by Lisa Jackson
“Aye … you bring death.” She quivered beneath his hand, but thrust her chin forward mutinously.
“I bring no death,” he said angrily, tugging at her arm again. “I only want my son.”
She didn’t believe him. The man was too like the warrior in her vision. Nay, she had made no mistake. Garrick Maginnis was the danger — the death.
They reached the northernmost point of the beach. A black steed minced nervously. Nostrils flared, raven-colored ears pricked forward, one foot anxiously pawing at the sand, the horse snorted and tossed his great head as Garrick approached.
“He trusts no one but me,” Garrick said before lifting her as easily as a sack of grain into the saddle.
“I can walk,” she said.
“Ah, witch, are you frightened of the beast?” He climbed up behind her.
“The only beast I fear is man — a warrior from the north who will bring death to my home — and even he does not scare me all that much.”
“Why is that?”
She slid a knowing glance over her shoulder. “God and the fates are with me.”
“Ha! A witch who believes in God,” he mocked, strong arms closing around her as he slapped the reins on the charger’s shoulder. The stallion bolted and Morgana nearly lost her balance, but the muscular arm surrounding her waist kept her astride. The steed was swifter than her own mare, and the wind tore at Morgana’s hair, stealing her breath and stinging so that she had to blink against the tears that formed in her eyes.
She clutched the stallion’s mane and tried to feel neither the front of Garrick’s thighs pressed intimately to the backs of her legs nor the apex of his legs so intimately caressing her buttocks. She sought to ignore the way his body molded itself around hers, making her feel small and womanly for the first time in her life. His breath was hot against the nape of her neck as the horse sped through the mists that lingered on the sand.
They rode up the path that wound through the woods, leaving the sea far behind. The forest closed around them, the light from the moon glimmering through the branches overhead.
Saints be with me, Morgana thought desperately as she spotted the fires of the camp, glowing embers that flashed through the trees. Even if Garrick was honorable, which she doubted, what of his army? She had met many soldiers in her lifetime, but always in the company of her father, behind the secure fortress walls of Tower Wenlock.
Perhaps Glyn had been right, Morgana thought morosely. Perhaps she was being punished for escaping the castle walls.
She frowned in consternation and wished she had not given up her dagger so easily. Now, aside from the fact that Garrick’s men thought she was a witch, she had no protection other than her wits. However, men had often proved as superstitious as women — afraid of that which they could not explain. If need be, Morgana would let them think she was a sorceress, a witch empowered to cast horrible spells upon them. They would believe her as easily as Glyn had.
“Who goes there?” a sentry called as the horse galloped into the clearing.
“’Tis Garrick,” the fierce one responded.
The war-horse slid to a stop in the circle of light cast by the fires. Garrick hopped lithely to the ground. Several men surrounded them, and eager gazes sought out Morgana, still astride the sweating steed.
Despite her thudding heart and weak knees, Morgana held her head high and met each lusty gaze with imperious eyes.
The first sentry, a thin knight with a bony face, smiled as his gaze lingered for a hopeful minute on the swell of her breasts before landing full on her face. “Have you a prisoner?” he asked his lord, desire already gleaming in his dark eyes.
“Nay, ’tis the witch herself.” Garrick helped her to the ground, his hands spanning her waist.
The sentry’s expression changed. His skin turned white, and suspicion darkened his gaze. “If she is not a prisoner—”
“She is my guest and will take us to Wenlock at dawn.”
Morgana whirled upon him. “You would keep me here? Nay, I must return to the castle. My father would not be pleased should he find me in the company of soldiers.”
“Would your father be pleased if he found you alone on the beach?” Garrick wondered aloud, his eyes silently appraising her. “What kind of father would let his daughter run free near the sea, chanting spells and calling spirits in the middle of the night?”
“A father who believes his daughter wants only to protect his castle,” she snapped back. If Garrick thought she really called spirits to help her, so be it. His own belief and fear of the dark arts could prove to be his downfall. Never mind that she practiced no witchcraft — let him think what he would.
“Is Daffyd such a fool to think you can protect Wenlock by the casting of spells?” he asked skeptically.
“My father trusts me.” Even as she spoke the words, she felt a pang of guilt. She’d betrayed her father’s trust, and in truth he would be furious. Her sire, though usually a calm man, had a bitter temper and could sometimes conjure up the most horrid punishments.
“If your castle needs protection, why did Daffyd not send a messenger to me?” Garrick asked. “As he is my vassal, ’tis my duty to protect Tower Wenlock.”
“Then you’ve been sorely lacking in your duty,” she replied, and the sentry drew a quick breath between his teeth, clearly not used to hearing impertinence spoken to his lord.
Garrick’s expression hardened. “We will discuss this in the morning,” he muttered.
“I’ll not be held prisoner!”
“Did I not say you were a guest?”
“Then as a guest I would like my dagger back and would appreciate my privacy.”
“To run back to the beach and call up your devil spirits?” he mocked. “Nay, you could be harmed. I will see that you are returned to your father safely.”
“As part of your duty?” she sneered.
“Yea.”
The sentry cast a worried look from his lord to Morgana. “Where will she sleep?”
“In my tent.”
“Nay!” she spat out, horrified. What kind of protection was this? Had he taken her for his own lustful pleasure? Furiously she rounded on Garrick. “I’ll not warm your bed, my lord.”
He smiled then, a rakish slash of white in the darkness. “I’ll not harm you.”
“And your soldiers?” she asked, glancing at the curious gazes cast her way.
“Nay. They will not want to force themselves past the portal that devil magic guards. I will see to it.” To his men he said, “Return to your posts. We have but a few hours until we break camp.”
Obediently the men scattered among the fires and tents, casting only a few curious glances over their shoulders at Morgana.
“Where will you sleep?” Morgana asked when she was alone with Garrick and his one stubborn sentry who would not leave.
“At the entrance of my tent, to protect you. As I said, ’tis my duty.”
“Curse your duty!”
“No doubt you already have,” he said maddeningly. Motioning quickly to the sentry, he ordered. “Take her to my tent. See that she is given food and water, and post guards on all sides. I shall sleep at the entrance.”
“You cannot do this!” she said, desperate to return to Tower Wenlock. She had to warn her father, even if it meant admitting that she had disobeyed him.
“You forget that I am your lord.”
The sentry, casting a worried glance, grabbed hold of her arm and led her to the largest tent in the camp. Though she fought him, he was stronger and his long, gloved fingers dug into the flesh of her arms as she struggled.
“Let me go, you beast!” she declared.
He didn’t respond, and as they reached the tent he grabbed for the flap. Morgana, furious, muttered, “If you value your ability to lie with a woman, you will not touch me, for it is in my power to take away from you that which pleasures you most.”
“You speak nonsense, mis
tress,” he replied, but ran a nervous tongue around his lips. Instinctively he touched the apex of his legs, as if to make certain that his male parts were not shriveled.
She arched a black brow. “Be forewarned and do not be foolish enough to make me prove myself.”
“Aye, you are from the devil,” he muttered, swallowing hard. After ordering several soldiers to guard the tent, he opened the flap and Morgana walked stiffly inside.
She almost grinned at his gullibility. So Garrick Maginnis’s proud knights were only fearful men in mail. Perhaps her escape would prove easier than she had imagined. As for the baron — oh, she would love to see his face when he found out that she had duped his soldiers. It took all her effort not to laugh and thereby foil her plan.
If her escape was to work, she would have to be patient and wait until the camp was quiet again — then she could safely slip past the guards and into the forest she had known all her life. Once she was in the privacy of the woods, she could steal quietly back to the beach and run to the castle, where she would shimmy up the rope and wake her father.
She thought guiltily of the rope swinging from the great walls of Wenlock. Unwittingly she had offered enemies easy access to the inside of the castle. Her father, mother, brother — aye, and even Glyn — could be murdered as they slept, because of her foolishness.
“God protect them,” she prayed silently, filled with remorse. Oh, if only she could return to the castle safely, she would never again disobey her father! Never! Vowing to change her ways, she lay on a thick pallet in the center of the tent. She closed her eyes and pretended to fall asleep, but in truth she waited, her mind counting off the slow seconds, her breathing slow and even to fool the guards, her body as taut as a bowstring, as the noise in the camp slowly died again.
She didn’t doubt that Garrick had positioned himself at the entrance of the tent. She could see the shadow, cast in scarlet by the dying ember of the fire, propped up near the flap. There were men stationed all around, though she couldn’t detect a silhouette on the darkened side near the forest.
“Mother Mary, be with me,” she said as she prepared to make good her plan. Her throat dry, her heartbeat thundering in her ears, she quickly drew a symbol in the dirt that meant nothing, just to give the lustful sentry something more to dwell fearfully upon. Then, sucking in her breath, she inched noiselessly to the back of the tent, carefully lifted the cloth and rolled to freedom. The sentry standing guard leaned against a tree, his head nodding forward.
Though fear curdled in her stomach, Morgana smiled to herself. Garrick of Castle Abergwynn had a pitiful army if these sentries were any sample of his strength.
Nearby a horse nickered softly and stamped its hoof. Morgana caught her breath and didn’t move. The sentry snorted, but his head nodded back. Fool, Morgana thought. She considered stealing the steed, then tossed the idea aside. It wouldn’t do to take from a lord, especially a lord she planned to humiliate by slipping from his grasp. It didn’t matter that she only meant to borrow a mount for the night — Baron Maginnis would likely strangle her with his own two hands.
She was better off on foot.
Morgana tucked her feet beneath her and, crouching low in the shadows, scurried silently to the forest’s edge. The air was thick with dampness. Fog still clung to the ground, wisping around thickets of oak, alder, and maple. The smell of dank earth and ferns greeted her as she considered Garrick, the mighty warrior, waking up to find that a mere unarmed girl — nay, a witch, as he called her — could elude him and his trained sentries. It warmed her heart a little, though she was tempted to return and retrieve the dagger that the black-hearted devil had stolen from her.
Leaves and branches crunched softly beneath her feet as she hurried toward the sounds of the sea. She found the path on which she and Garrick had so recently ridden and, after creeping out of the shadows, broke into a run.
The water was only a short distance away, she could hear the dull roar of waves crashing against the sand. Only one more corner and … She stopped dead in her tracks. Her heart slammed against her ribs. The swirling sea mist parted, revealing the sharp silhouette of a man.
Morgana swallowed back her fear as she realized she had nearly collided with none other than Garrick of Abergwynn. Looming in the night, moonlight illuminating his formidable face, he blocked the path. His eyes flashed silver; his lips were drawn back against his teeth. “Well, witch,” he said with quiet menace, “would you leave me so soon? Before you have helped me find my son?”
Morgana wanted to step back but held her ground. “I said I could not help you.”
He moved closer as the moon passed behind a cloud. Her skin prickled in apprehension. She considered dashing around him, but knew her attempt to escape would be futile. “’Tis said you have helped others find their lost kin,” he said slowly.
“Aye.”
“So you would deny me the same kindness?”
He was so close she could feel the heat from his body, smell the earthy maleness of him. “Nay, I would not,” she admitted, “but I know not that I can help you. You do not believe in my gifts.”
Even in the darkness she could see his features grow strained. “I have little faith in sorcery and not much more in God.” He rubbed an impatient hand around the back of his neck, and his breath whistled slowly from his lungs. “But I must do whatever I can to find my son. If that means I must use whatever powers you possess, so be it.”
“And yet you are not afraid of me?”
He barked a short laugh. “Afraid of one so small? Nay, witch.”
“I am called Morgana.”
“Morgana,” he repeated, her name rolling easily off his tongue. “I fear only losing my son.”
For the first time, Morgana believed him. Few things would daunt a man so strong, but the loss of a child could certainly cripple even the most powerful warrior.
“Has your wife agreed that you should seek me out?”
“My wife is dead, struck down in the birthing of Logan,” he said, a quiet rage contorting his face. The forest seemed to darken around them. “The very God you pray to took her in the giving of my son.”
“We do not always understand the way God works.”
“Aye,” Garrick muttered, his eyes gleaming angrily. “Nor do I any longer pay him homage.”
“Mayhap that is why he has taken your son.”
“This is not God’s doing,” Garrick snarled. “It is the work of my enemies, and you, Morgana, will help me find out who would steal the boy. Logan is all I have left.” Wasting no more time, Garrick grabbed her arm and yanked her roughly back to the camp.
She stumbled several times, but he caught her, dragging her along the path, uncaring that brambles and twigs plucked at her tunic and snatched at wayward strands of her hair. Oh, if only she had her dagger! She would gladly show him how well she could use it before she escaped to the tower.
As if reading her mind, he glanced at her and smiled grimly. “If you are so anxious to return to your father, we will not wait for dawn. We shall go now.”
Together? No! Morgana tried to wrench her arm free, but the steely fingers would not release her. “I should return alone,” she argued.
“Nay. ’Tis time I met with Daffyd and we discussed your journey.”
“My journey?” she repeated, suddenly apprehensive.
“To Abergwynn.”
Her heart nearly stopped. “Nay, I’ll not—”
“You will, my lady,” Garrick assured her, his fingers biting into the soft flesh of her upper arm.
“My father will not allow it!” she argued proudly, but felt the cloak of doom settle over her shoulders.
“He has no choice. ’Twould be my guess that Daffyd will gladly wash his hands of you. No doubt he would like to find someone to make a proper lady of you.”
“Is that what a baron does — spends his time teaching women to sew and weave?” she taunted.
He laugh
ed at her barb. “Nay, mistress, but there are many at Abergwynn who would do just that. Though, God’s truth, Clare has yet to turn a witch into a lady. ’Twill be a challenge for her.”
Terror seized Morgana. Castle Abergwynn was several days’ ride to the north, far away from the safety of Tower Wenlock. She would know no one there, save this tyrant of a lord who would have her do his bidding on a whim. The thought of his soldiers and their lust-filled gazes turned her blood to ice. Already Morgana did not like or trust Clare. Panic tore at her soul, and her heart began to slam against her chest.
Nay, she would not willingly go to the castle in the north. “I can do much here,” she said, hoping to reason with him.
“But much more at Abergwynn. ’Tis from there that Logan was stolen.”
“You saw him taken?”
“Nay.”
“And what of your guards?”
Garrick glowered down at her. “They know nothing,” he muttered, half pushing her into the clearing and calling to the same sentry who had eyed her earlier. “The witch requests to return to Tower Wenlock before the morning. I shall take her there myself. You, Sir Randolph, will secure the camp until dawn at which time you will continue on to the tower.”
The sentry nodded curtly. “Aye, my lord.”
Morgana couldn’t believe her ears. Was this man out of his mind? Baron or no, he couldn’t just ride to the castle and expect to be let in at this hour of the night. Aside from the sentries, most of the inhabitants of the castle were fast asleep.
Garrick ordered Randolph to fetch his horse. The knight quickly did his bidding and within seconds, it seemed to Morgana, the black beast came prancing and snorting to them.
The stallion is as impatient as his master, she thought mulishly, sending Garrick a dark look. Oh, if only she could curse this warrior before he wreaked havoc on Tower Wenlock. If only, with a few words and a quick spell, she could banish him back behind the portcullis of Castle Abergwynn!
Garrick muttered final commands to Sir Randolph, climbed into his saddle, and hauled Morgana up in front of him. Again his body was cupped around hers, his massive chest pressed hard against her back, his arms strong around her, his hands gripping the reins.