Sorceress

by Lisa Jackson

  He’d told himself that he was chasing her down because of the map and the dagger, to satisfy his curiosity and, mayhap, even to rob her of the jewels, should she locate them. Aye, that would serve her right for leaving him.

  But, truth to tell, he suspected it was something more that drove him to be near her, something just as unsettling. He couldn’t get her out of his damned mind. From the moment he’d seen her in the forest railing at the wind, yelling at the mythical Isa, he’d been unable to get her out of his mind. The fact that she was the woman in his dreams and the girl he’d been smitten with as a youth had only added to her allure, her intrigue.

  Then there was the keen sense that she was in danger, the darkness that followed her whenever he saw her in his sleep.

  Damn the woman to hell, he thought, scanning the dark windows cut into the walls of the keep. A few had faint light, as if from dying fires. He assumed she was inside one of those rooms, safely asleep.

  And yet . . .

  He glanced toward the moonless sky and sensed that same malevolence he’d felt in his dreams.

  He only hoped the fortress that was Castle Tarth would keep whatever depravity he perceived at bay. Compelled to find her, he slipped inside the kitchen door. He knew how to steal into the castle, how to slip through the corridors like a ghost, for though the rules and the faces of the guards may have changed, the routine would not have been altered. It would be the same as it had been when he was a boy stealing salt pork and tarts from the kitchen or wine from the buttery, right beneath the steward’s nose.

  Lord Romney was nothing if not a rigid man, one who did not change his mind or habits easily. And as his son Sir Mabon had not yet returned to take over his duties as the baron, no one would have changed where the guards kept the key rings, nor meddled with security within the castle. Gavyn knew which doors would be locked and which were allowed to remain unlatched, just as he knew every twist of the dimly lit castle corridors.

  Like a wraith, he climbed to the third floor and moved silently along the hallway. The lord’s room was in one direction, attached to the solar, and down the other way were empty chambers, rooms for guests or children.

  Although the keep was quiet, he knew guards were about, most likely playing dice or drinking mead or dozing at their posts. Stealthily he moved down the corridor past candles that had long burned out. He tested the first door, pushed it open, and found an empty chamber that smelled of must and mildew, a room once occupied by Mabon and his brother. Softly he shut the door, then walked to the next chamber. When he pushed against the door, it didn’t budge, and he knew she was inside. Locked away. Safe.

  He felt momentary relief, then walked along the corridor past the latrine to a staircase and window that looked out to the bailey. He paused, staring out at the rain slanting from the sky in a shifting silver curtain, pounding on the roof.

  Something moved behind him and he whirled, hand upon the hilt of his knife as he ducked into the window’s alcove. Tense, ready to lunge, he expected to hear a guard’s deep voice accost him.

  Instead, he saw nothing.

  And yet he felt a disturbance in the corridor. A palpable evil, swirling in a maelstrom of darkness. Cold as death, it swept past him, though he saw nothing, heard no footsteps.

  Tarth Keep is haunted, Gavyn. Remember it always, his mother had told him, though he’d always suspected it to be a rumor, a way for her to keep him from making his nocturnal forays into the great hall, which he was forbidden to enter. Do not cross the threshold where the dead roam. Her warnings, though dire, had only added allure to an already daring challenge.

  Never once had he encountered a ghost or specter or demon.

  Until this moment.

  He thought again of Bryanna and hurried back to the locked door. Without a second’s hesitation, he pushed upon it again and it opened easily. Noiselessly.

  He stepped inside, where a fire barely glowed but gave off enough light to see her tousled curls upon the bed.

  He paused, taking in the sweet sound of her soft breathing. She moved, rustling the sheets, then lifted her head for a second, almost as if she were looking straight at him. God’s eyes, she was beautiful. Though it was shadowy in the chamber, he could still make out her features, her straight nose, wide eyes, and full mouth. Her hair was tangled and wild, falling about her shoulders in tumbled disarray.

  “Gavyn,” he thought she whispered, though her lips barely moved. Mayhap it was a trick of thin light from the shadow. Their eyes met and his heart thumped wildly. Her eyebrows drew together and her eyes closed sadly. “Why?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Why would you do this?”

  “Do what? ’Tis you who left me,” he said, stepping closer.

  “I only did what was foretold.”

  He stepped closer to her.

  “Do not be angry,” she murmured, though he wasn’t certain she was completely awake. “Please.”

  His heart melted at the sight of her, uncharacteristically vulnerable. Usually sharp-tongued and headstrong, usually quick to tease and taunt him, she now appeared confused. Mayhap she wasn’t quite awake.

  “Sleep,” he said, his anger melting. “I just wanted to see that you were safe.”

  “Is that what you call it?” she said and laughed, almost in relief. “I thought . . . why did you not say so? Why did you not kiss me on my lips?”

  Was she teasing?

  “I did.” He thought of the one kiss they’d shared in the forest, how it had ricocheted through his body.

  “Nay . . .” She shook her head drowsily, her eyes half closed.

  “Sleep well,” he said.

  “You’re not going to kiss me good night?”

  He couldn’t believe what she was saying. She’d left him in the middle of the night, snuck away like a thief, as if she were angry with him or trying to run away from him. So now that he’d stolen into her bedchamber, why was she suddenly so warm and inviting?

  He should leave.

  Now.

  If he had even one bit of sanity, he would slip through the door and pretend that he’d never stepped into this shadowed room with its dying fire.

  “Good night, Bryanna.” He took a step toward the door.

  “Do not leave,” she whispered. “Please, Gavyn, do not leave me like this.”

  “Like what?” he asked, turning back to her.

  “Alone. Not after what we shared.” Her voice was drowsy and filled with sleep.

  Although he felt sure she must be dreaming, he couldn’t deny the lust that ran through his body as he gazed down at her thick red lips and tossed red curls. “We have shared little,” he said.

  “Little? By the gods, Gavyn, you’re a cur.” She spat the words and he couldn’t help but smile. This was the woman he knew, the woman he fantasized about, the woman he thought he might, if he allowed himself, fall in love with.

  “I wouldn’t think you a coward, Gavyn, to sneak away in the night.”

  “Christ Jesus, woman, what do you want of me?”

  “A kiss good night,” she said groggily.

  He thought of what they’d shared, the days in the forest, riding, hunting, tending to the horses. The nights around the fire with a wolf lurking in the shadows. Her warm hands as she’d tended to his wounds and scolded him for not taking better care of himself. And then there was the kiss. A heart-stopping, blood-firing kiss that he’d wished would never end, a kiss he now wanted desperately to forget.

  “After what we shared, is one kiss too much to ask?”

  “Mayhap,” he said, fighting the urge to fall into the bed with her, to kiss her on her lips, her eyes, her neck, her breasts. God in heaven, it had been a long time since he’d been with a woman, and never had he wanted one more than Bryanna. Still, something was amiss here. . . . She was not herself. Talking clearly one second, and not making sense the next.

  Don’t do this, his mind warned him. Wait. There is no harm in waiting.

  She reached upward then, her hand findin
g his, the sheets slipping downward, one bare breast exposed. He swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth as, even in the shadows, he noticed the rosy tip of her breast, a hard, tempting disk.

  “Love me, Gavyn. But this time, kiss me on the lips, let me see your face.”

  This time?

  She ran her free hand up the length of his leg, past his knee and upward, to his thigh.

  His manhood, in expectation, thickened and swelled, straining at the laces of his breeches. Sweat broke out along his back as images of making love to her flashed behind his eyes. He saw their sweaty bodies entwined, her breathing hurried, her face flushed, her arms surrounding him as she eased herself lower on the mattress, kissing him, running her tongue over his abdomen and lower. . . .

  Groaning, he tried to step away but couldn’t.

  “Bryanna,” he said, his voice raw. “This isn’t a good idea.”

  “You say that now?” she asked, an edge of anger in her voice.

  He closed his eyes to her, the muscles of his legs tense where she touched him. “It’s just that—”

  “That what? You cannot love a woman face-to-face?” Her fingers tightened over the muscles in his thigh and he fought every urge in his body not to fall into the bed with her.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Am I not asking?” She seemed awake now and rose to her knees, the sheeting falling away from her naked body, inviting. Though it was dark, he could see her, smell her, sense the wanting. Her head was even with his chest, and as she spoke her breath seemed to permeate his tunic and mantle. “Do you not want me now?” She tilted her head up, causing her hair to spill over one shoulder. Her exposed throat glowed white in the night. “You’re finished with me?”

  “Oh, lady,” he groaned, knowing that was the furthest thing from the truth. Her hands slipped upward beneath the hem of his tunic, her warm fingertips skimming his skin. His blood pounded through his veins, his heart pumping crazily as need and desire overtook him.

  He stepped out of his breeches and dropped to his own knees on the bed. She peeled off his tunic, her fingers as eager as his own. Pressing his bare chest to her full round breasts, he gathered her small body into his arms and kissed her, his mouth fastening over hers, his breathing ragged and rough.

  This is wrong!

  Don’t do it!

  Stop now before it’s too late.

  She is acting strangely . . . oh, sweet Jesus . . .

  He pressed his tongue to her teeth and she opened to him, easily, hungrily, her own tongue playing with his. Her chest began to rise and fall rapidly as her breaths came in short bursts. His hungry hands scaled her ribs, and she gasped in expectation as his thumbs found her nipples and toyed with them until they became hard and her breasts swelled in his hands.

  She was hot.

  He felt the warmth radiating from her.

  Knew that deep inside she was melting, readying herself.

  He imagined thrusting into that warmth to feel her wetness cling to him.

  “Oooh,” she cried, closing her eyes and letting her head loll to one side as he leaned over to kiss her sweet, curved throat. So white. So vulnerable. So damned sensual.

  Don’t do this, Gavyn. Stop while you still can. A few more seconds and there will be no turning back.

  He kissed her throat.

  Hard.

  His lips sucking.

  “Gavyn,” she cried.

  His blood was singing in his ears as he rolled onto his back and pulled her atop him, his hands embracing her small nip of a waist, his fingers splaying over her spine and that glorious indentation just above her perfect little rump.

  “Oh, oh, God,” she murmured as he filled his mouth with her.

  The room melted away as he felt her moving over him, rocking with a primal desire.

  His fingers dug into her buttocks and she arched upward, her back bowing as his tongue and teeth scraped over her nipple. Her hands dug into his hair and she held him to her as he suckled, hard and fast, his fingers kneading her, readying her, dipping lower, beyond the cleft to that special spot.

  She cried out, bucking as he entered her with a finger, feeling that moist sweet spot.

  “Please,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with sweet agony. “Gavyn, please . . .”

  “God forgive me,” he whispered and pulled her atop him, his stiffness piercing her hard, sliding deep into her hot, moist womanhood.

  She moved above him and he helped her, his hands upon her waist, his hips rising as she came down on him. Over and over again. Hard. Fast. Hot. Oh, God, so hot. He was sweating, holding back, watching her move above him. Her firm, erect breasts trembled with the motion of their lovemaking.

  Her back was arched, her mouth open as she gasped.

  Her ardor fueled the flames in his blood. His mind swam in exquisite sensation, and it was all he could do not to spill himself inside her. Instead he clenched his teeth and drove harder and faster.

  Just as she cried out, her body jerking in a violent spasm, he thrust as far as he could, lifted his shoulders and grasped her tight in his arms. He kissed her breast again, filling his mouth with her. The pressure started deep within, building, faster, hotter, his mind splintering as his entire body jerked.

  His release was complete.

  As was his guilt.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “Don’t leave.”

  Bryanna’s words seemed to echo in the dark chamber and clatter through his damned heart. Although she was sleeping now, during the night she had begged him not to leave, and he had succumbed. Now Gavyn kicked himself for staying as long as he had, making love to her into the early-morning hours while the fire had burned out completely and the rain had increased, pounding on the roof above.

  Much as he wanted to stay with her, it would be dawn soon enough. The castle would begin to stir as men and women went about their tasks, and Gavyn could not risk being discovered.

  He was still a wanted man, and there was a chance that word of his crime had traveled here to Tarth, where some villagers might recognize him. He had to be careful, at least until he’d spoken with former acquaintances, people who’d been friends with his mother.

  He’d spent enough time in Bryanna’s bed as it was. He’d dozed after making love to her the first time, and then, upon waking, had drawn her sleeping body to his and made love to her again, discovering anew the wonder and magick of her body.

  Sorceress? Nay. He didn’t believe she had any magic, other than to bewitch and beguile him.

  Woman? Aye. Like no other.

  Temptress? No bloody doubt.

  As she’d slept, he’d extricated himself from her arms, slipped out of the bed, and gotten dressed in the dark.

  The last thing he wanted to do was leave.

  But staying would be just plain foolish.

  When she let out a soft sigh and turned her cheek on the pillow, it was nearly his undoing. Why not slide back between the covers for a little longer? Could he not hide out here in this chamber? He imagined what it would be like to watch her awaken and find him in her bed. He considered her reaction, the surprise, then the pleasure in her turquoise eyes. How he would love to kiss her and make love to her in broad daylight. ’Twould be exquisite to stare into her eyes, watch her body move, witness her wonder and delight and pure pleasure as he made love to her. He thought of kissing her, seeing her lips, and then later, during the act, observing her kissing him, trailing her lips down his abdomen and lower. He grew hard as he thought of what she would do, how her eyes would look up at him in naughty amusement, how her tongue would flicker and taste him, how her mouth, oh, God, that wonderful, sensual, full-lipped mouth would work its magick upon him.

  He nearly slid back into the bed but he heard a noise—the scrape of leather against stone—a boot or shoe in the hall outside the door.

  He tensed. His fantasy shriveled along with the thickening of his cock.

  His heart flew to his throat.

  He strained to
hear, but only the sounds of the rain on the roof and wind whipping around the keep met his ears.

  For the love of God, he couldn’t forget they were not alone. Nor could he take the chance of being discovered, worse yet caught in the lady’s room and trapped here. He had much to discover about Tarth—how safe it was for him and for her—before he showed his face.

  He unsheathed his knife and, after listening at the door, eased himself into the hallway. Bootheels ringing on the stairs told him it was time for the changing of the guard, so he headed in the opposite direction, away from the main stairs.

  Before starting down and possibly running into another sentry, he ducked into the windowed alcove where he’d hidden before and listened. Whoever had been climbing the main stairs had not followed. He let out his breath and stepped toward the staircase.

  “Hey, you there!” a deep-voiced guard yelled from the bailey far below.

  Gavyn didn’t move a muscle.

  Someone had seen him in the window!

  Damn! Blast his luck! What were the chances that a guard outside the great hall would see him? Gavyn’s fingers tightened over the hilt of his knife.

  “Boy!” The sentry’s deep voice shouted again.

  Boy?

  “John, is it? The tanner’s son? What the bloody hell are ye doin’ out tonight in this blasted rain? Get along now, away from the kennels and back to yer father’s hut. If he knows ye sneaked out, he’ll be tannin’ yer own hide rather than that of the huntsmen’s stags, now, won’t he? Now, git, before I flay ye meself.”

  Gavyn let out his breath and looked through the window, but the rain was too thick to see much. After he was certain the altercation between the boy and soldier had been resolved, Gavyn hurried down the staircase and stepped outside and into the last remaining hours of night. Rain peppered the ground and splashed the surface of puddles. Gavyn slipped along the darkest part of the bailey, cutting past the armorer and thatcher’s huts and nearly tripping over a wet surprised cat that hissed and shot out from beneath a hayrick to slink behind a pile of wood.