to take one of his daily baths. People in the village whispered among themselves about Garrick's preoccupation with cleanliness. If he had been a commoner, he probably would have been accused of witchcraft.

Most of the villagers seldom bathed, except perhaps in the heat of summer when the bathing was actually secondary to swimming. Those of higher standing bathed more regularly, but to bathe every day, and especially during the winter months, it was unheard of and invited death, on that everyone in Nottingham agreed. Navarre was amused by Garrick's obsession but enjoyed an almost daily wash himself. He and the sheriff had learned new customs during their tenure in the Holy Land, new customs and new horrors.

Navarre shook the thought away. Of course, bathing often in winter was something he had not yet braved, but an occasional bath was a pleasure he now looked forward to. And yet he knew it wasn't the thought of that particular pleasure stirring his senses as he escorted Kendra into the building.

A large room, Garrick had designed it well, with one large, oval tub sunken into the flooring. A hole had been dug for the wooden tub to fit snugly below the surface of the ground, devised with a quite revolutionary device that allowed the tub to be drained daily and fresh water pumped in. Garrick had designed the tubes that carried the water to and from the tub, and the blacksmith had made the tubes from bronze. One tube was connected to an outside cistern where rainwater was caught. The tube brought the water from the cistern into the building where it flowed into another, smaller cistern. There it was heated, then pumped by a servant into the tub. The other tube took water away from the tub, taking it under the building and out into an open field nearby. The sheriff had seen one in Rome during his travels, and had vowed to build one himself someday. John had approved and even dipped into his own pocket to help pay for the expensive extravagance.

Torches ensconced around the walls lit the room, but the center of light and warmth was the round fireplace in the middle of the room. The stone chimney went straight up through the ceiling and the hearth opened on two sides, giving warmth to the bathers.

"Kin I assist the lady, sire?"

Navarre looked down at the old woman plucking at his sleeve. She was almost toothless, but her gray hair was clean and combed back in a neat knot at the base of her neck. Respectfully she lowered her eyes as she awaited his response. Garrick always had someone maintaining the bath. It was an extravagance John often complained about, but he loved the baths himself and his objections never lasted long.

"Yes," Navarre said at last. "She must be bathed to be presented to the sheriff and Prince John."

The woman began peeling the layers of filthy clothing off of Kendra who opened her mouth as if to protest, then snapped it shut and glared up at the knight.

Navarre stood, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back, and watched as the servant disrobed his prisoner. His gaze locked with Kendra's and silently he dared her to object. A flicker of response flashed across the blue eyes and her chin lifted in challenge as she allowed the woman to complete her ministrations. In a matter of moments Kendra stood completely naked before him.

Navarre felt the now familiar fire kindling inside of him and found himself unable to look away from her. A sheen of perspiration broke out across his brow that had nothing to do with the warm water steaming up below him. She was lovely, there was no other word to describe her. Breasts, soft and full, were the color of fresh cream, with peach-colored centers and a smattering of freckles scattered across her chest. Her waist was small, with lush hips complementing her ample bosom, and a triangle of fiery red hair stark against the paleness of her skin.

Navarre began to tremble. Their brief, almost frantic attempt to couple in the crag had not afforded him this view of his seductress. She continued to gaze up at him, as though she, too, felt mesmerized by the mysterious force drawing them together.

"Here, love," the old woman said, breaking the moment, "just step down here in the nice warm water." She took Kendra by the hand and helped her into the tub. Kendra went in wordlessly, still looking at Navarre. "And you, my lord," the attendant said, "kin I help you undress as well?"

Navarre didn't answer at first, didn't take his eyes from the auburn-haired woman. Then slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. He watched the outrage form in Kendra's eyes and could no longer contain the smile that flashed across his lips. The old woman didn't bat an eye as she pushed him down onto a nearby stool and slipped his tunic over his head. When she would have removed his braes, however, he stopped her.

"Leave us," he ordered. Kendra sank a little further down into the water. Her eyes no longer burned with arrogance, he saw, but with a kind of fear, and apprehension. It made him feel, at last, that he had the upper hand-that this woman who had made him feel so completely out of control, could be made to feel the same way. It gave him a sense of power. Perhaps, after all, the way to be free of her was to prove to himself, and to her, that in spite of her spells, Navarre de Galliard remained his own man, a man who would not be controlled by a woman's wiles or a witch's spell.

The old woman hurried out without a backward glance. Navarre stood and began to tug at the cord holding his braes about his waist.

"What do you think you're doing?" Kendra asked.

"I have been giving it much thought," Navarre said as he matter-of-factly untied his braes and slid the dusty black material over his hips and down his legs before kicking them aside. He noted that Kendra kept her gaze stubbornly fixed upon his face in spite of his nakedness, and he almost chuckled aloud.

"This fire you have ignited inside of me burns most uncomfortably," he went on, "and I have decided that the only way to conquer it is to quench the flame." He stepped down into the water and felt an intense satisfaction at the real panic he saw leap into her eyes. The water felt wonderful on his weary body and he silently thanked Garrick for being such a sensualist.

"Don't come any closer," she said, in her curious dialect.

"Ah, but you have drawn me closer." He moved slowly through the waist-high water until he stood only inches away from her. He cocked one dark brow. "It is you who have cast a spell upon me. But if you think that by causing me to lie with you, you may control me, I bid you think again. My strength is greater than you know."

Her blue eyes flashed as Navarre lifted his hand and brushed his fingertips across her bare, wet arm.

"You didn't think so in the crag," Kendra said, shivering against his touch.

"True." His fingers traced a droplet of water across her collarbone and down the creamy expanse below. He felt her stiffen beneath his touch. "However, the fear I now see in your eyes convinces me that I may have been hasty in pronouncing you a witch, in which case, there is no reason not to avail myself of your abundant charms."

The woman stiffened as he brushed his fingers across her collarbone, up to one shoulder and then down her arm. His lips followed the path he had just traced and then moved from her arm to the center of her breastbone where his tongue painted a new pattern upward. He glanced up and saw she had her eyes closed, her lips pressed tightly together. She was trembling and the knowledge quickened his desire to possess her fully. Instead, Navarre brought his mouth to hers, pressing a burning kiss to her cold lips as he slid his hands lightly across her breasts, barely touching them as he continued to move upward, moving his fingers gently up either side of her neck and plunging them into her hair. She winced as his fingers met with a matted tangle.

"My lady is in need of a good brushing it seems," Navarre said softly. Kendra started to speak and he laid one finger against her lips. "I will play lady's maid." Slowly he began to unwind the long, matted braid she had fashioned during her night in the dungeon. His fingers hit another snag and Kendra reached up reflexively to grab his wrist.

"That hurts."

"I will be gentle," he promised, gazing down into her eyes, "in many ways." Again, her lips parted with words she did not utter, then she pressed them together and looked up at him.

Navarre drew his fingers through her hair, his gaze locked with hers as he separated tangled strands. Inch by inch he worked his way through the lush jungle of red and gold, forcing himself to ignore the way her breath came more quickly at his touch and the fact that her bare breasts, taut and aroused, grazed his chest. He ignored his own arousal even as he savored the feel of his rigid skin against her soft belly. Gradually he worked the tangles out of her hair, then turned and picked up one of the special soaps Garrick insisted the tub be supplied with, and began working up a lather between his hands.

"Lavender," Kendra said, her voice husky.

Navarre glanced up from the froth in his palms and smiled. "Stolen," he whispered, "from Madagascar pirates."

Her face was flushed as Navarre moved toward her again, his lathered hands extended slightly in front of him. Kendra blinked, then took a step back. There was nowhere to go. She stretched out both hands to either side of the wooden pool for support. Navarre froze at her motion and drew in a long, shuddering sigh.

Kendra stood, arms apart, creamy breasts exposed for his view, his touch, her sweet lips lifted to him for his kiss. He could see surrender in her eyes, in the very tremble of her breath. Forcing himself to advance slowly, Navarre moved until his chest was barely touching hers, then, lifting his lathered hands, he eased them into her auburn hair and lowered his mouth to hers.

She cried out against his lips and he longed to echo her utterance. The sweetness of her mouth was as he had remembered, and as his hands caressed her luxurious mane of hair, his tongue caressed her mouth and made its own sweet plunge into the depths of the fire that was Kendra. He was possessor, he was possessed.

Navarre lowered his hands to her shoulders and massaged the gentle lavender froth into her skin, then slid his fingers down to caress her breasts. Closing his eyes, he allowed himself to think only of the way she felt, the weight of the peach-tipped jewels he held in each hand. He bent his lips to pay homage to each and was rewarded by Kendra's quick intake of breath.

"Navarre," she whispered, sliding her hands around his waist.

He pulled her away from the side of the tub and leaned her down into the water, one hand supporting her back as he used the other to spill the warm liquid over her hair. Kendra closed her eyes with a sigh as the warmth cascaded over her hair and trailed between her breasts. With a touch more gentle than he knew he possessed, Navarre massaged her scalp, again drawing his fingers through the tresses until every knot and crimp had melted into flowing silken threads.

Navarre lifted her head and Kendra opened her eyes. He saw surprise mirrored there and something akin to trust. It was the trust that stirred something long dormant inside of him as Navarre lowered his lips to the hollow of her throat. He did not stop to examine the new emotion. The sudden realization that her arms were around his neck sent a wave of delight shuddering through him as Navarre drew her firmly against him and closed his eyes.

This is a mistake. The knowledge came to him with swift and brutal intensity. This time he could not blame her, this time he alone was responsible for the seduction. Why had he believed he could make love to this enchantress and still preserve his own soul? He could not. He knew now that if he availed himself of her sweet warmth as he longed to do, he would lose himself forever, for he would never be able to give her up-not for Garrick, not for England. And yet, the inferno raging inside of him could no longer be denied. The fire in his loins cried out to meld with the molten lava that was woman-this woman. Navarre groaned aloud. He must feel his seed burn inside of her or be devoured by his own flame.

"Sweet sorceress," he whispered against her hair, the scent of lavender encompassing him. "I must make love to you or die."

"Death is so final," she said softly, "and I think I would miss you sorely."

Her arms tightened around his neck and Navarre cradled her face between his hands, his gaze searching hers.

"Now that is a scene more befitting my old friend Navarre than I have seen for quite some time." A deep voice filled with amusement echoed around the enclosure.

Instantly alert, Navarre turned, blocking Kendra from the intruder's view. Nay, he thought as a sense of panic threatened to overwhelm him. 'Twas not fair. He needed more time-time to discern if Kendra was witch or merely desirable woman. Time to quench this terrible fire.

"Garrick," he said, trying to disguise his frustration. "You have returned."

"Aye," the voice said from the shadows. "Do introduce me to your friend."

Navarre felt Kendra's hand suddenly against his back-in warning? In fear? He felt her shiver, and for some unfathomable reason, a cold tremble of premonition shivered through him too.

"Kendra," he said reluctantly, "may I present the Sheriff of Nottingham."

Back in his chamber, Navarre hurried to change his clothing. He donned a split-sided sleeveless tunic the color of a lion's mane over a black undertunic that had long, full sleeves. The black matched his braes and soft leather boots, as well as the lion that danced in miniature repetition across the golden tunic. Navarre lifted his hand absently to touch one small beast. Bastard son of a Norman nobleman, Navarre de Galliard had become a wealthy mercenary in his twenties but had no title, no future, until he heard King Richard was raffling off nobility, titles, and estates for enough gold to enable him to wage war on Outremer, the Holy Land.

Richard had befriended Navarre, as well as Garrick, Navarre's childhood friend, whose mother had also borne a nobleman's child out of wedlock. Richard soon assigned Navarre to ride at his side in battle and the knight became the king's bodyguard, protecting him on the field and off. Richard was a courageous warrior, called the Lionheart, and soon Navarre, because of his dark hair, golden eyes, and fierce demeanor, came to be known as Richard's shadow, the Black Lion.

In a small but solemn ceremony one bright April morning near Jerusalem, Richard had paid Navarre honor by declaring him knight, this time by merit, not by coin. At that time Richard had signed over several small estates to his protege, much to the distress of his advisors. The next day a messenger delivered a golden tunic with the handsome silhouette of a black lion rampart upon it, a gift from Richard.

Navarre lowered his hand from the material, and reached down for the sword he always wore at his side. Another life, he thought idly. Another Richard-a man I loved like a brother-who no longer existed.

He ran one hand through his hair, then picked up the saddlebag that contained the witch's strange weapon. It was time to face John and Garrick, time to tell them that the woman who held his heart in her hands was most likely a witch, sent there to destroy them all.

Kendra took a deep breath and tried to slow her racing pulse. When the man Garrick appeared in the bathhouse, inadvertently saving her from her own folly, Navarre had fled from her side like a fox being pursued by a thousand hounds. He had thrown on his clothing and hurried his friend to the door, but before the two men left, Garrick had turned back, his gaze sweeping over her naked form appreciatively. He had laughed as she quickly covered herself with her arms, then with a dramatic sweep of his black cape, followed Navarre out of the bathhouse.

In a matter of moments, the old woman had returned, her arms laden with clothing. Kendra had spent the next hour being dressed, primped and prodded by the woman whose lips might as well have been made out of stone, for all the information she was able to pry out of her.

Now she stood before three men who were seated at the huge trestle table in the great hall, muttering to one another in French. She was terrified. All of her reporter's skills, her investigative calm, and her bravery, seemed to have disappeared in the midst of this impossible scenario. Where was her courage, she wondered, the kind of courage that had seen her through two hostage situations, a fire and an earthquake?

She smoothed her sweating palms against the unfamiliar garment hugging her tense body. She was clean at least, and her hair was-no, better not to think about her hair, for if she did she would think of Navarre's hands and the incredibly sensual shampoo he had given her, and that would cause her to remember his mouth on hers, hot with passion, and that would make her remember the width of his shoulders and chest and the way his body felt pressed against hers.