Enchantress

  “Nay, I think not,” Habren replied, dusting her fingers together.

  Mildraed paused to catch her breath. “Who, then?”

  “Could be Osric McBrayne, that blackheart, or some other scoundrel.”

  “Aye, or Osric’s daughter again.” Nodding sagely, Mildraed balanced her heavy load on her hip. “Since poor Lady Astrid’s death she has been seeking marriage to the baron.”

  “Hmph,” Habren muttered. “Well, there’s no sounding of the alarm, so my guess is that it’s not McBrayne, thank the saints!”

  Mildraed wasn’t about to be turned away from gossip. “’Tis no secret Rhosyn McBrayne sought Sir Garrick years ago.” She leaned closer to Habren and whispered, “You know, ’tis said that Sir Garrick was about to ask Rhosyn’s hand when he met Lady Astrid. Rhosyn and her father have never forgiven him for breaking the engagement.”

  “McBrayne’s a scoundrel. Just remember it was Osric himself who stole Baron Hazelwood’s land.” Habren grunted and started for the kitchen again. “I doubt Rhosyn would show her face here without her father, and if Osric were about, the knights would stand ready. Mayhap it’s word from the king. Those Scots are making trouble again. Mark my words, ’twon’t be long before those pagans start a war.” She crossed her heavy bosom, and the rest of her words drifted away as she disappeared through the doorway.

  Morgana knew the party that was approaching was no war party. No warrior would be so stupid as to plod along in full daylight to attack Abergwynn. With her skirts bunched in her hands and Wolf at her heels, she ran to the front door and nearly collided with Garrick.

  She slid to a stop, and he reached out one strong arm to stop her from falling. Glancing down at her, he scowled. His gaze didn’t drift away but touched hers with an intimacy that stopped her cold.

  For a second her breath was lost in her throat, and she felt the weight of her breasts spilling across his forearm.

  “Are you in such a hurry to see your sister?”

  “Glyn? Glyn’s here?” she said, her voice barely a squeak. Was the beast joking with her?

  “Aye, and your brother, too?”

  “Cadell!” She felt a happiness well up inside her, and to her surprise Garrick’s stony countenance broke.

  One dark brow quirked in amusement. “Your father led me to believe that you and your sister could not get along — fire and water, he called you.”

  “Oh, but I’ve missed her,” Morgana admitted, surprised that she could feel such emotion for Glyn. Beautiful, prideful Glyn with her false sense of piety and perfect sense of duty. “’Tis true that we fought like hens in the yard at times, but…” Her throat clogged up a bit, and as the amusement died from Garrick’s eyes, she felt a deep pain at the thought of her family and her father’s cruel words.

  “But…” Garrick encouraged softly.

  “But she is my blood, and I … I’ve missed her,” she repeated swallowing the thick lump in her throat. She felt a dozen emotions deep inside, and though she didn’t want to think about the fact that this man who had once kissed her so wantonly was now restraining her again, she couldn’t ignore the heat from his body, so close. She had to bite her tongue to keep from licking her lips in nervousness.

  Garrick, too, seemed suddenly aware of her nearness. He released her suddenly, as if her mere touch burned him, which, indeed, it did.

  Morgana nearly stumbled, but she caught herself, and with one last glance over her shoulder, she whirled away. In a cloud of purple damask she hurried out the door.

  Garrick couldn’t help but smile. The excitement in her round green eyes had replaced the torment he’d seen brewing so often in her gaze. For the past few days he’d wondered about her silent agony. Was it just that she missed her family, or was she worried that she would not be able to locate Logan?

  Logan. If only he could find his son. As each day passed with no news of the boy, his frustration grew. He was impatient and angry, and since Morgana’s “vision”, he seethed all the more.

  What if she could not lead him to Logan? Rubbing the back of his neck, he remembered threatening her in the chapel at Wenlock. Well, she’d asked for it, hadn’t she? Baiting him and belittling his men. But his words had been harsh, and she didn’t know that he would never attack Tower Wenlock. She’d pushed him, and he’d struck back.

  “God’s blood,” he muttered as another thought assailed him, a thought much more worrisome. Was the darkness in her gaze because she, too, had been tortured over the unbidden passion that had erupted between them that night when he found her in the stables? He’d only kissed her, for the love of Mary, but ever since, he’d spent many sleepless nights dreaming of Morgana, imagining what her soft curves would feel like against his own harder lines. Aye, he’d wakened with an ache in his loins so hard that he’d thought he might burst.

  He’d been tempted to go to her, to kiss her again and see where the kissing might lead. But he had not. By his own code of honor he was forced to keep his hands off her. She was Strahan’s. He himself had made it so. This black lust that crept into his blood was his own punishment for betrothing her to a man she so obviously despised.

  And his desire for her could never be quenched. He’d considered lying with another woman, but the thought of taking a wench or a servant girl left a bitter taste in his mouth. He knew instinctively that he wanted Morgana not only for her body but because he needed more than the feel of her limbs entwined with his; he wanted to reach her spirit, to meet the challenge that she threw at him every time she tilted her chin upward or tossed her hair off her shoulders or gazed steadfastly into his eyes, daring — no, defying — him to touch her. Even now the image of her running down the steps caused a hardness between his legs that no other woman would satisfy. Oh, Morgana, why do you torment me so?

  “She’s beautiful, is she not?” Strahan’s voice brought Garrick up short, and he shifted quickly, hoping that his cousin would not notice the swelling that caused his breeches to bulge. Strahan cocked his head toward the steps down which Morgana had flown.

  “Beautiful, aye, but dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Strahan barked out a laugh as they headed into the bailey. “Don’t you know? I like my women dangerous.” His eyes flashed with a dark flame. “It adds fire to the coupling. A little resistance, a little pain, makes the taking all the better.”

  Garrick’s reaction was quick. His fist tightened, and he nearly hit his cousin, prodding him into a fight.

  Strahan glanced at him from the corner of his eye. A cold smirk curved his thin lips. “We have guests,” he reminded Garrick.

  “Just be careful, cousin,” Garrick warned. “The wife you’ve been promised is not a common wench. She’ll need a gentle touch.” With all his effort, he uncurled his fingers. Ignoring the tightening in his gut, he walked swiftly across the spring grass to meet the new arrivals.

  Morgana nervously shifted from one foot to the other as Glyn slid gracefully from her saddle and hopped nimbly to the ground. “Isn’t it grand?” she whispered to Morgana as she stared at the towering hall rising at the far end of the bailey. “I’ve never seen such a castle!” Glyn’s voice was filled with awe, and her eyes positively shone, until her gaze drifted downward to land upon Wolf. “Oh, no! Did that mongrel actually find his way to you?”

  “Aye. Thank God.” Morgana rumpled the thick fur at the back of Wolf’s neck.

  For a second Glyn’s smile faltered, but she forced it in place again as she glanced up at the battlements of Abergwynn. “I do believe this is heaven.”

  “Heaven? It’s a pain in the arse if you ask me,” Cadell commented under his breath as he leapt to the ground from his mud-splattered mount. However he managed a thin smirk as Garrick strode up and greeted his guests.

  Glyn, dressed in a white and gold tunic and an emerald green mantle, smiled up at him. Her blond hair was braided into thick plaits and coiled at the back of her head. The golden strands were sleek and gleamed in the su
nlight. “Lord Garrick, your castle, it’s … breathtaking,” she said, sounding as if her breath had indeed been stolen from her throat. When Garrick kissed her hand, Glyn blushed and sent Morgana a knowing look.

  Morgana stood frozen, her blood at once hot and cold with jealousy. Why should she care if Glyn flirted with the baron, and why should it matter that he offered Glyn a kind smile instead of the dark, hostile looks he trained on her? Glyn and Cadell were here, and that was all that mattered.

  Glyn slipped her small arm through Garrick’s, and they started toward the steps leading to the castle.

  “Looks as if Glyn is set upon becoming mistress of Abergwynn,” Cadell whispered to her as George ushered him away.

  Morgana was left in the bailey, Wolf whining anxiously at her side. “Shh!” she scolded him before she noticed that Strahan was watching her intently.

  “You’re happy that your family is here?” he asked, flashing her a handsome grin.

  She nodded, not trusting his charm.

  “So am I.” He nodded toward the doorway through which Garrick and Glyn had disappeared — the very doorway where Garrick had kissed Morgana with a hunger that had seemed to melt her vey boots. “It seems your sister can make Garrick smile. It’s been a long time since he’s done so.” Thoughtfully, he rubbed his chin. “It would be a great relief to me to see Garrick happy again,” he said with surprising candor. “Since Astrid’s death, he’s not been himself, and now the tragedy with Logan…”

  “Tragedy?” she said quietly. “But he’s only been lost or kidnapped.”

  For a second a shadow darkened Strahan’s eyes. “Come, bride, let us talk of other things. A wedding must be planned.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Garrick didn’t sleep a wink. He lay in his large empty bed, thinking of Morgana, his body hard and wanting.

  Though the night air sweeping through the open windows was cool and damp enough to extinguish the coals in his hearth, sweat trickled down his spine. And he ached. God in heaven, how he ached for her.

  In frustration he’d thrown off the covers twice, climbed out of bed, paced to the windows, and prayed that his lust would subside. It hadn’t. In fact, as dawn drew near, he was nearly crazed with desire, his erection a stiff rod that embarrassed him. He’d spent half the night plotting ways to end Morgana’s betrothal to Strahan and the other half cursing himself for wanting the witch. What was it about her he found so fascinating, so damned challenging? Again he sent up a prayer, and he imagined God laughing at him.

  “You’re a bloody fool,” he growled at himself as the cock crowed and the first morning light began to filter softly through the windows, bringing with the grayness of dawn the sounds of the servants rustling about, making ready for the new days. For the past few days Strahan had encouraged him to plan for the wedding, but Garrick refused to allow it until Logan was found.

  Garrick dressed hastily and was downstairs before many in the castle had stirred.

  Outside, the soldiers were waking, and some of the servants were moving about the yard. In the outer bailey chickens began clucking as a plump servant girl threw them handfuls of grain from a basket. The hens and roosters gathered around her, feathers flying, clawed feet scratching, heads bobbing to snatch up each kernel or fine piece of oystershell. When the basket was empty of grain, the heavy girl crawled into the hen house, rummaged in the nests, and filled the basket with eggs for the cook. Another girl, burdened with large buckets, hurried to the shed to milk the bawling cows. The smith was busy adding wood to his fire, and two half-grown boys packed kindling to the kitchen, where Habren was already barking out orders.

  A laundress carried a huge basket of linens to the trough. She drew water from the well, and the chain creaked and groaned. A boy whom Garrick recognized as the smith’s son was skimming fish from the pond with his net. Mornings at Abergwynn continued at the same pace they always had, despite the fact that Astrid was dead, Logan was missing, and a useless witch had started to enchant him.

  The gates rattled open, and several of the town children grudgingly ambled inside as the gatekeeper let them pass. The boys and girls headed directly to the stables, and young Tommy looking barely awake, his hair sticking out at odd angles, joked and laughed with the rest. He noticed Garrick, and his expression changed from gaiety to a scowl. Casting a glare over his thin shoulder, just to show the great baron that he was not intimidated, he followed a well-worn path to the back of the stables where shovels and pitchforks were waiting.

  Two creaking wagons followed the boys and girls into the bailey. The first, a new wagon pulled by a sleek horse and driven by the fat tailor, was filled with cloth and furs. The second, rougher wagon rolled slowly into the yard. A sway-backed animal that looked dead on its hooves was yoked to the cart, and a farmer flicked a whip over the beast’s ears. The man was rail thin, and his face was bruised. Sacks of grain were stacked in the cart and shifted with each creaky turn of the muddy wheels. Cursing under his breath, the farmer slapped the reins over the bony horse’s rump.

  Sir Randolph had been speaking with the gatekeeper, but he spotted Garrick. “Halt there, farmer,” he said and motioned to Garrick. “This man” —he gestured to the man seated on the sorry-looking wagon— “claims to know something of Logan.”

  Garrick’s gaze landed on the man with a force that caused the farmer to visibly wince. “Is this true?”

  “Aye. At least I think so, m’lord.” The man scratched his arm nervously before climbing down from his cart and snatching off his hood, displaying in the process a face that was slightly swollen and discolored. Several of the man’s teeth appeared to be missing as he bowed at Garrick’s feet.

  Garrick’s muscles tightened, and he hardly dared to hope that the man was speaking the truth. “Tell me. Who are you?”

  “Will Farmer. I live three days’ ride from here to the east, at the edge of hills.”

  “And you saw my boy?”

  The farmer cast a frightened look at Randolph. “I saw a boy, m’lord, in the company of a maid.”

  “When?”

  “Seven — no, eight days ago.”

  “Describe the boy.”

  “Red-gold hair with a few freckles, m’lord. Blue eyes, I think. Barely a toddler. Two, mayhap three years old.” He went on to describe Logan’s clothes and Jocelyn’s as well. Garrick’s teeth clenched, and he wanted to shake the farmer to make the words spill out faster. Feeling a rush of emotion so great that he nearly fell to his knees. Garrick silently thanked God that the boy might still be alive.

  Will Farmer nervously rubbed his nose. “As I said, I’m not sure it’s your boy, but…” He shrugged, letting the rest of his thoughts trail off.

  “How did you come upon him?” Garrick asked, trying to keep his hopes from soaring out of control. For all he knew, this man could be lying for his own benefit, though there was an honesty about his weathered face and the calluses on his hands showed that Will Farmer was used to hard work. Garrick found it difficult not to trust him. “What happened?”

  “I was robbed. A band of thugs who stalk the hills to the east attacked my cart on the way to market and took my sacks of wood. The maid and boy were with the group — kept prisoners, I’d guess, though I was so frightened I paid little attention and was grateful to get off with my life. The brutes left me for dead, but it takes more than a few punches and kicks to take the life of Will Famer.” He ended his talk with a little bit of pride but then hung his head. “Had I guessed the boy was yours, m’lord, I would’ve fought to the very death to save him. But I knew not…”

  A thundering rage galloped through Garrick at the thought of Logan and his nursemaid being held by low-life robbers and thieves. Involuntarily, his fingers curled tightly, as if they were already circling the throat of one of the thugs. He turned angry eyes on Randolph. “Tell the steward to buy whatever Will Farmer will sell us from his cart. See that he’s fed and rested. Then bring him to my chamber. Tell Stra
han I want twenty of my men ready to ride by noon today.” Garrick rested his hands on the farmer’s thin shoulder. “Thank you, Will Farmer. Now rest a bit and then tell me again what you know of my son. Should I find Logan by acting on your words, you will be rewarded.”

  Finally! Word of his son! Garrick tried to calm the eager beat of his heart and the rage that mingled with hope as it pulsed through his veins. This farmer’s story could be false, or it might be yet another worthless bit of news that led to nothing. Garrick couldn’t allow his hopes to soar, lest they be dashed again.

  Morgana, standing at the bed, slid a glance at her sister. Glyn was pale, her throat worked, and she kept her eyes averted from the gash on the leg of the armorer’s son. “This is important,” Clare was saying as she washed the wound with a clean cloth and warm water. “Many times after battle you will be in charge of ministering to the wounded. Your knowledge and your ability to work swiftly will determine whether your husband’s best soldiers live or die.”

  The boy, no more than sixteen and in too much pain to be embarrassed that his thigh was exposed to the women, moaned and squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to writhe in agony, but Clare’s sharp tongue and the heavy armorer himself forced the boy’s shoulder back against the sheets.

  “He’s a foolish one,” the armorer gritted out, though there was concern in his dark eyes.

  “He’ll be fine,” Clare assured the father.

  Looking at the size and discoloration of the gash, Morgana wasn’t so sure. The lad, known for his particular lack of brains, had been playing with a sword he was supposed to have been cleaning and had cut his leg nearly clear through.

  Clare worked carefully, touching the torn flesh as she stanched the flow of blood from the wound. She slid a glance at Morgana’s sister. “Now, Glyn, help here if you would. We have to bind the muscle together before we sew. Morgana, grab that silk thread and the small needle.”