Kian. Dyfed sent the thought across the distance that separated his brother and himself. Come quickly. It’s here.
Bachgen’s terror heightened. The beast emitted a terrifying sound that echoed across the valley, and Dyfed heard him struggling wildly to be free. A tree crashed to the ground and the earth shook. Dyfed shouted out and began running in the horse’s direction, blinded by the fog, until the violent uproar ended with Bachgen’s broken body being flung down nearly on top of him. Dyfed couldn’t stop his forward motion; his legs struck the horse’s twisted form, sending him tumbling forward, over still-warm blood and spiky bones. He landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and scrambled in a vain attempt to gain his feet.
There was a flash of brilliant light, revealing a blur of motion. For one brief moment he thought he saw the shape of a woman, and then, slipping in the wet mud, he lost his precarious balance and fell again. His head hit the ground and exploded with pain, and that was the last that he knew.
“Stop.” Desdemona lifted a hand to keep the beast from crushing the man who lay upon the ground. Despite what Cadmaran believed, she was loath to take part in the killing of any mortal, magic or otherwise. She had no wish to have a curse laid upon her by the Guardians. Killing the animals and destroying the crops had brought her close enough to punishment; she had to take every care not to cross any unforgivable boundaries.
She had made the man insensible a moment too late; he had clearly seen her, though she wasn’t certain of whether he’d seen the beast. But she would take no chances. Distant shouts warned her that his companions, who’d surely heard the violence that had occurred, were coming.
“Go,” she told the beast. “Return to the lake and rest until I call you again. You must be quiet.”
The scaly dragonlike beast obeyed at once, almost relieved to be let go. It shrank from its great height, thinning and spreading into a large puddle on the ground, and when it had finished transforming, it seeped into the earth, seeking an underground passage back to the safety of the lake.
The man’s friends were coming closer, but the fog, thankfully, made their task more difficult. She might have disappeared as easily as the beast had done, but there had been something in the man’s face when he’d seen her, something intriguing, that made Desdemona stay.
She whispered aloud into the cold, damp air and soon heard a great tumble of noises some quarter mile away. There was nothing particularly distinct about the sounds—they might have heralded an earthquake or an avalanche, both highly unlikely in this particular area—but they were more than enough to send the man’s frantic companions in the wrong direction.
“Now,” she murmured as their voices died away, “who are you?”
She knelt beside him and lifted one hand, palm up. A small flame appeared, illuminating a face that she found almost more beautiful than handsome. Not that he appeared to be in any way soft or feminine, but his features were so elegant and striking that they might have been crafted by a tremendously skilled artist. Desdemona recognized at once that he had been blessed with elvish blood. Even a very small and distant amount could do wondrous things to the forms and faces of magic beings. It had certainly done wonderful things to him.
He was a wizard. She had felt the presence of her own kind at once, but his powers, she sensed, were limited. Which meant that he couldn’t possibly be the great Kian Seymour, the Baron of Tylluan, of whom Cadmaran had so often spoken. Perhaps he was the twin brother? Cadmaran had mentioned with intense hatred the physical beauty of certain Seymours, their Dewin Mawr and his heir, Lord Tylluan, among them. Seeing this man, Desdemona understood full well why Cadmaran’s words had always held a tinge of jealousy.
She touched his pale cheek with her other hand, gently stroking along the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble growing there, then slid her fingers into the long, silky blond hair that had come undone at some point during the night. It was so fair as to almost be white—something else his faint elvish blood had gifted him with.
There was power in this man … not magical power, but something quite different. She could feel it beneath her touch. Bravery. Honor. She understood all those things at once, and more. He was a quiet man, but in his heart … there was much left unsaid.
Her hand slid down to his neck, paused to feel the strong pulse beating there, and then lower to test the muscles of his shoulder and chest and arm. Then lower still, across his taut stomach, where she lingered.
He was young and healthy and beautiful, and Desdemona wanted him. She’d not had a man since coming to this foreign place, had not particularly felt the need for one. Certainly not for Cadmaran, despite his handsomeness and obvious experience with women. She couldn’t fault Lord Llew for making the attempt, nor for leaving her in peace when she expressed no similar interest. But not until this moment, with so enticing a lover before her, helpless to do anything save her bidding, had she felt that powerful surge of desire that sometimes drove her to be incautious. Desdemona wanted him, needed him, and she would have him. Her hand began to move once more, her long fingers sliding over the flap of his breeches, exploring, caressing …
It had not been Desdemona’s experience in life to be very often surprised. Her father had managed to do it a number of times, but he was the greatest sorcerer known to their kind in the States. Cadmaran had tried, probably to see if he could do it, but to no avail.
But this man surprised her. His arm shot up from its formerly motionless position upon the ground and his fingers closed over her wrist, yanking her hand firmly from his body.
Desdemona’s gaze slid calmly back to his face, discovering that his eyes—intensely blue, even in the darkness—were open and perfectly aware. And extremely angry.
What do you think you’re doing?
She heard his chilly voice in her head and realized at once that he possessed the gift of silent speech.
As disconcerting as being surprised was, Desdemona didn’t panic or even experience a rise in her heartbeat. He was a lesser wizard, after all, and she his superior by far. He could wield no power over her, nor could he resist whatever commands she gave. She would make a pet of him. A slave, as she had done with other men she had taken as lovers. He would be deeply in love with her in but moments, suffering for want of her. And then he would do her bidding, all that Desdemona wished, and would come to her, day or night, whenever she desired him to do so.
“Release me,” she said softly, tugging lightly at her hand in expectation of instant freedom.
But then something inexplicable happened. He didn’t do what she’d told him to do. And not only did he not release her, but his grip on her wrist actually tightened.
“Release you?” He had found his physical voice at last, and it was filled with fury. “You’ll be fortunate to come away from our meeting intact. Who the devil are you, and where have you come from?”
Desdemona frowned and stared at her captive wrist, which was beginning to ache from the tight grasp he held on it.
“Release me,” she said again, more firmly. “Now.”
“Not until I have some answers.” Wincing, he rose to his feet, dragging her up with him. He was a good deal taller than Desdemona, and she was obliged to look up to see his face. “First,” he said, “I want your name.”
Panic, like surprise, was a rare experience for her, but Desdemona distinctly felt it welling up inside of her. Something was amiss, and she had to gain control of this situation. Quickly.
It was time to make a display of her powers, in order to give her captor a better understanding of who she was and why he should be far more afraid than angry.
Lifting her free hand, she sent the flame that was still on her palm flying into the haze above their heads. It took but a thought to cause the flame to multiply until there were dozens, then a hundred, circling overhead, filling the place where they stood with light. With another wave of her hand Desdemona made the fog fade in the area immediately surrounding them, so that they could see
not only each other, but the fallen trees and Bachgen’s mutilated body as well. A couple of trees hadn’t yet completely fallen, but with a mere pushing motion Desdemona sent them slamming to the still-muddy ground.
The sound was loud enough to draw her captor’s companions back in their direction. She heard their shouts and saw him lift his head slightly, communicating with them through his silent speech. Looking at him, seeing even more clearly just how striking he was, Desdemona felt a renewed surge of desire. Somehow, his foolish determination to overpower her only made the thought of possessing him more desirable.
“Release me,” she said once more, “and I won’t hold this against you once we’ve come together. If you do not, I shall have to punish you.”
He looked at her as if she was mad and said, “Let’s try this again. I’m Dyfed Seymour. My brother is Lord Tylluan, and these are his lands upon which you’re trespassing. You don’t have to tell me who you are, if you don’t wish to, but I can promise that you’ll tell him. He’ll be here very shortly.”
The idea made her smile. “I shall look forward to meeting Kian Seymour,” she told him. “I have heard much of him. And I will gladly tell him my name. It is one he will not hereafter forget.”
Dyfed’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not Welsh. Or English. Your speech is—”
“No, I’m not English,” she said coldly, “for which I thank God. I’m American. Your companions are coming.” Desdemona nodded toward the trees. “I grow weary of asking, Dyfed Seymour. I don’t wish to harm your friends, but I will, if you don’t let me go.”
“I see that what I’ve heard of Americans is true, then,” he replied tightly. “They have no manners. Not even their women. If you harm my men, you may well drive me to do something that I’ve never done before. Strike a female.”
She laughed at that. How amusing that he should think he could best her in any way. She was going to enjoy taming him into submission.
“Then before they arrive and you discover what you can—and cannot—do to me, perhaps we should make good use of our time. Now you will kiss me.”
She rose up on her toes and lifted her free hand to pull him down to her, but again was surprised.
Dyfed reared back. “Kiss you?” he repeated with disbelief. “Are you witless? You killed my horse!”
Desdemona was beginning to grow rather angry, too. “You must obey me,” she stated tautly. She was clearly his superior. Why hadn’t he realized it yet?
Now it was his turn to laugh. “Must I? Americans are not only ill-mannered, I see, but arrogant.”
“No one disobeys me,” she informed him, striving to impress upon him that she meant what she said, “save for the most powerful among our kind, which you assuredly are not. I am Desdemona Caslin, daughter to Draceous Caslin.” She waited for an appropriate reaction to her words, but Dyfed only continued to gaze at her as if she was slightly mad. “Does that mean nothing to you?” she demanded.
He gave a single shake of his head. “Not really. I perceive that you are a gifted sorceress, and that those gifts are dark, but your name and your father’s are unfamiliar to me.”
“A gifted sorceress?” she repeated as insult grew within her breast. “I am no mere sorceress. I am the daughter of Draceous Caslin. My powers are beyond what you could ever hope to possess, beyond your imagining.”
Dyfed Seymour appeared to disbelieve her. He said nothing but lowered his gaze to her wrist, still captive in his grasp, then looked up at her again with a mocking smile.
Desdemona clenched her teeth and made a fist of her free hand. “Don’t you dare to laugh at me!” she warned him wrathfully. “I don’t know why I can’t make you obey me. I certainly had no trouble making you insensible before.”
“Do you mean when I fell?” he asked. “You had nothing to do with that. I hit my head on a rock. It’s aching like the very devil”—he gingerly touched the back of his head—“and I imagine I’ll have a rather large lump in the morning.”
She was taken aback. Why would he say such a ridiculous thing? How could he make up a tale so utterly false? And why on earth was her attraction to him growing more intense by the moment? She should hate Dyfed Seymour, and the fact that she didn’t only made her that much angrier.
“That’s not so! You’re a liar and a fool!” Desdemona struck him on the shoulder and, when he only laughed, struck him again. She couldn’t be helpless. It was impossible. Certainly not because of him. Panic began to overwhelm all her better senses, and she struggled to be set free. “Let me go! Let me—”
His companions came suddenly crashing through the trees and into the clearing. Her captor turned to look at them, momentarily diverted, and the men themselves were taken aback by the sight before them. They fell still, panting from the exertion of running, their eyes drawn upward to the sight of so many flames floating above their heads.
It was all the distraction Desdemona needed. With one violent twist she freed herself, shouting, “Sleep!” at the two men and then whirling away, out of Dyfed Seymour’s reach, before he leaped forward to grab her.
She was quick, but Dyfed’s anger made him quicker. The little fiend had somehow been involved in the destruction surrounding them, which meant she knew what had been happening at Tylluan. And she had killed his horse, or let him be killed, which was just as bad. But this was the last straw. Bened and Lud crumpled to the ground beneath the force of her curse, and Dyfed had had enough.
She moved with the speed that their kind could call upon in times of need, but so did he. Well before she reached the other side of the flame-lit clearing, he had her.
She screamed and struggled and threw every curse she could think of at him, from “sleep,” to “be still,” to “fall down,” and everything in between, but nothing happened. He appeared to be protected from her powers, great though he believed them to be. She certainly believed them to be far above average, if her frustration and fury at the moment were anything to go by.
Dragging her diminutive, resisting form along, Dyfed sat upon the nearest felled tree, threw Miss Desdemona Caslin across his knee, tossed her heavy black skirt up over her head to expose her undergarments, and, with the flat of his palm across her small and attractively rounded bottom, gave her the thrashing she deserved.
From the screaming outrage that accompanied the task, it was clear that she’d never been subjected to such punishment before. Which explained a good deal, Dyfed thought.
“This is for Lud,” Dyfed told her, landing a solid blow. “And this is for Bened. This is for the trees and plants you destroyed. This is for behaving in such a spoiled and reckless manner. And this,” he said, giving her an especially hard whack, “is for my horse!”
She was weeping by the time Dyfed was finished, more out of mortification than hurt, he supposed. If the little wretch thought this was bad, however, only wait until Kian got through with her. He would be here soon. Dyfed could feel it.
“There,” he said, pulling her up into a sitting position and settling her on his lap. “That’s done, and no less than you deserve for being so ill-mannered a brat. Calm yourself and gather your wits. I want you to release Lud and Bened from your curse as quickly as possible.”
“I don’t understand,” she managed between sobs, shaking her head. “Something’s wrong. Why are my powers useless against you? It’s n-not possible.”
She had given up fighting him, at least for the time being. The shock of not being able to curse him had evidently stunned her into a temporary surrender. Temporary, he knew, because magical beings of great power generally made wily prey. He’d spent his life with just such a person and knew very well how quickly Kian could regain his composure, even after a tremendous blow. To be safe, Dyfed set one arm firmly about Desdemona’s waist. With his other hand he tilted her chin up to have a better look at her.
Americans, he decided, might not be civilized, but they were certainly very attractive. Or, rather, this particular one was.
Her hair was as b
lack and sleek as a raven’s wing and quite long, if the several strands that had come loose from her arrangement were proof to go by. Her face was as delicate as the rest of her, heart shaped and deceptively sweet, with a small nose and softly rounded cheeks. Her dark brows were high, slender, and arching, and beneath were eyes the color of amethyst, framed by long black lashes. Her lips were slightly bowed, curving into an almost childish pout, especially now, when she was so unhappy. Gazing at it, he felt a disarming urge to give her the kiss she had asked for earlier.
Aye, she was a rare beauty, as so many of their kind were. Unfortunately, also as with many of their kind, it was a beauty that belied the heart that lay beneath. Hers was a dark, cold magic, and nothing other than that about her could be believed.
She gazed up at him, forlorn and unhappy, her face streaked with mud and tears. She was some years younger than he was, he thought, perhaps twenty, no older, and Dyfed felt an unwanted stirring of pity for her.
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. “This has never happened before. You’re not even a great wizard.”
“No, I’m not,” Dyfed agreed, and with one finger pushed a few stray strands of hair from her face. “I’m a lesser wizard, and perfectly happy to be so. What I should like to know now is more precisely who you are and why you’re here from the States, and what you’re doing at Tylluan in the dead of night. And, of course, what you have to do with the troubles we’ve been experiencing here these past many months.”
She sniffled and wiped her wet face with both hands. “My powers may have gone astray, but I’m not a fool.” She looked up at him, her eyes filled with misery. “Why wouldn’t you kiss me? I thought at least you’d want to obey that command.”
“Why do you want me to kiss you?” he asked. “You came to Tylluan to bring destruction, not to claim kisses.”
Touch of Passion Page 11