Enchantress

by Lisa Jackson

  Though he’d known he would not — could not — remain celibate, he’d promised that he would never again be tangled in a web of emotion from which he could not break free. But this girl, Morgana of Wenlock, caused all his pledges to slip from his mind, and he was caught up in the feel of her lips, trembling and unsure, against his and the weight of her bosom flattening as he pressed her against the wall, his desire sprouting like a young sapling, his body filling with an ache so vast that Garrick wasn’t sure it could ever be relieved.

  She didn’t struggle, and her arms, reluctant at first, wound slowly around his neck. He became bolder — perhaps she was no virgin after all — and his tongue rimmed her lips, flicking against her teeth, probing the velvet-soft recesses beyond.

  Morgana moaned, low in her throat, wishing to stop this assault on her senses, but unable to protest. Garrick’s strong arms surrounded her. The feel of his muscles, hard against hers, with only the thin hindrance of their clothing, created in her a blinding need to explore further, to return his kiss, to let this tingling sensation go on and on. The smooth stones near the doorways were wedged against her back, but she cared not, felt nothing but the sweet pressure of his lips against hers and the provocative flick of his tongue mating with hers.

  She knew, deep in a faraway part of her mind, that what she was doing was dangerous. Men could not be teased. She’d heard from her very own mother how a man, once aroused, was not to be denied. And yet, all Meredydd’s warnings seemed to spin away, caught in a useless whirlpool that slipped away from her.

  Garrick’s breathing was as ragged as her own, his hunger evident in the part of him that pinned her hips to the wall. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, and when he drew his mouth from hers, he let his lips trail down her neck, causing a chill to scamper up her spine. Gooseflesh appeared on her skin where his tongue pressed hot and wet against her.

  Her knees felt weak, and she would have sagged to the ground had it not been for Garrick’s rigid body supporting her. As it was, she was wedged between the wall of the keep and his own hard muscles. He kissed her again, more slowly this time, sucking on her lower lip, and her heart raced so quickly she thought it might burst. Desire, like a nest of butterflies breaking free, fluttered through her blood, and she found herself clinging to him, her hands wound high over his neck.

  New sensations assailed her, and her skin quivered for his touch. He groaned and buried his face in her hair, as if trying to restrain himself. When at last he lifted his head, she opened her eyes and saw the smoke of desire still drifting through his gaze.

  Studying her features, he couldn’t restrain himself. He knew she was pledged to his cousin and would do anything to break free of the betrothal — perhaps even lie with another man so that Strahan would want her not — but Garrick could not help himself. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman, and his body cried out for this little sorceress with such hunger that he could not stop stroking her smooth skin and kissing her neck. His manhood ached to be set free, and he imagined the warmth of her tight body as he delved deep into her.

  He knew that he was playing with fire, that becoming emotionally involved with Morgana was more than dangerous, but though he fought his passion, he was a prisoner to it. He imagined the sight of her breasts, two white globes, full and firm, peaked by dusky pink buds that would beg to be kissed, to be tasted, to be suckled from.

  With a groan he gave in. His body was strung as tight as a crossbow, and he reached for the ribbons at her neck, but her small hand stayed his. “Nay. We must not,” she whispered, her voice ragged as his heartbeat. “Someone watches.”

  What kind of deception was this? Garrick made a derisive sound. “Who?”

  She shook her head, but shivered, and the fear in her eyes was real, as if she were certain that unseen eyes were observing them. “I know not.”

  “No one but the sentries is about.”

  From the forest there came the cry of the wolf, closer this time, and Garrick felt a cold sliver of fear slice into his heart. Was she but playing a game with him, or did she really believe they were being observed?

  Morgana took advantage of his hesitation and slipped through the door. She was careful as she mounted the steps to her room, her felt boots making not the ghost of a noise. She hurried to the door and slid inside, her heart thundering with a painful beat. Oh, she’d been so foolish! What had she been thinking, kissing the beast that was Garrick of Abergwynn? He cared not for her, though his desire was evident enough. Nay, he was used to having women, whomever he chose, and expected them to indulge his whims — even a woman he’d unwillingly betrothed to his cousin!

  But her own heart was betraying her. She was beginning to care for the dark lord who had brought her here, though why she felt anything for him, she had no idea. She reached for the bottom of her tunic, intent on stripping and slipping between the covers, when she realized she was not alone. Her heart slammed to her throat as Sir Strahan, leaning against the wall near the hearth, pushed himself upright.

  The fire in the hearth had burned low, and the room was lit only by the coals that glowed scarlet, reflecting against the walls and floor.

  Morgana swallowed with difficulty and hastily smoothed her tunic, inching up her chin to meet the darkness of his gaze. “You frightened me. What are you doing here?”

  Strahan shook his head. “Just making sure that you were well.”

  “’Tis indecent for you to be in my chamber—”

  “As it was for you to be in Garrick’s room earlier this evening?” Strahan asked, rubbing his chin. “I was worried about you, and I knocked at your door. When you did not answer, I called out. Again you didn’t reply, so I opened the door to find that you had not yet slept.” He crossed the room slowly, and Morgana’s blood turned to ice. Clucking his tongue, he stopped bare inches from her. “Lady Morgana,” he said in a voice so low she could barely hear it over her own heartbeat, “up so late and creeping about the keep? Where, I wonder, have you been?”

  Chapter Twelve

  “She was with me!” Garrick shoved open the door and stepped inside Morgana’s chamber.

  “With you, m’lord?” Strahan’s voice was scornful, and Morgana, grateful for the darkness, blushed at the thought of just how intimate she’d been with Garrick, though she felt no obligation to Strahan. As despicable as Lord Garrick was, she knew instinctively that he was a better man than his cousin.

  “We were trying to find Logan,” Garrick explained evenly.

  “Now? In the middle of the night?” Strahan couldn’t hide the sneer in his voice. His eyes, glowing with cold jealousy, reflected the dying embers of the fire. “And tell me, cousin, did you find him?”

  “Not yet,” Garrick said, “but I’ve been told we must be patient.” He cast Morgana a look, and she managed a wavering smile. “Patience is not known to be my strongest quality.”

  “Yea, it well may be your weakest,” Strahan agreed, but the doubt did not leave his tone. “However, I’ve always known you to be true to your word, Garrick, and I would not believe that you would do anything dishonorable to me or to my bride.”

  The unspoken accusation hung on the air like a bad smell.

  Morgana was glad for the darkness and swallowed with difficulty.

  But Garrick managed a grin. With a hollow laugh, he threw an arm around his cousin’s shoulders, guiding him out the door. “Come, Strahan. Let us find a glass of wine and a game of dice before we rest.”

  Morgana closed the door and sagged against it. Her heart was racing, and a sheen of sweat moistened the back of her neck. In all of her dreams she would never have imagined that these two men she detested would be arguing over her. Closing her eyes, she slowly let out her breath and tried to calm down. In the darkness, her face was suffused with color and her cheeks were hot to the touch of her fingers. To think she’d kissed Lord Garrick, the brute himself, and behaved like a common wench! She’d wanted to feel his
hands upon her. She’d opened willingly to his kisses, wanting more, feeling tingling sensations that seemed to center deep in her womanhood. It had taken all her strength to push his hand away when he started to touch her breasts. Even now the thought of his flesh against hers brought a tide of warmth to her skin. Lord help me!

  She had to forget his kiss, forget the wanton heat that had swept through her blood. Mayhap it was just the night, the fear and excitement of being alone in the bailey with him. But deep in her heart she knew, she feared that this one passionate kiss was just the beginning. Angrily she pulled her tunic over her head and climbed between the linen sheets. But as she lay in the darkened room, she wondered what it would feel like to have Lord Garrick in bed beside her. Would his kiss forever cause flames to lick through her bloodstream, or had she responded more from surprise than from desire?

  She pulled the covers over her head. How could she conjure up such vile but strangely pleasant thoughts? Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed sleep to come and denied that she felt any attraction to Garrick of Abergwynn. But her wayward mind spun free, and she imagined herself kissing Garrick as they lay in a fragrant field of clover, their bodies without clothes, perspiration molding them together, their arms and legs entwined, and warmth of the Welsh sun on their bare backs and legs.

  The vivid picture disturbed her, for it was so like a vision that for a moment she thought she’d seen her future. Her breathing stopping at the thought. A future? Here? With the baron? Was her gift playing tricks upon her? Hadn’t her grandmother foretold that she was to marry Strahan of Hazelwood? Startled, her heart suddenly thundering, she opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. As she stared at the moon through her window, she wound a finger in her hair and swallowed nervously. Nothing good could come of her attraction to Garrick, and yet a small part of her decided that being a guest within the walls of Abergwynn was not such a curse after all.

  The next day she expected to see Garrick at dawn. She thought that before she could wake and climb into her clothes, she’d be roused by a tremendous pounding at her door. She would find Garrick, his black mood consuming him again, impatient and demanding that she find his son or suffer the consequences.

  However, Morgana spent the morning at Mass under Lady Clare’s watchful eye and at breakfast, where once again Clare was nearby. Garrick was seated far away, as if he wanted to keep her at a great distance. After the meal, Lady Clare walked her through the castle, showing her the buttery, pantry, and scullery and introducing her to the servants in each of the quarters. The maids and pages were more than polite, curtsying and smiling kindly, but Morgana caught the glint of amusement in their eyes, the curiosity in their glances. The hefty cook crossed her bosom as if to ward off evil spirits as Morgana left the kitchen and followed Clare upstairs. Only a large, silent woman named Habren, who seemed to be in charge of the rest of the servants, gave her so much as a kind but grudging “Hullo.”

  They passed two servant girls carrying laundry on the stairs. “’Tis bad luck to have a witch in the castle,” the tall one whispered loud enough for Morgana to hear.

  “Mayhap she’s not a witch,” the second servant, a buxom girl with slanted eyes, said.

  “Then she’s a heathen. Same thing, if you’re askin’ me.”

  “Enough!” Clare ordered, whirling at the top step. “Now, mind your duties and quit wagging your tongues. This is Lady Morgana, and you’re to treat her as you would any lord or lady who is a guest in this castle!”

  “Yes, m’lady,” they said in quick unison.

  Clare turned again. “Come, Morgana.”

  Morgana gritted her teeth and held her head high as she climbed the remaining steps.

  In the sewing room, women skilled with needle and thread were cutting, sewing, and embroidering gowns and linens. Ells, great lengths of cloth, were being cut and sewn into tunics, mantles, and cloaks. Morgana had never seen so many different fabrics in rich hues of scarlet, saffron, and purple. At Tower Wenlock there were only two skilled seamstresses and never more than four or five ells of cloth.

  A tall, thin blond woman named Mertrice was working on a mantle trimmed in ermine, and behind her, rabbit, beaver, and fox hides were piled carefully in the corner and kept under the sharp eye of the head seamstress. Again, the girls working so effortlessly with needle and thread were polite upon meeting Morgana, their smiles of greeting seemingly sincere. But as they resumed their work, Morgana saw the sly looks cast from the corners of their eyes.

  Morgana was thankful to leave the room and sweep down the stairs after Clare. Outside, the sun was shining, and only a few clouds floated across the sky. Morgana felt a small sense of freedom as Clare pointed out the dovecote and beehives, in which she obviously took great pride. They stopped at a bench in the garden between the mulberry trees and climbing vines. Roses were beginning to leaf while gillyflowers and marigolds were promising blooms.

  “Garrick tells me I am to make you into a lady,” Clare observed. Her brows were drawn together as if the thought were perplexing. “He also mentioned that I’m to do the same with your sister.”

  Morgana brightened at the thought of Glyn. As miserable as Glyn was, at least she was kin, and Morgana missed her sister as she missed all of her family. “You’ll have less trouble with Glyn,” Morgana predicted.

  “Why is that?”

  “Glyn wants nothing more than to marry a wealthy baron and run a large keep of her own.” A shadow played on the bailey, and Morgana watched a hawk circling overhead before it turned and dived swiftly to the field on the other side of the castle walls, away from her view.

  Clare brushed a tiny gnat from her sleeve and frowned. “And this — marriage to a baron and a running castle — is not what you want, Morgana?” Clare’s large gray eyes were kind, her expression more worried than disapproving, and yet Morgana was not sure she could confide in the sister of the baron.

  “I am to marry Sir Strahan,” she said quietly. “It has been arranged by my father and Lord Garrick.”

  “Had you no say in the matter?”

  “I was told my own wants were not important.” She lifted a shoulder as if accepting her fate while inside she burned at the injustice of it all.

  “Strahan is a good man” Clare pointed out. “He does need a little straightening out, but a strong woman will guide him well — as long as he does not realize that you are guiding him.” She frowned thoughtfully as if she understood Morgana’s reticence. “He, of course, thinks only a man can make decisions — he is much like his father. But my aunt was a wise woman, and though Uncle Henry thought he made the decisions and ran the estates, it was her hand that was gently pushing him to make the correct choices. When she died, he married a foolish younger woman who knew no more about running a castle than she did about drawing a sword. Eventually they lost everything. Had Aunt Ellen lived, Uncle Henry would never have lost Castle Hazelwood to Osric McBrayne.” Clare rubbed her fingers together. “Strahan will treat you well. He will see that you are provided for and kept safe and that you want for nothing.”

  Except love, Morgana thought, for love was a notion of the foolish. Troubadours and minstrels could sing of love, and poets could spin tales of lovers whose hearts beat as one, but, in truth, did love really exist? No, she decided, there was no true love, not in real life.

  Clare sighed, and her gaze was focused beyond Morgana and over the grass of the inner bailey toward the chapel. Her hands fidgeted nervously in the wrinkles of her skirt. “I’ve heard the most important reason you returned here with Garrick. Aside from marrying Strahan, you’re here to help my brother find his son.”

  Morgana felt suddenly uncomfortable. She watched the bees circle and buzz near the hives. “Aye, but so far I’ve not helped him much.”

  “It may be an impossible task.”

  “He needs to know what has happened to his son.”

  “Does he?” Clare shook her head. “I wonder. There’s a good chance that something horrid
has befallen the child, and what good would come of Garrick’s knowledge of his boy’s fate?” She touched Morgana lightly on the arm. “When Astrid died, Garrick was beside himself. He wouldn’t eat for days. Had it not been for the child, I do not know what he would have kept his mind. He loved his wife more than any man should love a woman. He was planning to marry someone else when he met her, but Astrid turned his head, and he would have done anything for her. He survived her death, I fear, only because of Logan.”

  Morgana’s heart seemed to stop. She had just denied to herself that true love existed, but it seemed that Garrick had once found a love so pure that he could never forget it. She ached a little, for she felt a small current of jealousy of the woman who could elicit such deep emotions from so powerful a man.

  Clare smiled sadly. “Sometimes my brother is not as strong as he thinks he is,” she said. She drew a line in the gravel with the toe of her boot and said thoughtfully, “If he uncovers the truth about his son, and if that truth is unpleasant, I know not how he’ll survive.”

  As if deciding she’d confided too much, Clare suddenly stood and walked along the gravel path, her hands in the vast folds of her rust-colored tunic, and Morgana followed her. “There is a rumor of trouble to the north, with the Scots. If Garrick is called away to fight for Edward, he’ll need all his strength, all his wits. He cannot be worried about the fate of his child.” At Morgana’s horrified expression, Clare placed a hand on the girl’s arm. “Of course it is natural that he wants to know. But … I am told you have powers, unearthly powers that give you visions. If the vision of Logan will upset Garrick before he readies for war, keep it to yourself.”

  Morgana thought of Garrick’s wrath should he ever find out that she had withheld information about his son’s fate. His vengeance would be swift and sure, and all who lived in Tower Wenlock would suffer. Morgana was sure of it. “I promised the baron as well as God himself that I would help Garrick find his child. I cannot go back on my word.”