Enchantress

by Lisa Jackson

  “Morgana!”

  Her eyes flew open and she started to scream. A huge hand covered her mouth. “Shhh!” Silvery eyes glittered over her.

  Relief flooded through her, and she let out a sigh as Garrick slowly withdrew his hand.

  “Quiet, witch,” he whispered against her ear.

  She nearly cried. The dream was so real, so vivid, her terror so complete, that she threw herself against him and clung to his neck in gratitude for being awakened. She held back sobs and fought the sting of hot tears.

  Garrick’s breath ruffled her hair. Strong arms surrounded her, and she was calmed by the steady beat of his heart. He smelled of leather and smoke and musk.

  “I saw Logan. I heard him crying.”

  His muscles tightened. “’Twas only a dream.”

  “Aye, but so real.”

  Garrick let his hands fall to his sides. “Tell me.”

  As she caught her breath and her heartbeat slowed to the point that she could speak without gasping, she described the nightmare, the stark images of the boy, the burned castle, the golden ropes, and the death flag.

  Garrick, on his knees beside her, listened quietly. His visage was grim, his eyes betraying a pang of grief. “You think my son’s dead,” he said, the tortured words sticking in his throat.

  “I think he’s in danger.”

  With a snort of impatience, Garrick said, “I know that much.”

  “And you,” she said quietly, more certain of the meaning of her dream than before. “You’re in danger as well.”

  “Is that the only song you know? First you were afraid of me, sure that I was the danger from the north. Am I right?”

  She couldn’t deny it and didn’t bother trying.

  “Then you said my son was in danger, which is a known fact. Now you can expect me to believe that I, too, am in some dark jeopardy?”

  “Not only you, Garrick,” she said, using his given name freely. “But all of Abergwynn. I told you of the symbol of death in my dream.”

  “Ah, yes, the sword and the triangle. Well, rest easy. Strahan and Ware are guarding Abergwynn,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “As for me, I have no fear for my own life.”

  “Then, m’lord, you are a fool.”

  He glared at her for a second. “Another fact that can’t be disputed. I came for you, didn’t I?”

  He was about to leave, but Morgana, still shaken by her dream, grabbed hold of him. Before he pulled aside the veil of willow leaves, she murmured a quick spell for his safety. Her words stopped him short.

  “You don’t have a whisper silly incantations.”

  “’Tis not silly.”

  “’Tis against the church,” he pointed out, starting to leave her again.

  “Only a prayer to nature. I don’t think God would disapprove,” she replied sharply. “Can’t you see that I am trying to do as you asked?”

  Garrick sighed, and the night was filled with his great sadness. He didn’t disguise his torment, and his broad shoulders sagged a bit. Over his shoulder he said, “I asked you to find my boy, and you’ve failed.”

  “Not yet. There still may be time — Oooh!”

  He had spun quickly and grabbed her, both hands digging into the soft flesh of her upper arms. “How long, witch? How long before we find my boy?”

  “I know not.”

  “That’s right. You know nothing! Nothing!” He spat out the words, his anger and frustration igniting as he glared down at her.

  For a second Morgana knew fear — a cold, deep terror that nearly stopped her heart. But then he drew her to him and with the same punishing grip as that on her arms, he kissed her — hard and hot and savage, as if in pressing his mouth possessively to hers he could somehow drive away his desire, as if he could turn an act of love into an act of hate.

  Morgana, blast her weakness, responded to him. Her body yielded even as her mind rebelled, and though she tried to push him away, to pry his hands off her arms, her own lips surrendered to his in a kiss that caused a shudder to rip through her body, creating an answering response in his.

  “Why do you do this to me?” he rasped, his fierceness replaced by wonder. “This can’t be.”

  Morgana knew it was true. Any silly hope that she and this powerful man could become more than a subject and her liege, died a quick and painful death. He was the baron, the man who still grieved openly for his dead wife, the mean who had vowed to harm all that she held dear if she didn’t obey him. Yet she had let herself feel something for him, some unnamed emotion that caused her to think irrationally, to risk her life, to do anything to be at his side. Oh, she was a goose! As silly as Glyn!

  She didn’t hate him as she once had, though in truth he scared her more than a little. But she cared for him much more than she should have.

  With a groan he took her into his arms again, and this time his kiss was gentle, his tongue probing, his hands splayed against the small of her back. Through her clothes she felt him trace her spine with the tip of one finger, moving lower and lower until he found the parting of her buttocks. She squirmed when he stopped, and the finger rested at the apex of that sensitive cleft. Deep inside, she pulsed, moisture beginning to heat between her legs. She shifted, hoping he would draw those intimate lines against her skin again. A delicious warmth crept through her, and she pressed her eager, hungry lips to his. Her breasts were crushed against the great solid wall of his chest, and her blood thundered in her brain.

  “Sweet, sweet Morgana,” he whispered against her ear, and she knew that he was losing his control again, that all too soon they would be lying on the ground, their fingers clawing past clothing to find bare skin, their breathing as ragged and panting as that of mating beasts. “Stop me,” he begged in a voice torn with agony.

  “I — I can’t.” She closed her eyes and her mind to all that could happen — to the past that divided them, to the present that had thrust them together, to the future that was as bleak as any of her visions.

  He grunted, low and primal in his throat, and one hand cupped her breast, feeling its weight, massaging the firm mound through her tunic until her nipple stood erect and ready. He kissed her again, his famished lips eager and wanting.

  Her breath was lost, as was all reason, and only when he drew back his head, holding her face between warm palms that trembled, did she find the strength to pull away.

  “I’ve never wanted another woman — not since Astrid, not like this,” he said, his voice faltering over the name of his wife. “I thought and I hoped that I would live the rest of my life never feeling this way.”

  “And now?”

  His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “And now you’re betrothed to my cousin, by my own choosing. It seems as if your fates have played a trick on both of us.” He started to turn back to his own pallet, but Morgana touched his arm.

  “Listen to me, Garrick!” she commanded, her voice a rough whisper. “I wouldn’t lie to you. There is grave danger! I’ve seen it! Castle Abergwynn could be under siege at this very moment.”

  He shook off her hand. “I think the only thing under siege, Morgana, is my mind.”

  “Nay, please, listen—”

  “Leave it be, woman. Tomorrow we rise early. We have a mission: to find Logan. And this — this distraction of lovemaking must be forgotten.”

  She felt the silly hope within her begin to wither and die, though she knew he spoke the truth. The child had been gone for many days. Time was running out.

  As if Garrick could read her very thoughts, he let out a long, slow breath, and his eyes glittered with fury. “God be with me when I find the bastard who stole my son.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I’ll kill them all,” Ware swore through his pain. His mind was hazy from the beatings, his eyes bloodshot and blackened, his nose still squishy, but Strahan’s men hadn’t been able to break his spirit. As he attempted to sit, he spat blood into a bowl Clare had
begged from a servant. He winced when she tried to clean his wounds. “Leave me alone,” he growled, ashamed, for he had lost control of Abergwynn. Garrick had been right: he wasn’t man enough to protect the castle. He’d failed miserably, and his pride ached more than the pain in his face and ribs. Now he and a few others who were assumed loyal to Garrick were locked in the baron’s chamber.

  “Hold still,” Clare admonished him, cleaning his wounds as best she could.

  He suffered the indignity of her ministrations in silence, and he ignored the other people who had been confined with him, for their fate was his fault. Miserable and feeling sorry for himself, he wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball or, better yet, to end his own life with his dagger. No! Even better, he would find a way to kill Strahan. No matter that he would die along with his cousin, at least he would avenge his pride and leave this world without losing all of his dignity.

  He stifled a groan. His entire body ached, and blood had clotted in his nose and throat, making eating and drinking nearly impossible. Clare lifted his tunic and began to treat the wounds on his back. Carefully she applied the cool cloth to his skin. He sucked in a swift breath through loosened teeth as the water touched his flesh. His back was striped with burning welts from a whip, yet he would take another ten thousand lashes before he’d kneel to his Judas of a cousin.

  “This may hurt.”

  He remained stoically silent as she applied ointment to his back. His muscles quivered from the sting as the tincture of barks seeped into his bruises and gashes. He gritted his teeth and drew away from her. He had no time to think of wounds.

  “Don’t move!” she reprimanded him.

  “I don’t need medicine; I need to find a way out of here,” he growled, angry at the world in general and specifically at himself for trusting Strahan.

  Clare frowned at him and sponged his face yet again. “You know the castle as well as I. There’s no escape but from that window, which is too far above the ground to jump from, the window in Logan’s room, which is even higher, and the two doors, both of which are locked and guarded. So quit spending your time thinking useless thoughts and let me—”

  “For Christ’s sake, Clare, no!” He shoved her hand away, and her bowl of healing mash — made from the bark of pine, wild cherry, and plum — clattered to the floor.

  “Oh, Ware,” she sighed, staring at the dripping concoction that clumped in the rushes.

  Ware didn’t listen. His body throbbed, and his head pounded so that seeing was difficult, but he wasn’t about to sit here and be tended while Strahan and his band of rebels were holding Abergwynn, not while there was a drop of blood in his body. “We must escape.”

  “I’m with you,” Cadell agreed. Morgana’s brother was young and green, but he thought himself ready for battle. He jumped to his feet and stood in a mock battle-stance, whirling and punching and pretending to fight off three attackers at once. There wasn’t an ounce of common sense in the boy. However, Cadell’s sister appeared to recognize the gravity of the situation. Glyn sat white-faced on a corner of the bed, her head bowed in prayer, her lips moving with the quick rhythm of one who had spoken often to God.

  “No one would like to get out of here more than I,” Clare whispered, “but escape is impossible.”

  “Never,” Ware swore, and Cadell grinned broadly, the poor simpleton, Ware thought. The boy hadn’t a clue that Strahan’s men would gladly run him through with their swords if he so much as opened his mouth. “Surely most of the men are loyal to Garrick.”

  “Are they?” Clare asked, bending over to clean up the mash from the floor. “I wonder…”

  “Of course they are. They wouldn’t follow Strahan blindly. They’ve pledged themselves to Garrick’s service.”

  “Words are easy. What choice had they? Either join Strahan or die. When a man’s life is threatened, it’s simple to find reasons to change loyalties.”

  “The bastard. The bloody no-good bastard of a traitor!” Ware bit out, still stung by the fact that he had failed Garrick. He’d been duped and beaten like a silly puppy. Holy Father, he’d been a fool!

  But he wasn’t going to give up. There had to be a way. He just hadn’t thought of it yet. But he would. In time. And he’d wrest control of Abergwynn from Strahan again, proving to Garrick that he was worthy of his own castle and soldiers.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall, and with a creak the large timber bolt was lifted. Old hinges groaned as the door opened, and Strahan, dressed in full armor, and Sir Joseph entered. To Ware, his cousin looked evil, his dark eyes shining, his sneer neatly in place.

  Strahan swept a contemptuous glance over his captives before his dark eyes landed on Ware. “You look awful.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  “None of this would have been necessary if you’d only complied with my orders,” Strahan pointed out. “Believe it or not, Ware, I don’t enjoy having my own flesh and blood whipped.”

  “Except for Garrick.”

  A mean glint lighted Strahan’s eyes. “All I want is Garrick’s loyalty.”

  “Do you think he would ever kneel before you?’ Ware spat. His stomach roiled, and he thought he might get sick all over Strahan’s freshly oiled armor.

  “I think there are ways to persuade him.”

  “He would never…” Ware’s voice trailed off as the truth hit him full in the face. “You bastard! You stole Logan.” Ware lunged forward, but Strahan pushed him easily against the wall. “Where is he?”

  “The boy is fine.”

  “And what of Will Farmer?” Ware demanded. “The gang of robbers who—”

  “Will was just a pawn. I used him to get the news to Garrick. The thieves and cutthroats, they are my men now,” Strahan bragged, apparently enjoying the horror on his cousin’s faces. “They were easily bought. For a few pieces of gold and the chance for free amusement with Jocelyn, they gladly took the boy and his maid and kept them on the run, hiding them in this place and that.”

  “You bloody devil!”

  “God in heaven,” Clare whispered, “how could you?” When Strahan didn’t respond, she advanced upon him. “Why would you torment a man who has done naught but help you?”

  “Ha! Help me? Has he ever once tried to wrest Hazelwood away from McBrayne?” Strahan demanded, his lips curling. “Nay. Never. And why? Because he enjoys being my lord and master and would never allow me to be his equal.”

  “You’re daft!” Clare said, still walking bravely forward.

  “I think not.”

  She stopped just short of him. “Let us go, Strahan,” she demanded. “For the love of God, let Logan and Jocelyn go free and give up this sinful vengeance against a cousin whose only fault is that he trusted you. You have no right to take this castle—”

  “Shut up!” he backhanded her, and Clare staggered backward toward the wall, catching herself with one hand, though she nearly fell to the floor. A throbbing red welt appeared on her cheek as she regained her balance.

  “You cowardly bastard!” Ware lunged, but Sir Joseph, his arm still bandaged, lifted his sword, ready to slay the young whelp who had wounded him.

  “Don’t!” Strahan commanded, and Joseph, with a growl, stopped advancing. “Now, Ware, if you know what’s best for you and your family, you won’t cause difficulties while I’m gone.”

  “You’re leaving?” Ware couldn’t hide his delight.

  “To find your brother. We’ve spent two days searching the forests and villages for Morgana. She’s vanished, and unless I miss my guess, she’s fled to Garrick.” His face had turned into a mask of hatred, and he clenched his teeth as if trying to keep back vomit that rose in this throat. “It appears that my intended has become your brother’s lover.”

  “Garrick would never bed another man’s woman,” Clare stated. She rubbed her cheek but stood tall, silently daring Strahan to strike her again.

  Strahan lifted a skeptical brow. “Cousin Garrick is used
to taking whatever he wants. I doubt he feels any sense of honor where Morgana is concerned. He’s stolen from me all my life; he won’t stop now.”

  “That’s a lie!” Ware growled.

  “You’re to answer to Joseph and Sir Charles now,” Strahan told him.

  “The steward was in on this?” Clare demanded, unbelieving.

  Strahan lifted a shoulder. “Most men’s loyalty can be bought — with either gold or women or fear for their lives. Charles was one of the easy converts.”

  “You Judas!” Ware muttered, and Glyn began to pray again. For the first time Joseph noticed her kneeling on a pillow by the bed, her blond hair pulled away from her face as she whispered prayers for deliverance.

  Joseph’s eyes gleamed for a second, and he licked his fat lips. Strahan, reading his thoughts, placed a restraining hand on the huge knight’s shoulder.

  Glyn stiffened as she caught the lust in Joseph’s glittering stare. Understanding the sudden tension in the room, she stumbled over her prayers, and her face drained of all color.

  “You cannot have her,” Strahan said to Joseph.

  The knight’s dark brows drew into a black knot. He grunted and rubbed his belly with anxious fingers. “But, sire—”

  “She’s promised to someone else.”

  “I — I’m what?” Glyn demanded, and then, hearing her own voice, she bit her lip and looked as if she might faint.

  Clare snarled, “You’ll burn in hell for this, Strahan.”

  “My men will be rewarded, all of them,” Strahan said with a cruel grin as he turned to Morgana’s trembling sister. “You, Glyn of Wenlock, are a prize.”