Sorceress

by Lisa Jackson

  “I don’t know,” she admitted.

  The breeze picked up, rustling the dry leaves.

  Gavyn looked up sharply, then stood. He dropped the pheasant bone and grabbed his knife. His eyes grew narrow as he stared into the surrounding brush. Bryanna’s own gaze followed Gavyn’s to the brambles, moving with a flash of silver and black.

  The wolf had returned.

  “I wondered when you would show up again,” Gavyn said, relaxing a bit. He took what was left of the squirrel carcass and tossed it into the woods. The wolf pounced on the treat and crunched it in her jaws.

  For some strange reason, Bryanna was glad to see the furry cur. “I was hoping she was gone for good,” she lied.

  “Unlikely. I feed her.”

  “Dangerous.”

  “So far, not.” He started to hurl another morsel into the underbrush, but as he drew his arm back, he sucked in his breath and dropped the meat at his feet. “Holy Christ,” he muttered between clenched teeth.

  “You are hurt!”

  He sat down and let out his breath. “’Tis just a twinge.”

  She tossed back her hair and shook her head. “A twinge? I think not. Now lie down and let me look at your bloody shoulder. There is no nobility in suffering.”

  “Is that an order, m’lady?”

  “That’s right, so let’s get to it. By the gods, you were a stubborn boy and now you’re a headstrong man.” She frowned. “You should not have gone out hunting.”

  “Then you’d be hungry.”

  “I can manage, thank you. Next time . . . oh, there will not be a next time. Lie down.”

  Grudgingly, he did as he was bid, stretching out on the ground, his long legs in front of him, his back propped up against the trunk of a sapling.

  Bryanna washed her hands in the creek and, as she’d seen Isa do a hundred times before, examined the wounded man while her small cup heated water over the fire.

  The whites of his eyes were turning from red to pink—an improvement—and his eye color, a rich, dark gray, was evident now. Whatever swelling had surrounded them had disappeared and most of the bruises on his skin were healing, turning from purple and green to a sickly yellow. Only a few were still the deep purple brown of a fresh wound. He allowed her to touch him, and she did so gingerly, her fingertips barely skating across his skin as she scrutinized each cut and scrape, all of which were healing. Some of the scabs were falling away and showing new, pink skin. Good signs.

  There was a chance that when he’d finally healed, he wouldn’t be hideous at all, but a fair-enough-looking man with somewhat straight teeth, a strong jaw, and high cheekbones. Of course, now one side of his face was a bit sunken and a scar slit the skin from temple to chin. Fortunately much of that slice was hidden in his beard. His nose was broken crooked, and she thought he’d forever have a bump upon it, but even so, he might pass for better than ugly. Once he was healed, she suspected that no woman would turn her head away when this man passed by.

  Nay, all in all, he would not be disfigured, she decided, though certainly he was no longer the handsome man his youth had promised.

  “That bad?” he asked as she examined a particularly nasty scrape beneath one ear.

  “Worse.”

  He laughed, and she couldn’t help but smile. She glanced back at his eyes and found him staring at her—so close— barely an inch separating the tip of his broken nose from hers. The intensity of his gaze made her uncomfortable, even nervous. She’d tended the ill before, but always under Isa’s tutelage and never with the patient scrutinizing her.

  She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the sudden rush of her own blood in her ears.

  His gaze shifted to her lips and she felt as if the entire forest hushed. For a second she thought he might kiss her, and something deep inside her crackled with wanting and fear. Kissing this man would be a mistake of monstrous proportions; she knew it as well as she knew her own name. She couldn’t trust him. She wouldn’t.

  Biting her lower lip, she pressed on. “I . . . I need to look at your eye,” she said.

  “So look.”

  Oh, God.

  Her hand was actually trembling. She flexed her fingers quickly and reminded herself that Gavyn was little more than a liar who had been kind enough to bring her breakfast. There was nothing more to it, no room for any romantic fantasies, for the love of St. Peter!

  Gently, she lifted one eyelid and peered at the top of his eyeball.

  “What do you see?”

  “You mean other than a stubborn, wounded man?”

  His mouth twitched. “You see that much, do you? So ’tis true. You really are a sorceress.”

  She smothered a smile and said with mock severity, “Oh, well, there’s more to it than that. I see a stubborn, foolish man who doesn’t know when it’s wise to keep his mouth shut.” She dropped the eyelid and sat back on her heels, then traced a scar along the side of his face with a finger. “I’m afraid this may linger,” she said. “The skin is not healing perfectly.”

  “So cast a spell and make me handsome.”

  “I’m a sorceress, Gavyn, not God.”

  He laughed again.

  “Now take off your tunic.”

  He lifted a dark brow, and even with his battered face, it was an intrinsically sexual expression. “You want me to undress?”

  “If I am to examine your wounds, then I’ll need to see them.”

  “You take it off,” he suggested.

  She had not time for this. “Me?” She shook her head and refused to flirt with him. As it was, her pulse was already pounding. “For the love of Rhiannon, Gavyn, just pull it off and be quick about it.”

  When he didn’t move, she blew out her breath in disgust. “So be it.” She leaned closer so that she could tug at the hem, lifting it upward, exposing the bare skin and hard muscles of his abdomen.

  Bunching the fabric, she tried to pull the tunic upward over his arms and shoulders so that the dark hair on his chest became visible.

  “Careful,” he said, gingerly lifting his shoulder. Swearing roundly, he yanked the tunic over his head, tossed it away from his body, and leaned back against the tree.

  She blanched at the sight of his chest and the gaping wound that was oozing blood and pus. Any thought of teasing him further died.

  “Bad?” he asked.

  She met his gaze and nodded.

  “Just don’t tell me you want to put leeches on it.”

  “Nay . . . but what has to be done will be painful.”

  He lifted his opposing shoulder. “ ’Tis painful already.”

  For the first time since meeting him, she believed him. She would need a bandage, and since there were no cloths or towels, she would have to resort to using her chemise. “Wait,” she instructed as she walked to a spot behind a copse of trees and stripped off her clothes. Cold air teased her skin as she removed her chemise, then tossed on her tunic and mantle. Using Isa’s dagger to cut into the fabric, she tore the chemise into strips and returned to the clearing with an armful of bandages.

  “You didn’t have to hide to undress,” he said, and she shot him a look.

  “You are too sick to want to watch a woman take off her clothes.”

  “Never,” he replied as she carefully picked up the cup of water steaming near the fire, then bent down to tend to him.

  Using one of the torn strips, she dabbed at the wound on his chest, cleaning it gently. Though he tried not to react, she noticed his muscles flex and his jaw tighten as he gritted his teeth.

  “Aren’t you going to whisper any spells or toss some of your herbs in a circle around me? Mayhap even draw a few more figures in the dirt?” he asked as sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold morning air.

  She slid him a glance. “Mayhap later. Though, considering what I might want to do to you, ’twould be best if you didn’t hear the spell.”

  “You’ve already threatened to addle my brain and shrivel my cock. What could be worse?”

/>   “Trust me, Gavyn, you don’t want to know. I’ve a special one for those who lie to me.”

  “Do you?” He managed the barest of smiles.

  Leaning closer to him, her fingers grazing the tender reddish flesh surrounding the wound, she felt the muscles of his chest tighten even more. A tiny thrill swept through her blood and for the briefest of seconds her breath caught in the back of her throat. Despite his injuries, he was strong. And male. Though he was bruised and beaten, his face mottled with color, there was something intense and sensual about him— his broad bare shoulders and hard, sinewy chest—something that reached past all of her defenses and scraped her very soul.

  She swallowed with difficulty, then wrapped the strips of cloth around his torso. As she smoothed the bandage over his back, her fingers encountered ridges upon the smooth muscles—scars from the whipping so long ago.

  Oh, dear God.

  She looked up and found him staring at her. Her heart beat a suddenly erratic tattoo, and all of her consciousness centered on that spot where her fingers touched his skin.

  “Bryanna,” he said, and she reacted, pulling her hand back, breaking the touch.

  She wasn’t fast enough.

  Quick as lightning, he grabbed her wrist, callused fingers encircling her fragile bones. “Tell me,” he said, his voice a raspy whisper. “What are you, Bryanna of Calon?” His skin was drawn taut over his cheekbones, his thick eyebrows knotted together in vexation, his silver eyes sparkling. “Woman?” he demanded. “Or witch?”

  “Mayhap a little of both.” She couldn’t think, and though they were the only two travelers in this huge plot of forest, the clearing seemed to shrink around them.

  “Is that so?” His fingers moved slightly, their warm pads touching the sensitive skin at the back of her wrist, where her pulse was pounding out of control. “Mayhap we should find out.” His face was but a hairbreadth from hers, his eyes on her mouth.

  Oh, by the Fates, he was going to kiss her. She knew it, wanted it, though the prospect scared her to death.

  Her heart pounded wildly and the sounds of the forest faded as her blood rushed in her ears. His lips pressed against hers, warm, firm, causing her blood to heat as he drew her close. Oh, by the gods, she could barely breathe. But she closed her eyes and felt the heady pressure of his mouth against hers, the feel of his lips and tongue as it urged her mouth open.

  She tingled inside and kissed him back, lost in a fever. Hungrily, her body screamed for more. He shifted, still holding her wrist, forcing her hands over her head as his body slid over hers and her pulse pounded so fast she was certain her heart would burst. More, she thought as his free hand tangled in her hair. More!

  Through her clothes, she felt his hardness, heard his own ragged breathing. His hand trailed downward, the warm tips of his fingers brushing the pulse pounding at her throat.

  In a split second, she felt his own rapidly beating heart and a vision passed behind her eyes.

  Vivid.

  Visceral.

  As clearly as if she had been at Gavyn’s side, she saw a struggle, a violent fight that smelled of blood, sweat, and piss. The sky was scarlet, rain falling in bloodlike tears. . . .

  On the ground lay a man, a man of the law with a clipped white beard and sightless brown eyes that stared upward from a bloodied face. His neck was broken, his head twisted at an ungodly angle.

  Dead.

  Killed by Gavyn of Agendor.

  “Liar! Thief! Murderer!”

  His lips found hers.

  Hot.

  Eager.

  Filled with the hunger of a starving man.

  And her traitorous body responded, his warmth invading her body. Her heart pounded in eager expectation as her mind filled with images of him holding her in his arms, pulling her tunic over her head, filling his callused hands with her breasts and letting his lips and tongue stray from her mouth, along the column of her throat, and ever downward. . . .

  “Nay!” She pulled back and yanked her hand away from his grip. Her heart was beating crazily, her breath impossible to find. Was it because of a vision of death that ran like quicksilver through her brain?

  Or from the wanting of this man, this murderer?

  She swallowed back her passion and wiped her lips, cleansing where his mouth had pressed so urgently to hers.

  His gaze found hers and locked.

  He knew.

  Her stomach dropped like a stone in a bottomless pond and she fought the desperation that tore at her with needle-sharp claws.

  She couldn’t believe her misfortune because, no matter how she looked at it, the truth was that she was falling in love with a murderer.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Who was it you killed?” Bryanna demanded, backing away from him as if she’d just peered into the darkest depths of his soul.

  “What?” Gavyn felt as if the spinning earth had suddenly ground to a brutal halt.

  “I saw a vision and you . . . you were standing over a man whose neck was broken, his skull all bloodied . . . and, oh, sweet Morrigu, that’s why you’re running.”

  She turned away from him and began packing all of her things into the leather saddle pouch.

  There was no longer any reason to protect her from the truth. “’Tis only part of the reason,” he admitted as he grabbed his tunic and struggled into it. The bandages were tight, but already the poultice felt good against his skin.

  “There’s more?” she asked, looking at the heavens as the first drops of rain fell from the dark sky. “Mother of the earth, what more do you have to hide?”

  “The horse. ’Twas not a gift.”

  “You stole it?”

  “From my father.”

  “A murderer, a horse thief, a liar. Is there anything else I should know about you?” She tossed the water from her cup over the remains of the fire, wiped it dry with the hem of her skirt, and packed a few herb pouches inside. Then she placed the cup, her horns, and some amulets into the bag.

  “You already know I’m a bastard.”

  “In more ways than one,” she said angrily as she tied the lace of her saddle back, then lashed it to the saddle. “Who was this man you killed?” she asked, and when he made an attempt to help her place the saddle upon her mare’s back, she shot him a glare that would turn a man’s blood to ice. “I can do it. Who did you kill?”

  “Craddock. The sheriff.”

  “The sheriff?” She threw her hands up in disbelief. “God’s teeth, this just gets better and better! Was there a reason for killing the sheriff or are you just plain addled?”

  “ ’Twas a simple matter of him or me. I thought I should live.”

  She stiffened a minute, her back to him as she let the words sink in. Then she adjusted the saddle blanket before pulling on the cinch one final time. Turning, she skewered him with a glare and asked, “And why was the sheriff trying to kill you?”

  “He thought it would be easier than arresting me.” Gavyn settled the saddle rug over Rhi’s broad back, then picked up his saddle with his good hand and swung it into place. “He was wrong.”

  “And why did he want to arrest you?”

  “To keep me quiet.” He threaded the leather cinch through the buckle as the rain began to fall in earnest. “Because I know too much.”

  “And what is it you know?”

  As if weighing just how much he should tell her, he pulled the buckle tight. “Many things, none of them good.”

  “Such as?”

  Kicking dirt over the remains of the fire, he said, “The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

  “What a load of goat dung! What kind of answer is that?” Her face was flushed, her lips pressed hard together as she strode back to him, approaching him for the first time since he’d kissed her. “Do not talk to me in riddles, Gavyn.” Her sea-green eyes snapped fire and her hands were planted firmly on her slim hips as rain began to run down her cheeks and dampen her hair. “If you are riding with me”—swiftly she he
ld up a finger—“and I haven’t said that you are, but if you intend to, then by the gods you must tell me the truth. No more lies. No more half-truths, and no more talking in circles. What is it you know?” she demanded, her fury and the rain only adding to her allure. “Well?”

  “That my father had my mother killed.”

  “He . . . what?” she gasped, one hand flying to her chest.

  “She died outside her cottage. It appeared as if she fell from a woodpile while she was chopping kindling, that she tripped over a rolling piece of yew and somehow cut herself with a hatchet.”

  “And you don’t believe it?” she asked.

  He saw that she was clinging to the hope that he was wrong, that no man who had conceived a child with a woman would take the woman’s life.

  “I saw his hired killer riding away from the scene of her death.” His jaw hardened at the memory. “By the time I got to her, she was already dead, a bloody ax in her hand.” He remembered rounding the corner of the path that led to the hut where his mother, a seamstress, lived alone. When the house loomed before him, he heard nothing—no sound aside from his own wild breathing and the blood pounding in his ears. Everything—the hut, the small garden, even the few chickens near the front door, picking at bugs—seemed skewed, out of kilter. Gavyn had been winded, his legs screaming in pain, but he ran forward, calling to her. “Ma!” he yelled. “Ma!” He threw open the door to see the fire still burning, a blackened pot boiling wildly. He spun, still yelling, but knowing the truth deep in his heart. Outside again, he rounded the corner of the hut to the woodpile, where he saw her and the blood . . . blood everywhere. . . .

  He blinked, felt the cold rain running down his back, found himself staring into Bryanna’s concerned gaze. “The way she died, the position of the wounds on her body, ’twas obvious that she’d been . . .” He winced. “She was murdered, left to die.”

  “Could she not have fallen upon the blade?”

  “A fall would cut once. ’Twould not account for the many wounds she suffered.”

  “And who did this? Who was the man you saw riding away?”

  He secured his bow and arrows, lashing them to the saddle. “Craddock, my father’s sheriff. Journeyed all the way from Agendor to do my father’s bidding.”