Enchantress

by Lisa Jackson

  “Stop!” Strahan snarled. He snatched the fallen sword and faced his younger cousin. “Don’t make me hurt you, Ware.” But Ware, intent on maintaining control of Abergwynn, paid no attention. Strahan called for more guards who grabbed hold of the young lord of the castle and physically restrained him. Several knights hesitated, as if unsure whom to follow, but more than ten had no trouble showing their allegiance to Strahan.

  “What’s going on here?” Clare demanded. Striding regally forward, she glared at Strahan and his disloyal band.

  “It’s none of your business, Clare.”

  “It is if it has to do with Abergwynn and my brother!” Clare had buried a husband and a child, and she wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.

  “Stay out of it, Clare,” Strahan ordered, but Clare’s expression changed from anger to disbelief as she took in the situation.

  “You really think you can start a rebellion?” She laughed. “For God’s sake, Strahan, you’ll never be able to turn Garrick’s men against him.”

  Strahan hesitated and then, to Ware’s ultimate humiliation, said with quiet authority. “Already done, I’m afraid. I’m in charge here now. What I say goes. If you go along with me, Clare, everything will work out — to everyone’s benefit. If not, then you can spend the next week or two, until I return, locked in your chamber, as Ware will be in his.”

  “I’ll not—” Two guards, Andrew and Gilbert, immediately restrained her. “No, Gilbert, not you—”

  A sword rattled. Peter stepped forward. “Let Lord Ware and Lady Clare go, or by all that’s holy, Strahan, I’ll slit your throat my—”

  At a nod from Strahan, Sir York, the knight next to Peter, moved as swiftly and silently as a cat. Peter twisted as he was grabbed. The curved blade of dagger glinted hideously in York’s meaty hand.

  “No!” Ware cried.

  “Take this, you bastard.” With a sickening thud, York plunged his dagger deep into Peter’s chest. Scarlet blood spurted, raining over the walls and York. Clare screamed. Glyn fainted, though Cadell caught her before she hit the floor.

  Strahan, staring hard at Ware, said, “It’s your choice, boy. Are you willing to spill more blood?”

  Ware glared with hatred at his cousin. From the corner of his eye he saw the slumped body of Sir Peter, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth to mat his beard, the dagger wound staining the dead knight’s tunic red.

  “This is madness!” Clare insisted. “Stop it at once! There’ll be no more bloodshed!”

  “Quiet, bitch!” Sir Andrew hit Clare across the face, sending her spinning and stumbling backward. Had it not been for Gilbert’s strong hand on her arm, she would have fallen.

  As quick as a hawk striking, Strahan flew at Andrew and placed his blade at the knight’s throat. “No harm is to come to her, Andrew. None.”

  The stout knight’s throat worked. “But—”

  Ware saw his opportunity and kicked the knight full in the groin. Sir Andrew doubled over in pain, and Ware lunged for Strahan. His fingers tightened around his cousin’s throat, and he held firm, like a dog on a bone. Gilbert let go of Clare and, taking vengeance on Ware, doubled his fist and swung his arm quickly, aiming for Ware’s nose. With a sickening crack, pain exploded in Ware’s face, blinding him. His grip on Strahan faltered. Blood poured from his wound, and he cried out. The knight kicked him savagely in the gut. Ware dropped to the floor.

  “Damned fool!” Strahan growled as Ware held his hands over the pulp that had once been his nose. Blood trickled through his fingers, and agony ripped through his brain. “Now, Sir Ware, you will be held prisoner in your quarters, and you, Lady Clare, will be locked up as well.”

  From somewhere in his consciousness, Ware heard Clare protest. “Strahan, think. Garrick will kill you. You can’t do this. It’s madness.”

  “Maybe, but this is how ’twill be.”

  “When Garrick returns—”

  “He won’t,” Strahan said with a note of finality that turned Ware’s blood to ice. He tried to struggle but was kicked once more, this time in the temple. Pain splintered through his brain before merciful darkness engulfed him.

  Garrick took the first watch, as he had the night before. He was too restless to sleep, too anxious to rout out the damned band of thugs and take Logan home with him. He glanced into the shadowy copse of trees and listened. At times like this, he felt melancholy, afraid that the farmer’s story was false, or, worse yet, that the boy was dead.

  Standing outside the glow of the fire, his eyes searching the darkness, he whispered a sincere, though long overdue, prayer for his son. He didn’t fall to his knees — he was still too prideful a man, who had all but renounced God at the death of his wife and the kidnapping of his boy — but he did pray, hoping that the simple plea for guidance would quiet the raging demons within his soul.

  He stared at the burning wood as the fire, which had once spit flames and sparks into the night sky, slowly died. He added more wood to the blaze and resumed his watch. As he did, he felt a strangeness in the forest. The skin on his scalp rose. He heard a twig crack and turned in the direction of the noise, squinting hard into the murky thicket, grabbing hold of his sword.

  In the feeble moonlight a horse and rider appeared, and Garrick wasted no time. He slunk through the trees until he reached the solitary horsemen and then, without so much as a sound, lunged upward. The horse was startled. It squealed and reared, but not before Garrick had grabbed the would-be attacker and pulled him hard off his mount.

  As the horse bolted, Garrick wrestled with the rider, a strong, wiry man who kicked and bit as if possessed. He forced the smaller man to the ground, lying atop him, his arm at the attacker’s throat.

  “Let go of me, you bloody brute!” A flash of silver and Garrick barely dodged the blow from the knife as he recognized Morgana’s voice.

  His heart, already pumping with fear, now beat a new song as he lay atop her. The clouds allowed enough eerie moonlight through their frothy veil to show Morgana’s face, white as alabaster, and her eyes, dark and furious. Though a part of him was glad to see her, he was instantly angry. She’d disobeyed him, nearly killed him, and now was going to make him a laughingstock in front of his men. Much worse, she had put her life in jeopardy by following him. For he’d either strangle her or make love to her until morning. Teeth clenched hard together, he pinned her to the ground and leaned close to her face. “I thought I told you to stay put, Morgana of Wenlock!”

  She stiffened at the sound of his voice. “I couldn’t,” she cried, as if suddenly realizing with whom she was dealing.

  “Ware and Strahan and Clare were given direct orders—”

  “I disobeyed them all,” she said hastily, her breasts rising and falling rapidly, pressing up against his crotch only to fall away with her breathing. Garrick tried and failed not to notice that he was straddling her, that her body warmed his inner thighs, that he was growing hard as steel with each teasing touch of the points of her breast against his legs. “I — I asked Ware to let me leave, but he would not.”

  “So you took it upon yourself to … what — steal a horse and leave my castle vulnerable, as you did with your father’s keep?”

  “Nay!” she cried and then bit her lip anxiously. She struggled a bit, and the movement of her body between his legs drove all anger from his head. What he was feeling and fighting now was lust, heady, mind-spinning lust. His member ached to be stroked, and he had to drive all thoughts of her from his mind. Though he burned to be touched, to have her hands and her lips on him, he had to resist her obvious charms. His body was hard and wanting, crying out for the hot pleasure that her fingers and mouth could bring.

  It took every bit of concentration to keep his mind on the task at hand. “Why are you here?”

  “I thought I could help, I … I had another vision, and I fear for you—”

  “For me?” His voice had grown husky, and Morgana swallowed hard.


  “Aye, m’lord.”

  He leaned closer, his breath fanning her face, his eyes searching every shadow and crease in her skin. The stiff arm at her neck relaxed, and his hand moved slowly inward to touch the base of her throat and trace the circle of bones surrounding her pulse. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly, and her insides turned to jelly, for she knew that he was speaking not of her disobedience but of the fact that he and she were alone in the wilderness, nothing separating them but a few thin scraps of clothing and a quickly shredding code of honor.

  “I couldn’t stay at Abergwynn when I knew that you were in danger.”

  His dark gaze penetrated hers, and the callused finger that had been circling her skin moved lower, to the neckline of her tunic. “I thought you wished me dead.”

  “Often,” she admitted, though she was having trouble thinking clearly as his hand worked wondrous magic on her skin, creating concentric circles of warmth that started at the apex of her legs and moved ever outward, radiating to her extremities, causing her flesh to tingle and her breasts to ache and strain against her tunic.

  “Yet you think you can save me.”

  “I hoped — oh!” Her breath swept inward as his fingers dipped beneath her collar to brush the top of her breasts. She knew she should stop him now, stay this madness before it went much further, but when his lips slanted swiftly over hers, she didn’t protest. Her lips parted willingly, accepting the gentle thrust of his tongue and the hard pressure of his mouth. Her resistance, scanty though it was, collapsed, and she wound her arms around his neck.

  He kissed her with a possession that swept through her and turned her blood as hot as fire. His lips were demanding and hungry, as if he’d not tasted of a woman in a long, long time. She answered his plundering kisses eagerly, returning his fever, unaware that she was squirming beneath him, that the white-hot fire in her center was matched only by the burning in his loins.

  His hands were everywhere — caught in the thick strands of her hair, stroking her rib cage, pressing hard against the small of her back, and dragging her hips even closer to his. She felt his swelling hardness pressed into her abdomen, and instinctively she rubbed herself against him, moaning softly as he kissed her again, his lips trailing along the curve of her neck and lower still as he shoved the tunic over her shoulder and exposed more of the white mound that was her breast.

  “Damn you, Morgana of Wenlock,” he whispered between kisses. His hands surrounded her face for an instant, and she thought he might stop his fevered exploration of her, but he paused only to look into her eyes. Their gazes touched, his demanding, hers all too willing to yield. She watched as he hesitated, his hands on the hem of her tunic as if he intended to strip it from her.

  Instinctively she arched upward, inviting his plundering hands to do more than tease.

  He groaned and slammed his eyes shut, fighting the fires that consumed him, battling against the hunger that roared through his blood. He wanted her — oh, Holy Father, he wanted her in such a way as to make a decent man blush. “Christ’s blood!” he growled, her tunic bunching in his fingers. “Why do you torment me, woman?” Angrily he yanked the hem back into place and muttered oaths at himself as he rolled quickly off her. “Why couldn’t you stay put?”

  So angry he was shaking, he forced himself to his feet, shoved his hands through his hair, and muttering an obscenity, kicked the ground. “This is no good, Morgana. You should have stayed at Abergwynn.”

  “I could not.” Picking the twigs from her hair, she struggled to her feet, and when he faced her again he found her chin tilted defiantly, her shoulders braced for whatever cruel words he might hurl at her. Holy Mother Mary, if he had any sense at all, he’d tell her to stay out of his sight, that she was no better than a street wench, that he wouldn’t dishonor his cousin by lying with her. If he mortified her and wounded her harshly enough, she might have the good sense to stay away from him. Yet he couldn’t summon up the words. He’d hurt her enough already, and though she was betrothed to Strahan, it was Garrick’s responsibility to keep her away from him — not by vicious words but his own code of honor. So he gritted his teeth and, instead of demeaning her, took her hand and led her into the circle of light by the fire.

  A few of his soldiers had awakened and were standing, swords drawn, as they approached.

  “Oh, m’lord, thank the saints, ’tis you!” Calvert said, sheathing his weapons. A short man with a huge nose, he was obviously relieved at the sight of the baron. His gaze rested on Morgana for a minute, and the flicker of a smile teased his lips but was quickly hidden in the shifting light from the fire.

  “We thought you might have seen the robbers,” Hunter added, casting Morgana a glance that said more than words. She felt a blush steal up her neck, but refused to lower her eyes.

  “As you can see,” Garrick explained, his expression unreadable, “Lady Morgana has taken it upon herself to join our search, though I instructed her to stay at Abergwynn. I’m not pleased that she disobeyed me, and she will be punished when we return, but I shall let her stay on with us, on the condition that she not wander off and that she stay within our ranks. You are to give her every consideration and yet keep an eye on her.”

  Morgana bristled but held her tongue. So far she was getting off with small punishment.

  “Now let’s all get some sleep.”

  “I’ll take the next watch,” Hunter offered, and Garrick motioned Morgana forward to his tent.

  When she started to protest, he placed a finger to her lips. “Since you spent the last two days searching for me, I’ll trust you won’t disappear in the middle of the night. I’ll sleep with Calvert.” He added dryly, “He snores and smells of horses and ale, but at least I won’t be tempted to do anything dishonorable.”

  Morgana blushed again, and Garrick’s jaw hardened, his amusement forgotten as he glared at her. “You’ve already made a fool of me by disobeying me, Morgana. Don’t make that mistake again. The next time my punishment will be swift and harsh.”

  “What would you do, m’lord?” she demanded defiantly. “Betroth me to a man I detest?”

  Before Garrick could respond, she slipped into his tent and threw herself down on his pallet. The man was horrible. And wonderful. And prideful. And handsome. And a bully. And … Oh, damn his black soul, she couldn’t help thinking about him and the wonder of his touch.

  If she thought of him still, she could feel the sweet, hot vibrations that had seeped through his blood to hers when he kissed her. To force her thoughts away from his kisses, she bit her lip, nearly drawing blood, hoping that pain would chase away her willful fantasies.

  They broke camp, and Morgana, astride the now captured stallion she’d “borrowed” from Will Farmer, rode behind the baron in the company of his soldiers. Garrick knew that the men were sniggering behind his back and that they expected him to punish this woman who had openly defied him. Punish her he would, elsewise there would be hell to pay, as his men would no longer respect him.

  But he wasn’t going to bend her over his knee and humiliate her, nor would he strike her, nor was he about to banish her to a tower or any other nonsense just to appease his men. No, her punishment would have to seem harsh to the men, while not injuring Morgana in the least. God’s teeth but he felt as if he were standing in the middle of a river. On one side was a beach strewn with burning coals, on the other an icy bank so cold it would pull the skin from the soles of a man’s feet. Yet he had to choose, because the river was steadily rising and if he didn’t move, he would surely drown.

  But drown in what? His love for Morgana — for that was what it felt like, as if he were falling in love with this witch-woman with her beguiling green eyes, her cutting tongue, and a stubborn streak that would break the patience of any man.

  But love? The word caused him to scowl. He’d loved once, and he’d vowed never to love again. Astrid had been the love of his life. But Astrid was gone, and since he’d met Morgana, G
arrick had thought less and less of his wife. It seemed that Astrid was finally and truly buried.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The next two days brought nothing. Will Farmer’s robber band, if it had ever really existed, seemed to have vanished into thin air. Morgana was beginning to wonder if the man had lied or dreamed up the whole chain of events.

  Garrick, too, seemed to doubt the farmer. With each passing uneventful hour, the baron grew more grim. His jaw became set and uncompromising, his neck and shoulders more rigid. He barked orders at his men, and he was impatient with anyone who dared to cross his path.

  The knights rode for endless hours, from dawn until dusk. They stopped often, and each time the company paused, one of Garrick’s best men, the knight called Hunter, searched the ground for tracks. Once they passed a fire pit with ashes that were still warm to the touch, but they found no evidence that the people who had recently camped in the glen were part of the band of thugs who had attacked Will Farmer.

  Whenever the search party stopped, Morgana climbed off Luck’s broad back and touched the soil, feeling the texture of the moist earth, rubbing it between her fingers while she tried to conjure up a vision of the men who had traveled this road before. She drew runes for safe passage on the ground and caught Randolph watching her, smirking at her foolishness. But she wasn’t about to be stopped by his silly grin. Often she tried to speak to the wind, but the breeze was silent, and she was soon as frustrated as Garrick.

  Most of the knights gave her wide berth. She didn’t blame them. Obviously they thought she was either mad or possessed or both. Not that it mattered. She’d rather have them leave her alone and laugh at her behind her back than have to deal with their bawdy jokes and lust-filled stares.

  Near twilight Garrick ordered the tired soldiers to make camp near a stream. Morgana watched as he dismounted with a creak of saddle leather. He tended to his horse, as she did hers, and then while the knights built a fire, he disappeared through the trees, presumably to relieve himself.