Wild about the Witch Read online

  “Don’t move,” Wodge shouted, pressing the gun painfully into her ribs. “I’ll kill her, then I’ll kill you. Just sit back down and resume what you were doing.”

  She couldn’t look away from Quinn’s face and tried to read the thoughts and emotions that passed across it in the moment since she’d yelled his name. His eyes were locked on hers, flitting over her face, which she knew had to be a bruised mess.

  “Did he do that to ye?” he growled, taking a step forward.

  She closed her eyes and held her breath, wondering if she’d hear the gun go off, or feel the bullet tear through her first. It struck her suddenly that Quinn still cared about her. Why would he seem so angry about her bruises if he didn’t? She opened her eyes and tried for a brave smile.

  “Settle down,” Wodge told Quinn, holding up the gun so he could see it. Quinn’s eyes widened, but he didn’t step back.

  Without the cold metal pressing into her back, Lizzie was able to act, if not think. She swiveled to the side and flung her arm out, hitting Wodge’s wrist and knocking the gun to the ground. With a roar of rage, he shoved her aside and dove for it. Quinn leapt forward as she fell onto her back and she was close enough to Wodge to kick him, though he didn’t seem to notice as he grappled for the gun.

  As his hand wrapped around the gun, Quinn reached him and drew him up by his jacket collar, and in the same graceful, glorious movement, hauled back his arm and pounded Wodge in the face with his huge fist. Wodge’s head snapped back and Lizzie opened her mouth to squeal with happiness to be free, when a louder sound than Quinn’s fist hitting face bones reverberated through the quiet forest.

  It was like a movie, just like a movie, as everything happened in slow motion for a second. She watched Wodge and Quinn fall to the ground, heard the gunshot continue to echo over and over, saw Oliver standing up as if he was under water, his mouth opening into a shout. Quinn, lying on the ground, a red stain rapidly growing on his shoulder, his eyes closed.

  “No, no, no.” This wasn’t what happened, this wasn’t happening, she told herself frantically.

  She dragged herself across the dirt to Quinn’s side, giving the unconscious, hopefully dead Wodge another kick as she passed. Oliver peeled off his jacket and pressed it to Quinn’s wound. She looked into Oliver’s eyes and saw they were blank with fear. He acted on instinct, and didn’t know what to do anymore than she did.

  “You need to finish it,” she said, pointing to the circle. She tried to pull Quinn closer to it but it was impossible to budge him. “Bring it all over here,” she ordered shrilly, jumping up to drag the much lighter Wodge further away. She rolled him to the other side of the fallen tree and by the time she returned, Oliver had everything set up.

  “You must cut yourself,” he said apologetically, holding out a small knife.

  With an impatient groan, she grabbed it from him and slashed her finger, shaking a few drops of blood onto the herbs. She got Quinn’s head in her lap and wrapped her arms around his chest, making sure not to dislodge the jacket from his still bleeding wound.

  “Oliver, do it,” she cried, pressing her face into Quinn’s hair.

  She was terrified Wodge would wake up, and looked around for the gun, wondering if she should just finish him. Oliver held up the instructions and shakily read the strange incantation. He cut his own finger again, then with a grimace, pulled the soaked edge of the jacket from Quinn’s shoulder and shook some of Quinn’s blood over the leaves.

  “We have to sing,” he said, grabbing her arm. His voice cracked as he began something she didn’t recognize.

  Clutching Quinn tighter, she saw the log move as if Wodge was trying to pull himself up. She screamed, unable to think of a single verse to any song, then everything went quiet and black.

  Chapter 6

  Sunlight shone through the tree branches, blinding the eye Lizzie cracked open. The air was markedly cooler and she rolled onto her side to see Oliver on his hands and knees, retching. She sat up fast enough to make her head spin and her vision blink out for a moment, but she dug her fingers into the ground until the dizziness passed.

  “Quinn?”

  She scrabbled in a circle until she saw him, sprawled a few feet away. The jacket had dislodged from his shoulder, revealing a large red stain on his shirt. Once at his side, she pressed her fingers against his throat until she found his pulse, and sighed with relief. He opened his eyes and groaned.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  It all came rushing back and fresh fear prickled all over her body as she scanned the area for Wodge. The big downed tree was gone. Shrubs and saplings grew all around the clearing, and there was no sign of him.

  “You got shot,” she told him, brushing his hair off his forehead. “Oliver did the spell and … something happened.”

  She got up and after a moment to find her balance, ran around the perimeter, poking under bushes and kicking at leaves to make sure Wodge hadn’t come with them. There was no sign of him, and the horses they’d ridden in on were nowhere to be seen either.

  “Did it work?” Oliver asked weakly, crawling over and inspecting Quinn’s wound.

  Quinn swore and closed his eyes as Oliver prodded at him. Lizzie dropped down next to him and took his unresponsive hand. Before she could yelp with fear, Oliver held up his hand.

  “He’s just passed out from the pain. Look, the ball’s still in.” He swallowed, looking like he might be ill again. “I think it hit the bone. He’ll need more help than we can give him.”

  “I’ll go to the castle,” she said, noticing Oliver’s face for the first time. “Dear God, did he actually break your nose?”

  Oliver blushed. “Yes,” he said shortly. He nodded his head in the direction of the castle. “Do you think we’re in the right time?”

  She stood up, feeling less confident than a second before when she volunteered to go for help. “Well, we’re in some time,” she said. “Someone will be there, right?”

  “He told me the Fergusons and Glens were never that friendly.”

  “Then we won’t tell them who he is,” she snapped, heading away.

  She was as scared as Oliver, but they couldn’t sit around hoping for the best. Not with Quinn bleeding freely all over the forest floor. Nausea hit her and she rushed back. Ignoring Oliver’s questioning look, she knelt beside Quinn and kissed his forehead, then his lips.

  His eyes opened again, unfocused and dark with pain. “Lizzie,” he said.

  “Yes,” she answered, leaning close to hear his strained voice.

  “Find Catie and make it right, aye?” His eyes drifted shut and she turned to Oliver to see if he’d heard.

  Her cheeks burned with shame, even though he hadn’t said the words in a judgemental manner, she felt the weight of her guilt, even somehow feeling responsible for his being shot. She should have found a way to stop Wodge. She shoved back up to her feet and took off, determined to end this nightmare. “I’ll be back straight away with help,” she tossed over her shoulder to Oliver.

  It was rough going, winding through the trees and jumping over rocks and logs. She got hit in the face with low hanging branches the second she looked down at her feet, and tripped over something if she kept her eyes up. An eternity seemed to pass and she worried she’d veered off track when the trees finally thinned out and she saw the castle in the distance.

  At the edge of the forest, she leaned over, gasping for breath. She’d run flat out for at least a half hour and still had to go down one hill and up another to reach the castle’s back courtyard. Even from this distance she could make out people milling around, tiny dots that signified help for Quinn.

  Lifting her skirts, she tore forward with renewed energy. After everything, she couldn’t let Quinn die. Of all the self-pitying scenarios she’d played in her head while traveling with Wodge, Quinn getting hurt had never factored into any of them. It was beyond anything she could imagine, losing him so completely.

  She slowed down on the way to
the courtyard, seeing with dismay that the people were all still wearing eighteenth century clothes. If they’d gone forward at all, it wasn’t far. She shuddered to think they might have gone backwards. She stopped at a low stone wall surrounding a small fruit orchard and tried to decide what to do. Run in yelling for help, or pick out one person and ask discreetly?

  “Who are ye, lass?” A sharp sounding female voice asked from behind her and she whirled around to see a petite woman with reddish brown hair holding a baby and staring her down. A young boy ran up and tucked himself under her arm.

  “Oh, hello,” Lizzie said. “I— please, can you help me? My companions and I were traveling through the woods, and a - a bandit attacked us.”

  She twisted her skirt and slumped, exhausted. It was the worst lie, with an even worse delivery. She expected the woman to start screaming for help, but instead she took a few steps closer, inspecting her with wide eyes.

  “Bloody hell, it canna be,” she said. She stared at Lizzie for another long moment. “Ye are not from around here are ye?”

  She groaned, remembering the animosity against the English in this time. She should have done an accent, but it was too late now. Before she could think of something without name dropping the Fergusons, the woman spoke again, her voice low.

  “Ye’re from another time, aye?”

  Lizzie reached out and grabbed the stone wall, sitting down hard on the edge. “What?” she asked, to make sure she wasn’t hearing things. She had to be hearing things.

  “Never mind, lass,” she said quickly. “Ye were accosted in the woods ye say?”

  “Yes, my companion is badly hurt.” Lizzie held out her hands. “Please, I beg of you.”

  The woman gave the baby to the young boy and tilted his chin up to look at him. “Take your sister to Mrs. Maxwell, then tell your da to meet me at the stable. Hurry, lad.” She ruffled his hair and gave him a shove. He went as quickly as he could without dropping the baby and the woman walked toward the stable.

  Nearly crying with gratitude, Lizzie followed her, wordlessly accepting a stone jug full of cool water and gulping it down. By the time they made it to the stable, a tall, rangy man with blond hair and sunkissed golden skin strode to meet them, dropping a kiss on the tiny woman’s head. She pulled him away, and he leaned down to listen to what she animatedly told him, both of them glancing at Lizzie a few times.

  Horses were ordered, and the man strapped on a pistol along with his sword. Lizzie didn’t care if they didn’t trust her as long as they went with her. In fact, it would be in her best interest if more than just this one man came with them.

  “I’m so grateful for your help,” she said, stepping forward and interrupting their secretive little chat. “But the man who is hurt is quite big. And unconscious.”

  They exchanged looks and after a moment, the man sent someone to fetch the physician and called for a burly guard to go with them. Lizzie faltered on her first attempt to mount the horse. The run to the castle, the days of little sleep and less food, and all the constant fear, was catching up with her, making it difficult to concentrate or stay upright. She clung to the saddle and through some miracle managed to guide them back to the clearing.

  The group from the castle stayed behind her and she had a sinking feeling she’d made the wrong decision when she reined in her horse and slid to the ground. She hurried back to Quinn. If they were all about to be slaughtered by the Glens, she want to be holding onto him when it happened.

  Oliver had him propped up against a tree and he was awake, but his face was pale and drawn. When she knelt at his side, he glanced weakly at her, giving her a smile. She turned around to face everyone, belligerently prepared to die.

  “I knew it!” the woman squealed, dropping down beside him and grabbing his hand. “Quinn Ferguson, as I live and breathe. What have ye got yourself into this time?”

  Quinn turned to her and laughed, which turned into a cough. “Bella Glen, ye wee harridan. I canna believe it.” Lizzie watched him bring the woman’s hand to his lips and press a kiss to it. Her heart raced with confusion and jealousy. “When is the babe due? Ye hardly show. Have we not been gone at all?”

  “Ye simpleton, ye’ve been gone seven years. We have three children now, two lads and a wee lass.”

  Quinn breathed out a quiet swear word before covering his mouth in dismay. Now the blond man dismounted and strode over, leaning down to look at Quinn’s shoulder. Quinn reached up and took his hand in a brief grip before dropping his arm back to his side.

  “Pietro. It’s wonderful to see ye, but we werena supposed to be here.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t be the first time ye screwed up, aye?” He smiled at Quinn and motioned for the physician to come over. “We’ll get this scratch fixed up in no time. And it’s so verra good to see ye, too.” The man called Pietro turned to Lizzie and smiled, pulling her out of earshot of the others. “Bella swears ye are from another time, and she likes to be right. Ye can tell me true, lass, for I understand all too well.”

  “How did she know?” Lizzie asked.

  Bella poked her head under Pietro’s arm much the same as the young boy had done to her earlier. “When ye’re married to someone from the distant future, ye tend to notice such things.”

  Lizzie looked at Pietro again, struggling to recognize what Bella might be seeing. “You?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Aye. She’s verra discerning. I’m certain ye’ve been fooling everyone else just fine.”

  Lizzie was more confused than ever, but at least Quinn was getting the help he needed. She hoped so, anyway, not sure she wasn’t hallucinating all this. Oliver walked over and took her arm.

  “Come sit down, Miss Burnet,” he said, nodding politely to Bella and Pietro before leading her away.

  She followed Oliver and sat down in a patch of moss, which looked soft and pillowy but was hard, cold, and slightly damp. She was too tired to move. Oliver sat next to her and she pointed out Bella and Pietro, explaining to him that they knew, and weren’t at all shocked.

  “Can you believe that?” she asked him, resting against the closest tree.

  “I can hardly believe any of this, Miss Burnet,” he said, leaning against the tree next to her and smiling ruefully.

  “I think after everything we’ve been through, you should call me Lizzie,” she said, never wanting to be called Miss Burnet again as long as she lived.

  “Very well. I thank you.”

  She laughed at his relentless civility and leaned closer so the burly guard who came along for the ride didn’t overhear. “We definitely came forward. Just not far enough.”

  “That seems to make you happy, but we ultimately failed,” he said with a frown.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, so tired the scratchy tree bark and damp moss almost felt comfortable to her. Opening them and getting into a more upright position so she wouldn’t fall asleep until she knew Quinn was going to be all right, she smiled encouragingly at Oliver.

  He was really a fine young man, both handsome and kind. Why hadn’t she let him and Catie fall in love and get married? What had been the point of her meddling? It all seemed so long ago.

  “Don’t you see, Oliver?” she asked, still smiling. “That thing you did worked. If it worked once, it’ll work again. We’ll keep trying.”

  Quinn howled in pain and the dreamy languor that had begun to overtake her vanished. She jumped to her feet and pushed past the guard and Pietro to kneel beside him. The physician had his case opened next to him, a series of bloody instruments laid out on a none too clean looking cloth. He held up the squashed bullet in his ungloved fingers, a triumphant look on his face.

  “Got ye, ye wee bastard.”

  He placed it on the cloth and poured some clear liquid over the wound, causing Quinn to turn ghost white, clench every muscle he had, then knock the physician in the side of the head.

  “Ah, hell, Quinn. Now who’s going to wrap ye up?” Pietro asked, choking back a laugh as Bella r
ushed to make sure the doctor was okay.

  “I’ve got it,” Lizzie said, rummaging through the medical kit and finding a roll of thin linen cloth.

  Pietro and Bella moved aside, dragging the unfortunate healer out of the way. Lizzie dabbed at the wound, made all the more jagged and vicious looking from the doctor digging the bullet out with his instruments of torture. She wanted the man to wake up so she could punch him herself.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, thinking Quinn was passed out again.

  “Not your fault, lass,” he mumbled, opening one eye to look at her.

  She began carefully wrapping his shoulder, gently lifting his arm to get the bandage under it. He was covered in a thin sheen of cold sweat, and he shivered, goosebumps sprouting up and down his arms and the exposed part of his chest. His shirt had been mostly torn off him to keep from having to move him too much and she tried to cover him as much as she could with the pieces.

  “Isn’t it all my fault?” she asked, not a hint of sarcasm in her voice. He flinched when she tucked the bandage in at the top, and she loosened it a little.

  Despite his obvious pain, he smiled at her words. “Ye think verra highly of yourself, for all of it to be your fault.”

  The fact that he was teasing her after everything made her press the heels of her hands to her eyes to keep from crying. He took her wrists and gently pulled her hands from her face.

  “I am sorry that he hit ye,” he said, tracing the line of her cheek, feather light, with his forefinger. “And from the looks of it, more than once.” He turned his head to the side, almost looking at her in the way that he used to. “But did I perhaps see the telltale blackened eyes and swelling about the nose on that wee madman to suggest ye got a blow in yourself?”

  She blinked away the unshed tears and laughed darkly. “I did. I broke his nose.”

  “Good,” Quinn said, looking at her intently.

  She didn’t know what to say or do under his unsettling gaze and laughed nervously. She only wanted his forgiveness and his love, and here they were talking about acts of violence.