The woods and the mountains seemed to loom close, to press inward.
The wind began to whine, whispering low as it turned the leaves of the yew and poplar trees. Gooseflesh rose on Morgana’s arms, and rain, so cold it seeped into the bones, began to fall.
Luck pranced out of line, sidestepping and nearly kicking Sir Hunter’s steed.
“Watch out,” Hunter yelled, but the horses collided, and Morgana, in an instant of clarity, smelled death. Something was wrong — oh, God, what was it? She tried to ignore the image, but little by little, her vision altered and she was no longer riding in Garrick’s company, but watching in horror as soldiers on horseback, weapons drawn, attacked. Blood spewed, horses screamed, throwing riders and trampling them.
Her heart thundered, and she twisted her fingers in the leather reins. “No,” she whispered as she saw Cadell’s face in the vision. Not her brother? No! Yet he was there, with a band of Garrick’s knights! But they bore him ill will, and at the lead was Strahan of Hazelwood. “Oh, God, please no!”
She spurred her horse forward past two pairs of knights as she tried to reach Garrick. The horses kicked and bucked, and several knights swore loudly, but Morgana didn’t care.
Hearing the ruckus, Garrick pulled up short and Luck nearly ran into Warrior. “What’s the meaning of this?” he hissed when she reined her mount to a mincing stop.
“There’s a trap,” she said.
He rolled his eyes to the heavens, and she watched the cold rain drizzle down his neck, beneath the opening of his shirt. “What’re you saying — that we should turn around once again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Christ’s blood, woman! Make up your mind!” he growled and his horse tossed his great head and reared on thick black haunches. Garrick shifted his weight, and the stallion dropped down again.
“There is trouble. It comes for you—”
“Don’t tell me. Strahan is on the loose.”
“I don’t know—”
“Oh, for the sake of all that’s holy!” He motioned to the forward scout, jerked hard on the reins, dug his heels into his horse’s sides, and began riding again. The small company followed him, pushing at Morgana’s horse as she realized that Garrick wasn’t going to heed her warning.
She wouldn’t give up. She kicked Luck hard and, catching up with Garrick, grabbed the reins to Warrior, stripping the wet leather straps from his hands. Both horses reared and whinnied.
“What the devil’s gotten into you, woman?” Garrick roared. He snatched the reins from her hands, his face a mask of fury.
“It’s Cadell. He’s — he’s with Strahan.”
“You’re talking nonsense. I’ll not be fooled by your silly visions. You wanted to return to Abergwynn, and we’re nearly there. By tomorrow nightfall, we’ll be at the castle. What else would you want?”
“Just listen to me!”
“No, Morgana! You listen to me! You forget who is lord here!” Furious, he leapt lithely to the ground. While his men watched, he reached up and yanked her from her saddle.
“What’re you doing?” she demanded, her face turning scarlet, her eyes worriedly darting from Garrick to his men. Lightning sizzled in jagged white streaks over the hills, and thunder rumbled ominously. Rain poured down on them.
“I’m teaching you a lesson you’ll not soon forget, witch,” he growled. “This is the last time you make a fool of me in front of my men!” He turned to the nearest knight, Sir Marsh. “Find a place to make camp. Lead the men there. We’ll catch up with you. The witch has had another vision, and I need to hear all about it.”
Marsh’s knowing gaze slid from Garrick to Morgana and back again. The hint of a smile showed beneath the stubble surrounding his mouth. “Aye, m’lord.”
To Morgana’s disbelief, the company moved on, leaving Garrick and her alone with their horses. Garrick waited until the last destrier had rounded a bend in the road. Then he grabbed her arm and dragged her through the puddles on the roadside and into a copse. “Garrick, please, I don’t understand—” she said, half running and stumbling to keep up with him.
“Nor do I!” he nearly shouted, his face twisted in anger, his nostrils flared. “You’re using your magic on me, Morgana—”
“I’m not!” she cried. “I’m not!”
“First you tell me to stay in the castle, then to leave, then to go back, then to turn around! My God, woman, you’ve made me a laughingstock. I follow your orders like a bull with a ring through his nose. All you have to do is pull and dream up some wild vision and I do what you command. Do you not see how this appears to my men? They think I’ve lost my mind — all because of you!” He threw up one hand in exasperation and swore loudly.
“Did I not see the ribbon in the water?” she asked, forcing him to stop.
The hand on her arm tightened a little. “You have not found my boy.”
Silence yawned between them. Raindrops peppered the ground, and the wind clutched them both in its icy fist. “You must listen to me, Garrick,” she pleaded, grasping his shirt in her fingers and twisting the woolen fabric until the fibers scraped her skin. “There is grave danger for all of us!”
“At Abergwynn.”
“Aye.”
“And here?”
“Everywhere!”
His gaze centered on her lips and then on the raindrops running from her forehead to her chin. Her eyes were round, dark and deep green, filled with fear and something else … something much more dangerous. He felt her fingers in the folds of his shirt, smelled the scent of rain in her hair. Swearing under his breath, he drew her into his arms, and his chilled lips met hers with a hunger so intense she nearly collapsed against him.
“You vex me, woman,” he growled between kisses as he licked the drops of rain from her face. She wound her arms around his neck and felt the coldness leave her body. His cool lips began to heat as his tongue slipped easily between her parted lips. Desire claimed him, and he lifted her tunic, touching her breasts with cold hands. Her warm skin seemed to seep into his palms, and her nipples became hard and ripe, succulent. He fell to his knees, unmindful of the mud, and dragged her down. Then he tore her tunic from her and stared at her bare torso, her proud breasts wet from the rain, her black hair coiling in damp waves to her waist. His hands were large as they surrounded her ribs, and he watched in wonder as he cupped both breasts. She sucked in her breath, her abdomen flattening, her flesh nearly blue with the cold.
The hardness between his legs screamed for release.
“I could take you right here,” he said, his hands beginning to massage that firm, supple flesh that held so much fascination for him. Her nipples puckered prettily, begging for the bittersweet torment of his tongue.
“Aye,” she said proudly, her chin still lifted, her breathing short and shallow.
“You would not stop me.”
She closed her eyes as he touched her nipples, and a shudder ripped through her. “Nay, m’lord,” she whispered.
“And what of Strahan?”
“Mayhap that is my question to you. Would you lie with his bride?” Her breath whistled past her teeth as he dipped his head and tasted her nipple.
“I cannot help myself.”
“Is the great lord so weak?” she asked, barely able to concentrate as he began to tug and nip at her breast. The feminine beast within her yawned again, causing a hot need deep between her legs.
“Where you are concerned, aye, I am weak,” he admitted, his hot breath fanning her cool skin. “You have made me powerless, Morgana. You have caused me to follow your visions when I could see none, you persuaded me to listen to your silly conversations with the wind, and you have turned my mind around so that I cannot help but want you — the very woman I promised to my cousin.”
She saw the outline of his maleness, firm and anxious and straining at the strings of his breeches, and she wanted to touch him, to offer him the sweet magic that he’d g
iven her.
“Would that I could forget you,” he whispered, his hands winding in her hair, his eyes boring deep into her own gaze as if searching for her soul. He kissed her again, his arms around her.
She reached for his breeches, and he caught his lips between his teeth, as if suddenly trying to fight off the demons that drove him to lie with the woman he’d promised to his cousin. He told himself to stop, to leave Morgana alone. But passion sang through his blood, and when he felt her velvet touch, he shivered with desire. Don’t do this, don’t go against your word, don’t betray Strahan! But as he lay atop her, felt her curves yielding to his own hot flesh, his reason fled. Her black hair spilled around her face, and her eyes, luminous and blue-green, were filled with sweet promise.
Ignoring his own code of honor, he gave in to the emotions burning in his breast. He plunged into her sweet warmth, for he had no choice but to make love to her. No other woman’s touch felt so right, no other woman’s mind was so quick, no other woman’s body seemed so inviting.
After their last lovemaking, Garrick had promised himself that he wouldn’t touch her again, and here he was making love to her as if she were his bride! He squeezed his eyes shut and closed his mind to the doubts raging in his heart. She pressed her tongue intimately to his chest and moved beneath him, whispering his name, digging her fingers into his arms. All his doubts disappeared, and he cradled her close against him as he stiffened and poured his seed into her. She cried out, and he collapsed in her arms. Rain dripped from the trees, cool against his back, and somewhere far away thunder pealed. Garrick buried his face in her neck and licked the drops of rain and sweat from her skin.
She smiled up at him and he was undone. All his promises of self-denial seemed silly, all his mistrust a mistake. She would never lie to him, not this beautiful woman. He caught himself grinning back at her as he played with a coil of her damp hair. “My men wait for us,” he said sadly.
“Aye. We must be off.”
Neither moved. Garrick kissed her forehead and wondered at the swell of tenderness that grew within him. With one finger he traced the slope of her shoulder and, seeing her nipple pucker, lowered his hand to the point of her breast.
“Again, m’lord?” she asked huskily.
“We have no time.” But his thumb moved slowly across the nipple.
“Aye…”
He lowered himself and took her breast in his mouth, tickling her nipple with the tip of his tongue. Looking up, he watched as she shuddered and threw her head back, closed her eyes, ready for yet around round of lovemaking. This time, he thought, he would take it slowly, show her what it was to want him so badly that she would lift her hips anxiously. He trailed a hand along the slope of her thigh and across her abdomen, his fingertips brushing the soft curls at the apex of her legs. She moaned beneath him as he touched her, feeling her hot moisture collecting again, though she was still filled with his seed. Her legs parted to his touch, and he stroked her, slowly at first, but more quickly as she began to respond. He wanted only to service her, to give her the best of lovemaking. He caressed her with his fingers and tongue, seeing her rapturous torment, watching as her eyes glazed over.
He had no intention of lying with her again — this time was for her — but she began to claw at him and tug him atop her, and his manhood was already hard again, thick and full.
“Garrick, please,” she pleaded when he probed her more deeply, massaging the swelling bud. She bucked upward, tossing away his hand, and dragged him atop her. “I want you.”
“And I want you, my love,” he whispered, unable to restrain himself or control the words that rolled so easily off his tongue. He wrapped strong arms around her, and his lips captured hers as he thrust into her again, harder than ever, as deep as he could, listening to her cries of pleasure as he withdrew only to plunge in again and again and again. She was on fire beneath him, clawing and kissing and writhing until, with a primal scream, she let go.
“Garrick!” she cried, convulsing against him and holding on to him as if to life itself. Her body rocked, and he could not hold back any longer.
With a final thrust he fell against her and kissed her eyes, face, and neck. “Morgana,” he whispered against her hair as afterglow surrounded him and he tasted the salt from her skin.
The rain had stopped and a few soft shafts of sunlight stole through the clouds, but as the afterglow faded, Garrick’s heart grew heavy. He was falling in love with Morgana, and he hated himself for his weakness.
Weak he was, where she was concerned, for he couldn’t imagine a day passing without his lust for her driving him to desperate measures. He would meet her, lie with her, perhaps sire a child by her. Dear God, he’d betrayed his cousin, been a traitor to his own good word.
He didn’t think he could live without Morgana. Without a woman who talked to the wind. Without a woman who drew meaningless signs in the dirt. Without a woman whose visions came and went at her whim.
“Come, get dressed,” he said a little gruffly as he rolled away from her. “We have things to settle.”
“Aye.” Her eyes were sad, but she murmured, “I thought we settled quite a bit just now.”
His face reddened. The nerve of the woman to ridicule him! “Nay. Things are worse than before,” he bit out, tugging on his breeches and frowning at the mud stains thereon. Morgana’s clothes, too, were wrinkled, wet and muddy. It wouldn’t take even the dullest of his knights long to figure out what they had been doing. Soon the word would reach Strahan. Garrick couldn’t let the marriage take place, but he couldn’t very well go back on his word.
Mayhap the best solution was to offer Strahan something more — a larger parcel of land, a woman with more wealth and status. Perhaps there was a woman in the king’s family — some distant but beautiful cousin with a large dowry and the king’s ear — who would appeal to Strahan.
As he tugged on his tunic and led Morgana back to the horses, he thought of Edward’s relatives and knew that Strahan’s chances of a marriage with royal blood were slim. Nay, he would want the bride he was promised, the bride he’d handpicked.
He would find out that Morgana wasn’t a virgin that she’d been sleeping with Garrick, that even now she could be pregnant with Garrick’s child. Strahan would be furious.
And, with his black temper, there was little doubt that Strahan would demand a fight to the death.
Chapter Twenty One
Garrick’s camp is within a day’s ride from here,” the scout, Sir Quinn, reported, finding Strahan in the forest. Rain fell from the sky and dripped from the trees.
Strahan stared at the shallow, muddy grave that no doubt held the body of the maid, Jocelyn. As he kicked at the fresh earth with the toe of his boot, he remembered the girl. It was too bad about Logan’s nursemaid. Her death had been a waste. She was a beautiful creature, and had she not learned that Strahan was plotting against Garrick, she could have lived. Aye, he was as sorry to see her die as his men were sorry to see their source of entertainment gone. She’d serviced the entire band who had abducted her, trading sex for her life. Aye, ’twas a shame. Strahan did not like to see blood spilled without a cause. Only when it was necessary. His cruel nature was not turned against the world as a whole, just against Garrick and Osric McBrayne.
“Garrick has but twenty men riding with him, and some of them are loyal to you. But his army has turned ’round. They are now headed back to Abergwynn.”
Strahan’s brow furrowed. “Why? They could not know that Logan—”
“Nay.” Quinn shook his head. “But they will come across Ware and Cadell and the wolf soon.”
Strahan’s mind moved quickly, turning the situation to his advantage. “We take Ware now,” he said, his fingers stroking the hilt of his sword. “Then we return to Abergwynn and wait for Garrick.”
“Why not just battle with him here?”
Strahan motioned impatiently. “Here the battle is even. At Abergwynn we have more me
n.”
“As does Maginnis. In fact, it looks as if our rebellion failed, elsewise why would Ware be free?”
“That can be easily changed.” Strahan hesitated. He would have preferred to attack Garrick this very day, but he’d learned from past mistakes that patience would serve him well. Already he could see how to use this change of plan to his advantage. “We return to Abergwynn with Ware.”
“What about the boy from Tower Wenlock?”
Cadell. Aye, he posed a problem. For Strahan had not planned to kill him but realized that if Cadell died, Tower Wenlock would fall to Morgana or Glyn. It was only a matter of getting the witch with a boy child and that would be no problem. He had sired four bastards that he knew of, three of which were male. So, once Cadell was gone and Strahan married to Morgana, Strahan’s son would inherit Wenlock from old man Daffyd.
“We’ll take the boy prisoner, then return to the castle,” he said. “Garrick’s looking for battle. I was anxious before and could not wait for him to return to Abergwynn, as I thought he might be gone for several fortnights. But now that I know he’s returning, what better place to have the battle than in the very halls that he considers home?”
“Unless Ware has taken it from our soldiers.”
Strahan stared at the scout through narrowed eyes. “No one will ever take anything from me again!” he decreed, thinking of Hazelwood.
There was a spark of mirth, an evil satisfaction, in Quinn’s expression and it goaded him. “Of course not, m’lord,” Quinn replied, then added. “Morgana is with Garrick.” Again the flame of humor at Strahan’s expense flickered in Quinn’s mean eyes. Strahan knew the hateful truth: Garrick had bedded Morgana. His blood boiled and any kind thoughts that had lingered for his cousin quickly dissolved.
“Leave me be,” he ordered gruffly. “Tell the men to be at the ready. I’ll make our battle plans.”