The old man managed to choke down his glee long enough to say, "Aye, milady, for I doubt not that the prince and Lord Geoffrey are equal to a country baron's band of thugs. Nevertheless, giving succor to a village is the smallest part of their reason for going there."
Quicksilver gave him a long stare, then turned back to Cordelia. "We are up against a male plot." To Tom Gardener she said, "Explain, viellard! What do the prince and the knight truly plan?"
"Why, naught but what they have said," Tom answered, all innocence. "Yet any old man can tell why they have really ridden away."
"Can he indeed?" Storm clouds gathered over Quicksilver's brow. "Then the old man can tell the young women, and speedily, if he cares for his backside!"
"Surely, milady." Tom couldn't completely throttle his smile. " 'Tis simply and plainly that young men must ever
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be proving themselves worthy of their ladies, and the more beautiful the ladies, the more the young men must prove themselves."
Quicksilver gave him a long, level look, then turned back to Cordelia. "There might be something in what he says."
"Aye, the dear fools!" Cordelia smiled, her eyes filling. "Then, Tom Gardener, tell us what would hap if we came to their rescue."
"Why, lady, you would prove that they have no worth!"
"How silly!" Quicksilver scoffed. "Any woman can see their virtues!"
"Do you truly?" Tom Gardener challenged. "Would you, if you had to save them from their own folly?" Quicksilver started to answer, but he kept talking. "Even if you protested that you did not think less of them for it, the young men would never believe you. Indeed, rather than prove their worth, you would have proved their lack."
"Men are foolish in their pride," Cordelia reminded Quicksilver.
Tom Gardener started to say something else but choked it down and turned back to his bulbs.
"What had you in mind?" Quicksilver demanded. "Speak, sirrah!"
"Why, only to ask if women have no pride that makes them think themselves worthy of their men." Tom broke into soft whistling as his earth-covered hands deftly parted lily bulbs, set one aside, and began to replant the other.
"I think we shall ignore his temerity and his question with it." Cordelia wondered briefly if the issue was one she should really consider, but set it aside as ridiculous.
"Still, we should not ignore his advice."
"I gave no advice!" Tom Gardener said quickly.
"I suppose that is trie, to a lawyer," Cordelia allowed.
"Aye," said Quicksilver. "He did only answer our questions."
"If they could be truly answered," Cordelia added. "Still, the point is worth considering. Give answer again, Tom Gardener—do the boys not truly wish to be free of our presence, of the velvet manacles they perceive us to be?"
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44 All young men need some time away from their beloveds now and then," Tom protested, hedging, "to restore the intensity of their loves. Have you never heard that absence makes the heart grow fonder?"
44 Aye, fonder of another wench," Quicksilver said darkly.
44 Not if they truly love us." Cordelia laid her hand on Quicksilver's, smiling complacently. 4 'Advice or not, what he says is well spoken."
44 He might have scored a point or two," Quicksilver reluctantly admitted.
Cordelia nodded. 44 If what he says is true, we have only to decide whether we can trust our boys." She raised a questioning glance to Quicksilver. "Or do you truly think that, after he has come to know you, no other woman could hold Geoffrey's attention for more than an hour or two?"
44 Even one could be an hour too long," Quicksilver said darkly. "Still, he is not apt to dally in the midst of a battle." She gave Cordelia a challenging stare. 44 What of you, sister-to-be? Are you so sure of your swain as all that?"
44 0h, yes," Cordelia answered with a small, very satisfied smile. 4 T think I can trust him, whether he likes it or not."
The old gardener turned his back as he studiously grafted a twig onto a rose root.
It was time for the big guns. Moraga had tried being nice, she had tried being inviting, she had tried being romantic, and all she'd had from Gregory was a sermon against premarital sex! As though that mattered. Her teachers had convinced her that what all men really wanted was sex without consequences or commitments, that the woman they most wanted was the one who would spread her sheets for him, then bid him a cheery farewell in the morning, so she set about giving Gregory more than he had ever known he wanted.
She took her time arranging her next projection, fashioning a form straight out of the most extravagant adolescent dream and a face that would have launched eleven hundred ships (she had a notion Helen of Troy had gone in too much for beauty and not enough for the erotic). Sloe-eyed, diapha-
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nously gowned, and cherry-lipped, she took up her stance just around a bend in the road from Gregory, struck her most voluptuous pose, and waited.
Gregory went around the bend and froze stiff, staring. The horse, not affected by human standards of beauty, sailed straight ahead toward the reef of femininity lying in wait for the frail barque that was Gregory, propelled by a tidal wave of hormones.
"Prithee, kind sir," the vision purred, "come down to rest a while with me."
Gregory tried (and failed) to pull his eyes back into their sockets and stammered, "I thank you, damsel, but I must forge ahead."
"How unfair to go onward!" The fantasy pouted. "I, sir, am Honey, and all the sweetness that a man could crave. Will you not descend and taste of me?"
The blatantness of the invitation rocked Gregory. "I—I have a mission. ..."
"You will be missing more than your mission could mean."
"It is a trust and a quest," Gregory stammered, "on which I must wend. ..."
"That you went not with this witch will be a regret you may trust with no question." Honey reached up to stroke his cheek, leaving lines of tingling behind as she drew her fingertips down to his lips. "What else could be so important? Pass an hour with me, sir, and it will sustain you the rest of your life!"
"Sustain ... I must... my burden. ..."
"A bird in the hand will sustain you far better than travel." Her fingertips trailed down his chest, parting his robe as they went, leaving a trail of fire as they touched his hand.
"I cannot bear..."
"Then I shall bear you." Honey tugged gently and his hand followed under the filmy fabric, where she molded it to her, then drew it forward, shuddering with the pleasure of his caress.
But he felt it too keenly; alarm shot through him, waking him from the erotic trance. He remembered who he sought
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and why, paid attention to the woman's thoughts, not her body, and recognized the characteristic tinge, the signature that let him recognize Finister more clearly than sight.
"Do I seem too good to be true?" the vision asked him. "I assure you, I cannot be accused of goodness! I know my own worth, and this is it: to give pleasure, and seek it." She tugged at his arm. "Not that I have found more than a little. I seek a man who can send me whirling to the heights of ecstasy, not the mere release that is all any have given."
"I... I know not that road, and could be of little use."
'Trust me to know your use," Honey said, "and be sure I know the road. No man will love me lifelong, this I know, so I seek whatever bond I can find with any man, and you are the fortunate one who has met me this day."
Even through the whirl of emotions, Gregory recognized the kernel of truth around which Finister had wrapped this particular lie. She believed herself to be of no real worth, especially of no lasting worth to any man, that males would value her only for her sexual attraction and not for the person inside the body.
Every instinct within him cried foul. He had grown up with a mother and a sister, neither saintly but both very dear, and could not believe that any woman was nothing but
a body. Mind and soul were too precious to him. It was the person who mattered to him, not the gender, and several young women had made it clear to him that this was a failing, for he could not relate to them as he could to another man.
"Come down from your high horse, O Favored of Fate," Honey breathed. "Come lay me down, that I may lift you up to heights you can only imagine—for that is what I do best; indeed, it is all that I do well."
"Never think it!" Gregory said sternly, and indignation gave him the strength to sit up straight, clasping the reins with both hands. "Never believe you cannot love and be loved! This is the true worth of every being, to labor for the happiness of another!"
"Make me happy," she said, stretching her arms up to him and arching her back. "Happily make me, and bring me to labor."
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Under the sultry words, though, Gregory sensed a secret longing, secret perhaps even from Finister herself—a yearning for love and for someone who would be so much in love with her that he would never leave her, no matter how unpleasant a companion she might be—and he was beginning to realize that Finister knew herself to be unpleasant indeed. She had, in fact, so low an opinion of herself that she didn't believe anyone else could like her. After all, she didn't.
"If I should choose your company," he told her, "it would be because you were a pleasant and trustworthy companion, not because of your beauty."
Honey stared with surprise; then her eyes flashed with scorn, but she kept them lidded, kept the sensuous curve of her mouth as she said, "No man chooses a woman for anything else."
"Try me," Gregory challenged. "Ride with me a week and do not invite my caresses. See if I reach out to you with my hands then, or only with my words. See if you would choose me as a companion for more than a night!"
"You are surely not more than a knight, nor even as much!" Honey shook with anger. "Do you think I wish a man whose hands are turned only to craft and never to me? What use would you be to me then?" Suddenly she relaxed, her body undulated again, and she stretched out a hand, beckoning as she backed away. "Come, sir, and you shall have no regrets. If you wish my companionship by day, your nights are my price."
Now Gregory was truly tempted, for she no longer pretended to be offering only but showed some sign of demanding. Still, he realized he must make her believe that one man somewhere might value her for more than her body alone. He would not reap the rewards of a loving nature that believed in itself, but some other man somewhere might, and certainly she would. "I thank you, no," he said. "I own I am lonely and would appreciate laughter and conversation, but I wish them for more than a night."
"Do you fear me, then?" Honey taunted. "Are you afraid I would suck you dry?"
"Why, how could that be?" Gregory asked with a self-
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deprecating laugh. "If you are truly as hungry as you say, so slight a man as I would scarcely be a morsel."
"Slight indeed!" She saw his self-control was back, saw he had slipped her grasp yet again, and let her temper flare. "A mere scrap of a man, one who could scarcely be a mat underfoot, let alone a mattress beneath my body! Go your ways, wanderer, and mourn the day you left me!" She spun on her heel and ran away. Gregory caught the sound of a sob.
That was almost his undoing. He nearly turned his horse, nearly rode after to take her in his arms and offer comfort— but he had at least the good sense to realize it was too late, that he had let the moment pass.
Now Gregory could no longer deny how deeply Finister attracted him. He had always thought that his one big weakness had been his ability to sympathize and empathize—indeed, his unwitting inclination; he had never been able to hear weeping without instinctively feeling the person's pain and, if he learned its cause, maiming their aching as though it were his own. He had worked long and hard to contain that impulse for, although the thoughts he heard from those in anguish might demand comfort, the people were not always willing to accept it—and so he thought it might be in this case. He could only guess, though, for "Honey's" thoughts had disappeared the instant she had turned and fled, leaving only the mental shield that seemed to come so readily with Finister's frustration or anger. Oh, he could read the dire, raging thoughts that came from it, as light reflected from a mirrored ball, but he could not detect the true thoughts or feelings within.
He was amazed to realize how much he desired to do so. It unnerved him to realize that Finister's projective telepathy had reached him, though not in the way she had intended. True, her sexuality had aroused a maelstrom of emotions in him, but it was her angst that had played upon those feelings, not her seductiveness. Sensibilities sharpened by a sudden rush of hormones had induced his empathy to emerge from its shielding, bringing him to sympathize with her and search for the natural good qualities in her that must have been
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twisted into making her the murderous vampire she had become.
Not that he thought Finister a maligned innocent; far from it. He knew quite well how poisonous she was but couldn't help sensing an underlying sweetness and vulnerability, both rigidly controlled and hidden inside an emotional shell that was virtual plate armor. He was attracted to her deeply and sharply, there was no denying it, but that attraction owed more to sympathy and empathy than to lust. Simply put, his own generosity of spirit had put him perilously close to falling in love with her.
Finister stalked through the woodlands, seething with fury, trembling with rage. Her most blatant invitations, her finest voluptuous form, and the man came away as unshaken as a plaster statue! Oh, she knew she had punched through his reserve, had grasped his nerves, that she'd had him by the glands for a few minutes there. How had he managed to recover his poise? How had he managed to refuse?
How had he managed to escape?!
Well, there was no point in any further attempt. The man had the potential for lust, but he had quashed it so firmly that there was nothing but potential left! He was a eunuch, not a man, and there was nowhere to catch him!
It would have been so much simpler if he had been as susceptible as the rest of his sex. She could have married him, enthralled him, warped him to her so thoroughly that he would not even have dreamed of protest when she failed to conceive. She could have guaranteed that he would father no children—though she might have given him one sired by another man; she was curious about the experience of pregnancy and birth. And in addition, she would have been a lady by marriage, a noblewoman of a family close to the throne, where she could take steps to ensure that the royal bloodline would end with Alain, that Cordelia would never carry a baby to term, that Quicksilver would never conceive!
It would have been so easy, so convenient—but that shell of a man had defeated her hopes! She would have her revenge, revenge on all the Gallowglasses, and when Cordelia
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was dead, she would encounter Alain again. This time, without interference or competition, she would win him and wed him and make sure he never fathered a son.
Best of all, when his mother died, she would be Queen!
She burst into a clearing and found a log where she could sit, working to compose herself, to let her churning emotions calm enough to project her coded thoughts out to her lieutenants. They all knew what the message meant—that they should fall upon the enemy at noon.
One by one, they replied, their thoughts appearing in her mind as her own did, but with different flavors, the overtones of their personalities. When each had confirmed receiving the message and set about his or her task, she sat still awhile, gathering her scattered energies and gloating at the victory to come. In one instant she would be revenged for all the humiliations these Gallowglasses had heaped upon her!
But one most of all, and that revenge would be the most personal. She would see Gregory racked with agony, as he deserved for having scorned her.
CHAPTER
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T
here was one way in which Gregory still might be vulnerable, one possible Achilles' heel. Since it didn't necessarily lead to bedding and marriage, Finister had ignored it. Now, though, it was certainly worth trying—now, when all she needed was to come close enough to him to slip a knife between his ribs, or to induce him into lowering his guard so she could plant a mental bomb in his brain. She doubted it would do much good, for Gregory certainly seemed to have little of the knight-errant about him, but the damsel in distress might wring sympathy even from such a stone as he.
Accordingly, she retailored her physical projection to be modest but still alluring (why waste a chance, no matter how slender?). The body's contours were scarcely spectacular and the face was pretty, but neither was striking or fascinating. The gown was modest and serviceable, a green broadcloth with yellow bodice and kirtle. She indulged her dramatic streak and chose a black veil.
Then she sent coded mental instructions to Lork, who, ever faithful, was indeed not far away. That done, she took up her station farther along the road where it opened out into a meadow. She found a boulder for her seat, rolled a log to its foot, and tied her ankle to it with three feet of rope, then bowed her head in grief and despair, thinking of the horrible fate in store for her, concentrating on it until it seemed real, until she felt the tears welling up in her eyes. She held them there, listening with her mind, waiting for Gregory's approach.
Gregory rode alert, mind open to receive, though his shields were still in place. He detected the thoughts of despair, sensed
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the sobbing, but also recognized Moraga's mental signature. Doubly wary, he rode through the leafy arch into the meadow and beheld a most touching tableau.
On a boulder in the middle of the meadow sat a damsel in green and yellow, head bowed in distress, sobbing piteously. Her auburn hair fell unbound behind her face, making her skin seem to glow even more than was natural. She was the very picture of Beauty in Distress, a portrait to wring the heart of any knight-errant and inflate his protective instincts, vulnerable femininity to perfection.
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