There was a moment of silence. A burning limb snapped in two in the flames, and Sir Robert turned to look at it. He didn’t speak until Brian joined them, then he said, “I’m with you, my lord. In whatever you undertake, I stand with you.”
“So do I,” Brian said immediately and looked from one man to the other. “What is it we’re going to do?”
“Assault the keep,” Rhys replied softly.
Brian stared at him with wide eyes. “Assault the—are you mad? We’re little more than two score men. You do mean wait until the others arrive, don’t you? You can’t intend for us to try anything so risky—why, we’d have to be magic to succeed.”
“You are right, Brian. We’ll use magic to defeat them.” He smiled when Brian staggered back a step. “Think of it—our own men were laid low by a maid only a few days ago, too sick to think of anything but their own bellies. Does that give you any ideas, Sir Brian?”
After a moment of stunned silence, Brian brightened. “Yea, lord, I believe it does.” He looked around, then laughed. “But how are we to manage it?”
“I think I know a way . . .”
Chapter Ten
FAINT CURLS OF smoke drifted up from the fire, barely visible in the first gray light before sunrise. Rhys blinked sleepily, frowning. Something had penetrated his haze of slumber to jerk him from sleep. He looked around. Pelt-shrouded forms of men spread out in all directions like the spokes of a cart’s wheel; nearby the muffled stamping of horses’ hooves in the soft dirt was familiar and quiet. Birdsong rose and then swiftly died in the shadowed trees.
He sat up, frowning. His gaze moved over the camp. Nothing was awry that he could see. Yet something had woken him. He got up, tied the cords on his braies, and reached for his sword. Cool air prickled his skin beneath his loose tunic, but he didn’t pause to dress. He moved forward through the camp and sleeping men but saw nothing amiss. Knights, foot soldiers, archers—most lay snoring, the sentries silent at their posts. He turned to go back to his pallet by the fire, but a length of rope caught his eye. One end was tethered to a tree; the other snaked along the ground. Leather bindings lay neatly folded next to it, a closed barrel lock atop.
Sasha should be sleeping close to her guard, but all he saw were empty blankets. A well-placed boot woke Malcom from his slumber.
“Where is your charge?”
Malcom blinked blearily, then glanced at the empty pallet close by. Cursing, he got to his feet. “M’lord—I tied her well and used a lock so she could not escape again.”
“Again?”
Malcom stumbled over an explanation. “It were only for a short time last night, m’lord. I found her after she untied the ropes I used to bind her to the tree. ‘Tis why I used a lock.”
“Where are her companions?” When Malcom pointed, Rhys stalked toward a cart set up several yards away. The youth was bound to a wheel, curled up in blankets but wide awake. A faint smile curled his lips. Rhys stopped in front of him.
“Where is she?” he asked tersely, and Biagio shrugged.
“In the treetops, under a buttercup—p’raps dancing in a faerie ring.”
Irritation warred with restraint, and Rhys asked again, “Where is she?”
“I did not see her direction.” He indicated the ropes binding him with a nod of his head. “It should be obvious I am allowed no freedom.”
“But you saw her leave.”
Biagio rested his head against a wheel spoke. “Mayhap I did. Mayhap I was asleep.”
“Mayhap I will waken yon companion from her slumber and demand answers from her,” Rhys said after a moment, leaving no doubt he would question Elspeth.
“You would badger an old woman who still sleeps?” Biagio’s eyes narrowed. “She has slept sound and knows naught.”
“Shall I test that?”
After a moment, the youth said sullenly, “Nay. Leave her be. Sasha went into the wood. Look for her near a stream or pond, for she is fond of gathering marsh plants early of a morn.”
As Rhys turned to follow the direction he indicated with one hand, Biagio added softly, “Beware she does not turn you into a toad, Welshman.”
Rhys ignored him. He wearied of allusions to the maid having magical powers. Healing powers were common in those who studied plants and methods, as did Sir Robert. Magic was not involved. Sasha was skilled in herbs and illusions, but her only enchantment lay in clever tricks and obfuscation. Yet a small niggling doubt remained as he stepped into the shadowed woods.
Silver-gray beech branches soared upward to blot out early light; only thready streamers pierced the dense, silver-haired leaves and golden tassels of flowers growing overhead. Little grew on the forest floor here, for the sunlight was too meager. It was easy to track the maid’s progress through the wood, slapping aside the occasional straggling limb and new growth. Cursing her with every step, he followed the trail as it climbed upward, where the ground grew rocky. How had she come so far so quickly?
He came upon Sasha in a rowan grove. Here, misty sunlight penetrated lacy, white-flowering branches in a wide, diffused band that danced over the dark ribbon of her hair. She knelt on thick, springy moss at the edge of a small stream. Scattered stones dotted the ground. Birds gathered noisily in the treetops. He halted at the clearing’s edge, watching her.
Her purple cloak spread around her as she studied a clump of flowering plants. A long-legged hare emerged from beneath thick bushes, creeping close to her with nose and whiskers twitching; it sat up, front paws dangling and the furry ears erect. Sasha spoke softly, and the small animal approached her outstretched hand. It nibbled daintily from her palm, ears jerking back and forth. A swallow landed impudently on a fallen branch, twittering excitedly.
From the shadows, dragonflies whirred toward her, and bright-winged moths fluttered about her head. In the tall grass, fading glow worms blinked, like erratic stars earthbound in the soft gloom. Tiny bells tinkled. For a moment he felt transported to the faerie world and would not have been surprised to see Pan step out, playing a flute.
He stared. Brian’s warnings haunted him. Despite the early morning chill in the air, beads of sweat dampened his skin. Caused by the long walk, of course. Not from anything she might be doing, no matter how odd it seemed at the moment. She only fed grass to a hare. She was a willful maid, not an elf queen or faerie. And she was a maid who had managed to escape his camp when he’d warned her not to attempt it.
He straightened. He’d taken only a single step when Sasha rose to her feet and held out her arms, palms upward over the running water of the tiny stream. Murmuring words he didn’t recognize, she uncurled her fingers. Pale white flowers fluttered from her palms, twisting, turning, landing lightly on the water’s surface, spiraling in the currents.
Intent upon the maid, he did not hear Brian behind him until he spoke. “Do you think she casts a spell on us, Rhys?”
He stiffened but didn’t turn. “Jésu, don’t creep up on a man without warning.”
“Aye, lord. I understand. She frightens me as well.”
Brian’s shaky voice was ample evidence of his fear, even if Rhys hadn’t felt his slight shudder. He shook his head. “It’s not the maid that sets me on edge, Brian. She’s wandered too far. Gareth could have his men all around us. We’ve given them enough warning we’re here.”
“I hadn’t thought of her being in danger,” Brian muttered resentfully.
“Go tell the others she is found.” He glanced at him, then back at Sasha. She still faced the stream, standing at the water’s edge, oblivious to anything around her. Mushroom caps grew in decaying leaves near her feet, and a rough circle of stones surrounded several white-flowered rowan trees. She scattered more flowers in the pool lapping at her hem and knelt to scoop water into her palms.
He had seen enough. He strode from the brush toward her. Still she did no
t turn around. She must have heard them. They’d made no effort to be quiet, and the crunch of leaves and limbs underfoot should have warned her they were there, but she remained kneeling by the water.
Sunlight glinted in her dark hair, and the strong, sweet scent of jasmine drifted toward him. He bent to lay a hand on her shoulder, and she said evenly, “You took much longer to find me than I thought you would, my lord.”
He paused. She rose to her feet and turned, a move as light and graceful as a dancer. A slight, knowing smile curved her lips. He shrugged.
“If you knew we were here, why did you not acknowledge us?”
“I did not wish to do so.” Her gaze flickered toward Brian. “You expected magic spells, and I disappointed you.”
He grasped her arm, holding fast. “I expected you to stay safely in camp. ‘Twas why I set guards on you.”
“Guards?” Her eyes widened with fraudulent surprise. “I don’t see any guards near me, my lord. Are they with me now?”
“You know they are not.” His fingers tightened on her wrist. “How did you get free?”
Looking past him, she smiled again. “Hazel wreaths. If the twigs are woven into a crown, one can be invisible. Is that not so, Sir Brian?”
Brian lingered in the fringe of trees. At her words, he dug into the pouch at his waist and muttered an agreement as he fished out a charm of twigs and red thread. He held it up. His swift glance toward Rhys was half-defiant, half-afraid. “She tried to coax me into it before, my lord. When you sent me for her to heal your horse. I found her in a hazel coppice, gathering magic and herbs to be invisible.”
It would do no good at this point to remind Brian that if the wench were truly magic, she wouldn’t be his prisoner. He repeated, “Go back and tell Sir Robert and the others that she is found. As we may need magical herbs, do not be so quick to condemn them.”
Sasha’s wrist turned slightly in his grasp, and he looked down at her. She gazed at Brian, her dark eyes so wide the thick brush of her lashes quivered. Her nostrils flared slightly, and her moist lips parted. Then a faint smile curved her mouth, and she glanced up at him before looking back at Brian.
“Will you need my talents then, my lord? Perhaps I won’t feel so generous as to share what I know. If I’m a witch and a wicked faerie, perhaps I’ll just turn you all into toads or weasels instead.”
Brian’s face went pasty white beneath the splash of freckles, and his hand shook as he held up the charm. “Acre arcre arnem nona aernem—”
“Enough, Brian.” Rhys grew impatient with Brian’s superstitions and Sasha’s flagrant taunting. “Can you not see she enjoys goading you?”
Sasha laughed softly. “He makes it so easy. Here, Irishman—catch!”
Her hand flashed up, and a shower of white flowers flew through the air. Brian bellowed in alarm, staggered backward, and tumbled over a fallen log to sprawl on the ground. Rhys swiftly snagged her free arm by the wrist. Her fingers curled tightly into her palm, holding to tiny petals. Keeping his eyes locked with hers, he freed one wrist and pried open her fingers. Pale white blossoms fluttered from her palm, drifting in the air, some landing lightly on the water, the others scattering over the thick moss.
She smiled. “Rowan flowers for a magic spell.” Her words were soft, almost a whisper drowned out by the sound of rushing water. “I can summon the wind or the rain, make the sun set, and donkeys fly. Watch me, my lord, and p’raps I’ll show you how to make your enemies disappear.”
“Enough.” His fingers tightened to hold her fast. “I’m not a child to be impressed with vain boasts.”
“Are you not?” Shaking back the hair from her face, she stared up at him. “Yet you want me to help you. I know what you want from me. But what will you promise to gain my help? What could I possibly want from you, save that which you’ve already promised me?”
He stared down at her. There was more than just mischief in her eyes. There was a gleam of determination. He looked over at Brian, who had lurched to his feet and was brushing damp leaves and twigs from his chest.
“Leave us, Brian. I would speak with our unpredictable guest alone.”
Brian scowled. “Are you certain ‘tis wise, Rhys? I mean, to be alone with her now.”
“I fear no enchantment. Just go.”
He waited until Brian was gone from the clearing before he nudged Sasha to sit atop a fallen log. She sat quietly, gazing serenely up at him. He smiled slightly.
“How did you get past my sentries?”
“It’s not difficult to slip by snoring men.” Her brow rose. “You’d best hope to make Glynllew’s invaders sleep as deeply as your posted guards.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “What do you know of that plan?”
She shrugged, a light lifting of her shoulders, careless and infuriating. He pulled her toward him with a swift tug of his hand around her wrist. Gently tangling his fingers in the wealth of dark hair at her nape, he tilted her head back, drawing a soft gasp from her throat. Holding her gaze, he drew his finger lightly over the curve of her cheek and along her delicate jawline. Appreciation of her beauty crept in to dislodge irritation, but not suspicion.
“It seems to me you eavesdrop too much, flower. And I cannot help but wonder what you intend to do with all the information you learn by lurking in shadows.”
“An intriguing dilemma, my lord. Yet, what could I possibly do when you guard me so well?”
“That,” he murmured, “is what I mean to find out. How do you know so much? Tell me. Are you supposed to meet someone? Send a message to someone?”
She pushed at his chest, a gesture that even she seemed to recognize as futile. Abruptly, she stopped, but her eyes flashed angrily. “Ah, stupid man. I tried to tell you all I want from you is your help. I released you from your oath, but I need you to keep the pro—”
“Not that cursed prophecy madness again. I’ve heard enough of it.” His hand tightened. “Do not mention it to me again. I want the truth.”
“Nay, ‘tis not the truth you seek. You do not listen when you hear it.” She glared up at him, frustration in the straight slash of her brows and the tight set of her mouth. “Kafa ean! All you wanted was to bed me, and you said anything I wanted to hear. I kept my word, didn’t I? Now you refuse my request—”
“Yea, you kept your word.” He recognized the language if not the words she used. He’d heard it from Arab captives. Who was this girl? Friend or enemy? She had followed him, he was certain of that. Stupidly, he’d first thought she wanted no more than a night together, perhaps a few coins. Now he wondered if it was much more. What had really happened in his room at the inn? Clear memories eluded him.
Catching her thick hair in his fist, he drew his spread fingers through the silky strands in a lingering glide. He frowned. The memory of that night was so vague, so wine-fogged. He shook his head slowly. “You begged a labor for a night, but then you demanded war. A ridiculous quest to bind me to you. ‘Twas a distraction from the truth, and no more.”
“I asked only for your favor as a champion. And you agreed.”
“You know I did not. I would never have sworn to wage war for a warm tumble, not even with so fair a flower.”
It was true. To wear her colors in a list was one thing; to engage an enemy in combat for an obscure reason bordered stupidity. He was not a stranger to unwise decisions, but years of war and hardship, years of nothing but hot sand, blood, death, and loss, had cost him much. His purse may be heavier, but he had lost a sense of who he once was, who he had hoped to be, and coming back to Wales only intensified it instead of easing it. He had thought—hoped—that familiar faces from his childhood would lessen that empty disappointment, but his cousin’s betrayal promised only more disillusions.
Sasha shifted slightly so that her hair slipped from his loose grasp. He let her. But he kep
t his hand on her shoulder, a heavy reminder she could not escape unless he allowed it. In truth, he did not know quite what to do with her. She was a captive, along with her servant woman and the boy, but she was a cursed inconvenience. It could be that she spoke no lies, but her unnerving habit of knowing more than she should could be dangerous. He wouldn’t risk lives. Or Glynllew.
“Release me, my lord,” the elfin creature who deviled his thoughts and tangled his plans said imperatively, and he lifted his brow at her tone.
“Not,” he said softly, “yet.”
“No?” She smiled and shifted slightly in his grasp. “You wish to hold me close, is that it, my lord?”
Impudent creature, teasing him with her smile, the delicate press of her body against the thin linen of his tunic and braies; his reaction was swift and vexing.
He should release her, step away, and feign ignorance. He should take her back to the camp and put her in chains or tethered to a tree, or have an escort return her across the Severn bridge to England and far away. He should ignore the tightness in his throat, the flutter of the pulse in her throat, the swift intake of her breath through parted, lush lips. He should deny the beat of blood through his veins that settled in his groin, his focus wavering so that he saw only the sweet curves of her face, inhaled the tantalizing scent of jasmine—he should retreat, but he did not.
Slowly, with a soft, lingering stroke, he drew his hand down her back, fingers grazing the gentle arch of her spine hiding beneath the weight of her cloak. She shivered.
That small tremor conveyed a searing message to him, and despite the barriers he’d erected, he burned. Inconvenient, unwanted desire. He ached, the dull throb growing higher and harder, focusing all his attention on the soft pressure of her breasts against him. The front of her cloak had parted, dark green folds beneath, yet there was nothing between them but the thin materials of her laced cotte and his tunic. It was arousing, tempting, inflaming.
The Magic Page 17
