The Penwyth Curse

  “Then he will have to find us and tell me before I will consider bringing you out of the rain. I hope you like rain, Merryn, for I do plan to tie you down and let you drown in it.”

  Not another word out of her mouth. This was better, he thought, and smiled. When he rode out on Fearless a short time later, the sound of her mare’s whinny following them, Merryn on her belly across his legs, and supplies and his tent lashed down behind him, he realized that if he did tie her down in the rain, he could kill her. Lying under an endless torrent of rain would likely send her to her just rewards.

  Just what those just rewards were, he didn’t know.

  “My belly is cramping.”

  “Shut your mouth. We have left Penwyth. If you can, look back. The ramparts are lined with old faces, including your grandfather’s. The servants are likely alone in the great hall, eating all of Beelzebub’s cheese, possibly wondering how you will look with rain choking you.”

  “You can’t mean to drown me. Ha, do you hear me? Ha! There will be no rain. It’s a drought, you fool. It hasn’t rained in months. I will not drown, I will die of dry air in my throat.”

  “Now wouldn’t that be a sight.”

  “So you admit that there’s nothing to your prediction?”

  “You will see, as will everyone else.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Be quiet.”

  “But I—”

  He smacked his palm against her bottom.

  She yelled, then didn’t say another word.

  He began whistling. It covered the sound of her harsh breathing. He looked up at the beautiful night, the stars filling the sky, the moon a narrow scythe, yet giving off plenty of light. It was warm, the air soft on the flesh. Was there really rain waiting somewhere in all that vastness? He knew there was, knew the rain would be here soon. Before, this gift hadn’t been of any great importance to anyone. But it was now. Mayhap he really was a wizard and this was a bit of proof.

  Bishop thought about the Penwyth drought. He doubted that keeping the curse potent had overtaxed the Witches of Byrne or the shadows of the ancient Druid priests. It was simply nature herself that had brought the harsh, dry winds that baked the earth around Penwyth.

  She was gagging.

  He didn’t hesitate, pulled her quickly up to sit in front of him.

  “That was wise,” she said after a good dozen deep breaths. “I would have puked on your boots.”

  “I wonder what I would have done?”

  “Would you beat me again?”

  “I didn’t beat you. Don’t exaggerate your plight.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  It was in that moment that he realized he had no idea where to take her. Because he didn’t know, he simply said, “Be quiet.”

  Fearless, without hesitation, headed southwest. He was going to Land’s End. So be it. It wasn’t long before Bishop pulled him in at the cliff edge. The calm sea stretched out in front of them, smooth and black beneath the sickle moon as far as the eye could see. The jagged black rocks stood like armless giants on the narrow beach, reaching far into the water itself. He could hear the slap of the sea against the rocks, feel the spume from the waves as they crested, only to fan out onto the night-black sand.

  “This is the most beautiful spot on the earth,” Merryn said. “Look yon, you can see the nests of a thousand rooks tucked into the crevices of the cliff.”

  “You have never been anywhere else. Of course it is beautiful to you.”

  She twisted about and looked straight at him. “Have you ever seen anything more beautiful?”

  “It is too dry, too barren a landscape,” he said.

  “That will change when this vaunted rain of yours begins to fall, won’t it?” she said, with credible sarcasm. “Do you intend that we stay here? Will you tie me down to the ground and let the crows peck my flesh?”

  “When it rains, I doubt any bird will want to come out of a dry nest to attack you, not even the rooks.” He dismounted, then clasped her beneath her arms and lifted her down. “Don’t run or I will be angry.” He untied the big bundle of supplies from behind Fearless’s saddle and tossed it on the ground. “There is a tent. Set it up.”

  She kicked a pebble and did nothing.

  “Of course I doubt that you are capable of doing anything useful at all. You’re but a girl, a lord’s daughter who’s never done anything in her life save count her ribbons. Mayhap when the time comes, you will have the ability to birth and suckle a child. One can but hope.”

  She kicked the bundle, then went down on her knees and began unwrapping the supplies. Bread, cheese, and three goatskins filled with ale. It looked like Dumas had cleared off the trestle table at Penwyth. She pulled out the tent. It seemed to be well made, but she didn’t know how to set it up. She examined the narrow poles, the flaps, and sighed. She laid her palms on her thighs and looked up at him. He was brushing Fearless’s back.

  When he saw her annoyance clearly in the dim night light, he laughed. “Brush my horse.”

  She did it well, speaking to Fearless, kissing his nose, telling him how her beautiful mare would make him dance to her music, making the brute whinny in return and butt his head against her shoulder.

  When the tent was set on flat ground, Bishop rose and walked to the cliff edge where she stood, her back to him, her skirt blowing about her legs in the night sea breeze. He thought she was saying something.

  She was probably chanting a curse.

  He said, “We have no need of a fire. It is late. This has been a day like none other and I am weary. Come here.”

  Slowly, she turned to face him. He would have sworn that there was a circle of light around her head. He felt his heart lurch in his chest. He shook his head, furious with himself. He’d come to this ridiculous place that would eventually be his and then it would not be ridiculous, and now he was thinking he saw a witch behind every rock.

  “Come here.”

  “I wish to enjoy the lovely night.”

  “I don’t care what you wish.” He raised a rope in his hand.

  “What will you do? Beat me with that rope?”

  He said for the third time, “Come here.”

  Merryn realized in that moment that things had changed irrevocably since she’d awakened this morning. He was here and she knew to her soul that he wasn’t going to leave. Would he die? Would the curse fell him? “I cannot tell you anything more about the curse.”

  “Come here.”

  Slowly, she walked to him.

  “Hold out your hand.”

  She did. He tied the rope around her wrist. “Now, we’re going to sleep.”

  She looked at him helplessly, swallowed, and said, “Please, I must have a moment before we go into the tent.”

  “A moment to do what? Chant more curses down on my head?”

  She shook her head. “Please, just a moment. I must relieve myself.”

  “Very well. If you attempt to escape me, I will tie you to Fearless and let the two of you sleep close tonight.”

  There was one bush, some ten feet away. He waved toward it. “Go.”

  He was standing in the same spot when she returned a few minutes later. Slowly, she raised her arm.

  He tied the rope around her wrist. “Come,” he said, and pointed to the tent.

  The tent was barely large enough for the two of them. He’d spread a blanket on the ground, stacked the supplies at the back to use as pillows. He’d tethered Fearless close by.

  Once she was lying on her side, her back to him, he stretched out on his back beside her. With the other end of the rope tied to his wrist, he realized neither of them could move. “Turn toward me.” When she didn’t move, he said, “I won’t rape you. I’m tired. It has been a very long and strange day. I wish to sleep. Do as I tell you.”

  She sat up, pulling the rope tight between them. “You shouldn’t have brought me here. It isn’t right. I am a lady.”

  “That remains to be see
n. Come here.”

  Merryn didn’t want to lie down beside him, touch him, rest her cheek on his shoulder, even though he still wore his tunic. He was a stranger, a young stranger, a young stranger with power and excellent parts. She was afraid of him and yet she wasn’t. It was a conundrum. “What if it starts raining?”

  “The tent is sturdy, solid. However, if it rains hard, we will get a bit wet.”

  “I know of a small hut just down the way, toward Sennen. We could shelter there.”

  “No. I’m tired. I don’t want to take another step tonight.” He jerked on the rope.

  She rolled over toward him and very slowly, afraid of touching him, she eased down beside him. She was stiff as the wind that was picking up outside the tent. A hard, dry wind, one that didn’t carry the scent of water. At least not yet. He pressed her face against his shoulder. When he realized she didn’t know what to do with her hand, he merely picked it up and laid it on his chest.

  “Go to sleep,” he said. “You are safe from me, unless you start your chanting again.”

  “I wasn’t chanting. I was singing. What will you do if I start chanting?”

  “Tether you to my horse’s saddle and let you walk behind us.”

  She didn’t know him well enough to judge if he would really do something like that. Better not to risk it. “I won’t chant.”

  “Good.” He said nothing more. She lay there, thinking she’d never before in her life lain this close to a man. He was big, too big. His heartbeat was steady beneath her palm. She realized that every breath carried his scent. He smelled nice. No, it was more than that. He didn’t smell old. That was it. Merryn closed her eyes. Why had he brought her here? Was he really going to stake her out in the rain?

  If it rained.

  9

  BISHOP WAS A LIGHT SLEEPER, something that had saved his life at least three times. He would awake, instantly alert at the sound of Fearless nickering from a distance of twenty feet. He would awake at the sound of twigs breaking beneath someone’s foot beyond the next hillock. He would awake if someone was breathing ten feet from him.

  But this time he hadn’t awakened, hadn’t even stirred, when sometime during the night Merryn had climbed on top of him. He lay there, amazed that this could have happened. She was sprawled, arms and legs spread, just like a blanket, her head pressed under his chin, and every female part of her nicely placed against him, very closely against him.

  He forced himself to lie still, get his wits together. He could hear the wind off the sea coming over the cliffs, a light wind, but constant, as it usually was from the sea. He could smell the salt water, but he couldn’t scent any rain in the air.

  Not yet. It was too soon for the rain.

  As he lay there, he was aware of everything about her, not just the soft body that fit so nicely against his. He could feel her deep, easy breath against his neck, feel her fingertips curled around his shoulder.

  How in the name of Saint Malcolm’s hoary palms had she gotten on top of him without him even stirring?

  He heard Fearless blowing outside the tent. He pictured his stallion, head to the cliff, the light wind in his face as he bobbed his head up and down, doing a dance with the wind.

  She was on top of him, her belly was against him, and he was harder than the ground beneath his back. She was too close, too close. Surely she would wake up soon, surely she would feel him hard against her belly. Surely she would open an eye and be shocked to her toes, toes that he’d caressed. He felt one of her feet lying across the top of one of his.

  By Saint Anthony’s wristbone, he could reach his hands down and ease them up her gown, feel those legs of hers. He knew they were long, he’d seen her walk, seen the wind flatten her skirts against those legs of hers, but he wanted to feel them, stroke her flesh. He wanted to hold her foot again, lightly touch her small ears.

  Please, God, let her awaken soon.

  Oh, aye, she’d leap up and yell like a blooded witch, and all the ancient Druid spirits who still roamed the land would jump upon him and stuff him in a wooden cage.

  He didn’t care. Even as his hands came over her back to hold her tight against him, he said, “Merryn.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  “Merryn, wake up.” He let his hands move down, nearly to her bottom. “If you don’t, I will simply take you right now and then it will be done.”

  He lifted his hands off her. He shouldn’t touch her. That was madness, what with that curse hanging about, but it didn’t seem to matter because he did anyway. He was kneading her hips, wondering if he could just flip her over and take her. Yes, just come inside her, and it would be done. If he got her pregnant, would the curse still strike him down? Would the curse even know that he’d taken her? “Merryn, open your eyes. It’s morning. If you don’t, you’ll be under me in another breath.”

  He’d expected her to jerk up, a scream ready to explode out of her mouth. But no. Slowly, so very slowly, she arched up, inch by inch, until she was above him, not six inches from his mouth. She was staring down at him even as his hands were kneading her, his fingertips going inward, his sex hard against her.

  She said, surprise in her voice, “By all that is holy, that feels far too good not to be a grievous sin.”

  That wasn’t what he’d expected. By Saint Gregory’s calluses, who and what was this young girl who’d already buried four husbands? Who was keeping secrets from him?

  His hands kept moving, pulling her now tightly against his sex, so hard now he wanted to groan like a wounded man at the nearly painful pleasure. He continued to look up at her. “Of course it feels good. It’s supposed to feel good.”

  “Is it a sin, do you think?” And then she eased down a bit, her breasts nearly touching his chest.

  “Listen to me. You should be yelling at me, trying to jerk away from me and run.”

  “Aye,” she said, her mouth even lower now, not more than three inches from his.

  “When did you climb on top of me?”

  She hadn’t realized she had. “Oh, my.” If she had turned any redder, she could have competed with a St. Ives sunset. But he also saw the excitement in her eyes. No, more than excitement—immense curiosity.

  He said, “If you wanted me, why didn’t you just wake me up? A man can sport at a moment’s notice.” He pushed up against her belly, and at the same time his fingers were pressing in.

  “I don’t know what happened,” she said, still not moving, her breath sharp, jerky now. “Mayhap you tugged on the rope and pulled me on top of you.”

  “Nay, I’m not such a fool.” But evidently he was. He began pulling her gown up, knew what he was doing, knew he was a fool.

  She stared down at him, just couldn’t look away. “If you keep doing what you’re doing, the curse might strike you dead.”

  “Possibly, but why would you care? I might not tie you down in the rain when it comes if you tell me everything I know you’re keeping from me.”

  She didn’t say a word, but her breathing was rough now. If he wasn’t mistaken, and he knew he wasn’t, she was more than interested.

  “You deserve to be punished,” he said, sounding bored and indifferent, even as his fingers cramped and itched to touch her bare leg. “When it pleases you to remove yourself, it would relieve me.”

  She said, looking down at him—no, she was still looking at his mouth, “You feel very different from me.”

  He moved, just couldn’t help himself. He was harder than he’d been but a moment before, so hard he wanted to take her, fast, by the saints, very, very fast. He moved again. Then he just couldn’t bear it. He wrapped his arms around her back and quickly rolled her off him and came down over her.

  She didn’t yell or curse him, she just lay there, her hands on his shoulders, and said, “I’ve seen naked men before. They didn’t look like you feel like you look.”

  He laughed at that. He kept his weight on his elbows. Her hair was tangled around her head, her lips were slightly parted. This was mo
re difficult than having her on top of him. It would be so easy to pull up that damned gown of hers and come into her, hard and deep. Oh, God, yes, very deep and deeper yet until he touched her womb. He nearly groaned with the thought of that. He said, to distract himself, “Did you touch these naked men? Did you, a lady, touch these naked men here?” And he pushed against her, just to make sure, he supposed, that she was clear on what he’d said. He was killing himself.

  “Nay, I meant that I looked at them and they didn’t look at all like you feel against me.”

  “A man is a man,” he said, and felt himself puff up like a gamecock at her words. He grew even harder. Was she trying to seduce him?

  “Well, mayhap that is true, but I did look and they weren’t at all like you.”

  Then he realized the truth of the matter and felt himself deflate. “They were all old men.”

  “Well, of course. There are nothing but old men at Penwyth.”

  “I’m moving off you now.”

  He didn’t want to move off her, he truly didn’t. But he forced himself to move just a bit to the side. She didn’t move until he said, “Damn you, Merryn, you are sorely trying me. Get away from me.”

  She tried to slither out from under him, moving back and forth, as if she was afraid that he would force her if she moved the wrong way. He could have told her there wasn’t ever a wrong way for a man.

  When he was on his side next to her, she quickly sat up. But she didn’t stop looking. Oh, no, she looked at him and by Saint Peter’s toenails, he swelled even more.

  He immediately sat up and began to untie the rope.

  “What are you going to do this morning?”

  He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t thought beyond his rage of the night before, his desire to punish all of them for making him feel like a fool, to punish her for keeping secrets from him and being the one who’d pushed him over the edge. He kept working on the knot, which had somehow tightened during the night.