The Magic

by Virginia Brown

  His entire body burned. The memory of her soft skin and bare thighs around him returned with sharper focus, and all else faded into mist. She was warm and yielding, sloe eyes wide as she looked up at him, and he surrendered to the heat.

  Sasha didn’t resist as he knelt with her to the ground. White rowan flowers lay strewn on bright green moss like snow. The rush of water was loud. Her dark eyes were wide beneath the fringe of her lashes, soft and exotic, drawing him into their depths. Her fingers curled into layers of linen tunic as she clung to him. Her lips parted, words a soft murmur: “Lord Rhys, wait—”

  “Wait, fy mach i? Is that what you really want?” He kissed her brow, her cheek, her nose, then found her lips, deepening the kiss until he felt her respond. Then a whisper against her parted lips, “Truce, fair flower. Truce.”

  She made a faint sound in her throat; wordless agreement? Sensation swirled, the cool air and mist around them, the heat inside him, the luxurious silk of her hair and satiny skin beneath his hands as he laid her gently on thick moss and green and purple wool. Deftly, he unfastened the small clasp that held her cloak and spread it to the sides. Then he lavished kisses upon soft, sweet-scented flesh and the pulse that beat madly in the tiny hollow of her throat.

  Her breath came swiftly, lips parted and lashes quivering slightly each time she inhaled. Dark eyes went hazy. Her cotte was a simple garment, gathered at the waist with a cloth girdle and laces. He wanted to see her in the light of day instead of the shrouding shadows of candle glow and gloom. He reached for the side-laces.

  “Yield to me, flower,” he murmured as he loosened her cotte, “yield all . . .”

  Breathing warmth along the curve of her throat, then lower, he untied her laces and slipped his hand beneath the soft wool cotte to cup her bare breast. His fingers found the tight bud of her nipple, and she gasped when he teased the rigid peak. Shoving aside undertunic and wool, he replaced his hand with his mouth. She arched upward with a wordless cry; her hands moved to his shoulders to pull closer.

  He reached up and caught her hands, pressed them back into the cushion of her cloak as he slid his body atop hers. He rested his weight on their clasped hands and bent again. His mouth returned to that sweet bud and lingered. She was silky softness and exotic fragrance, warmth and shadows beneath him, her cries floating up through the pounding haze around him in soft entreaties.

  She turned again, twisting, a slow curve of golden skin and high, bare breasts, teasing his body into hardening purpose. He wedged between her thighs and pressed hard against her, shuddering at the exquisite sensation. With one hand, he reached down to unbind the ties to his linen braies, to remove the cloth barrier.

  Sasha put out a hand, fingers stilling his short jerks at the knotted tapes. “My lord,” she breathed, “do not. I cannot allow you to continue this when—”

  “What is it?” he groaned when her words faltered. He gazed down at her with heated eyes, blood pulsing through his body, his shaft straining against the confinement of his garments and the arousing pressure of her hand against him. “Beth s’yn bod?” he asked huskily, then repeated in English, “What’s wrong?”

  She held tightly to the knotted tapes, not quite meeting his eyes. He sat back, watching her. Her reply was a whisper. “‘Tis not the right time.”

  “Not the right time.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Is the moon in the wrong quarter of the heavens? Is it on the cusp or the wane, or the stars not aligned?”

  She released his tangled tapes, her words a low mumble. “‘Tis not that at all. The time of . . . a woman. You know.”

  He stared at the high flush staining her cheeks and the slight quiver of her lips, but it still took a moment before he understood. He shook his head. “You should have made that clear. But I suppose you enjoy tormenting me.”

  She smiled slightly. “Yea, lord, I admit I do. But ‘twas not for that reason, I swear it.”

  He studied her, cursing the throb in his loins and the heat she’d ignited that didn’t seem likely to fade quickly. Vague memories returned, images of a stuffy room and this exotic maid, of her soft thighs and heated scent, and he frowned. There were memories aplenty of being aroused; none of reaching fulfillment. Scarlet silk and burning skin, the erotic glide of his body against hers—but no memory of the exquisite penetration that should have followed.

  He sat up, folded his legs under him as he reached out to circle her wrist lightly with his bandaged hand, fingers caressing her smooth skin. “Tell me again, flower, of our night together. My memory is wine-hazed. I would hear how satisfying it was for both of us.”

  She stared at him, a quick flutter of her lashes, then a lift of her shoulders and faint smile. “You were a stallion. Over and over. I was exhausted, and you were so wine-fatigued you fell asleep. I left. Regretfully, of course.”

  “Of course.” He smiled faintly. “You left to go downstairs and poison my men. But how did you know I would sleep so soundly? How did you know I would not wake and want more from you?”

  Her hand fluttered impatiently. “Like all men, you sleep soundly after love play and too much wine.”

  “Yea, I most likely do, flower.” He drew her closer, a gentle but steady pull on her arm that brought her up to face him. He reached out to fondle a loose strand of her hair, twisting it around one finger. “But I don’t think you know that. I don’t think you stayed long enough to test my . . . prowess.”

  Her laugh was light and scornful. “If you must know the truth, my lord, you were quick. Very quick. A rabbit. Fffft! Over with before it had really begun. Too swift to remember, I imagine. Please release my arm. You’re hurting me.”

  “Am I?” He smiled and lessened his grip. “Such a facile liar you are, blodyn bach. I stand amazed.”

  “You’re sitting down.” She tried to pull free and then leaned back. “I grow weary of you calling me a liar.”

  “Poor flower. The truth is not always palatable.”

  She stared at him. “Nay, ‘tis not. As you should know.”

  He frowned. A brisk breeze blew across the water, chilling him. When she pulled away this time, he let her go. She stood, reaching down to tug at her cloak until he got up. She flung it around her shoulders in a quick swirl, then held it under her chin with a fist, staring up at him. He shook his head.

  “You know, of course, that I’m going to have to confine you when we get back to camp. It’s the only way I can be certain you won’t give warning of our plans.”

  “Who would I warn? The birds? Your dull-witted soldiers? You give me far too much credit, my lord.”

  “Nay,” he said, “I don’t think I’ve given you enough. Perhaps I should do more than just tether you to a tree.”

  Sasha stared at him for a moment before she bunched the hem of her cloak in both hands and whirled away. But Rhys was quick, and he was on her in an instant.

  As he caught and turned her, her reaction was swift and unexpected. Her foot shot up, catching him squarely in the groin. The effect was immediate. Pain exploded; he released her and doubled over. When he dropped to his knees on the moss, she fled.

  HEMS LIFTED HIGH, she leaped over fallen logs and ducked around thick clumps of bushes, running like a hare, blindly panicked, not pausing until she was certain she’d left him far behind. Only then did she stop to lean against a thick-trunked oak and catch her breath. Her lungs ached for air, and her side hurt. She shook so badly she could scarcely stand, even using the tree as a support. She should not have teased him, but she had not considered that she might be tempted to yield.

  Ayiee, she should not have fled, should not have provoked him. She’d ruined everything. Despite her blithe assurances to Elspeth that she had the situation well in hand, it had somehow escaped her control. It was bad enough that she’d almost yielded on a bed of moss; worse, she had wanted him to ease the curious ache he had ignite
d. Yea, she had found herself sinking into the giddy whirl of passion like a stone, not caring for anything but the touch of his hand or his mouth, the searing caresses and sweet words he whispered in her ear. For a brief span of time, she’d lost her senses, and it had been as bright and glorious as the jongleurs promised. Romance had never tempted her. Whispers in the night and clumsy caresses had been only pledges she never meant to keep. Until now.

  Still shaking, she gave her cloak an irritated flounce to dislodge dead leaves. Her fingers shook when she reached down to smooth the wool folds. Her hand grazed the pouch of herbs she’d gathered, dangling from a frayed length of cord inside her cloak. The pouch was open and limp when she peered inside. She’d managed to lose most of the flowers she’d spent an hour gathering. Her pouch had been near full when Rhys came upon her.

  It was the final affront. Rowan flowers blossomed only in May; they had to be gathered when in bloom to be effective. She’d had an abundance. Now she’d have to find another tree and try again to gather enough blossoms. There were different purposes for all parts of the rowan, and her supply had grown scarce. When the flowers turned into orange-red berries, she’d gather them to use in healing sachets and mixtures. Two twigs tied together with a length of red thread to form a cross could be used as an amulet for protection, such as the one Brian wore. Yon foolish knight wore it as protection against her, fearing that she would turn him into a toad. It would hardly be much of a transformation, in her opinion. She was sorry she didn’t know how to do it. It would have saved her much annoyance.

  Now her precious flowers were gone. Rowan trees growing near stone circles had the most potent powers of protection. It may be a long time before she found more such trees again. She had no illusions that the knight would greet her kindly when she returned. If not for Elspeth and Biagio, she would flee. But she could not abandon them. So she would return to chains, no doubt, with heavy locks to keep her from escaping.

  “Kefāyah,” she scolded herself for fretting about herbs when she must return to the camp and an unfriendly reception. She sat down on a fallen log. She must think of a convincing way to persuade Rhys to be her champion, but first she must induce him not to imprison her.

  An oak leaf fluttered down from overhead, skimming past her cheek. She put out a hand to catch it in her palm. Then she stiffened; a barrage of impressions descended on her like a shower of leaves. French and English mixed with words she recognized as Welsh whirled in a silent tide of overpowering, dangerous intentions, threatening to drown her. Dazed, she looked up.

  Forming a half circle, a dozen armed soldiers stood a short distance away, staring at her with satisfaction. It would have been bad enough were they Rhys’s men, but from the direction of their thoughts, she knew that these men were his enemies.

  These were the men who held Glynllew.

  Chapter Eleven

  BIAGIO STARED AT Rhys with what could only be a blend of contempt and distress. “You have lost her?”

  Rhys made an impatient gesture. “She is fled or lost. I found only her bag of flowers on the ground. Where would she go?”

  Leaning back against the cart’s wheel, Biagio said nothing for a moment. Emotions flickered on the youth’s face before he said, “We know no one in Wales. Sasha would not leave Elspeth behind willingly. I have never known her to be lost, for she knows how to track her way by the sun and moon.”

  Sir Brian leaned against the cart and stared down at Biagio. “There was trampled grass but no faerie triad, no cowslip blossoms or stone circle close to where we found her magic herbs. Tell us, could she vanish without magic?”

  Cutting his dark eyes at the knight, Biagio pondered for a moment. “Mayhap she sprouted wings and flew away; is that what you are asking?”

  Brian had the sense to flush, although Rhys had little patience with his superstition at the moment. “Enough,” he said, earning Brian’s and Biagio’s attention. “If she is lost in a strange land, what will she do? This cannot be the first time she has spirited herself away.”

  Biagio shrugged. “Nay, it is but one of countless times she has disappeared without telling me, but never without telling Elspeth. We have not been close to her since you took us prisoner, so we have no way of knowing where she might have gone if she left willingly.”

  “Would you tell me if you knew?”

  A sly smile tilted the youth’s mouth. “Probably not, but that is not what you want to hear. You have lost her, fearsome knight. Pray that she has come to no harm, for she will be avenged.”

  Brian slammed his fist against the cart, gaining Biagio’s attention. “You dare threaten my lord, whelp?”

  “Nay. I promise, but I do not threaten.”

  It would do no good for the situation to escalate, and Rhys said brusquely, “Summon the woman Elspeth. Perhaps she may know where to search.”

  But Elspeth was little help, for she suggested areas already searched. Meadows, rowan groves, streams, all had been searched since Rhys had raised the alarm. He’d felt a fool letting her escape him, but now dread crept in to displace irritation.

  “Release me,” said Biagio when heavy silence fell between them. “I can usually find her. Sasha will answer my call if she can hear me.”

  “Do you think I have not called for her?” Rhys asked with a faint smile. “No doubt, all my enemies within hearing are now alerted to her presence.”

  “And if your enemies have her? What then?”

  “If she has been taken, she will not be allowed to answer you.”

  Biagio rested his head against the rim of the cart’s wheel. “We have a secret language,” he said. “She will hear me, even if she cannot answer me.”

  Rhys studied him. It was possible. Sasha spoke several languages, and he knew of men who communicated with whistles or bird calls. Traveling in strange lands necessitated inventive adjustments to stay safe. He was more accustomed to travel in large groups of soldiers instead of solitary wandering, but could understand how it may be different for others.

  “Sir Brian will go with you,” he said after a moment, and Brian snorted in exasperation.

  “‘Tis more like he will escape to be with her than lead us to her,” he protested, but Rhys was adamant.

  “Tether him to you with chains if you must, but let him search. We have other business to tend as well as finding the maid. I dare not delay too long.”

  “I will need my dagger,” said the youth, and Rhys turned his attention to him.

  “You will have an armed knight at your side. Be satisfied with that.”

  As he walked away, he heard Brian mutter unhappy imprecations as he untied Biagio. The boy answered, and the complaints in Gaelic and Italian mingled with the sounds of soldiers and knights preparing for the day. He let it wash over him and pondered possibilities.

  It had occurred to him that the maid could well have joined with those in the keep to tell of their plans. Her protests of innocence had been believable, but it would not be the first time he had thought her blameless and been wrong. Yet, he could not quite name her a traitor. Not now. Time would resolve uncertainty. With an effort, he put thoughts of Sasha to the back of his mind to concentrate on plans to regain Glynllew.

  Sir Robert awaited him near the fire, breaking his fast with hard bread and cheese washed down with stale beer. Provisions would be needed soon.

  After greeting him, Sir Robert said, “Ranald returned while you searched for the maid. It seems he was near taken, and after escaping capture, he reports there are soldiers out looking for him. They are aware of our camp, but we knew that. It is plain they wish to learn our numbers.”

  “Do we know their numbers?”

  “Near a hundred in the keep, but Raglan recalls half of those to him. Gareth recruits more but has not yet succeeded. What of those who are to join us? Any word of their progress?”

 
“Not yet. I left word in the last village before we crossed into Wales, but there is no news of those I hired. Good men, all seasoned in war and willing to fight for coin and keep. Crusading has trained as many as it has orphaned, it seems. Yet we have lost much.”

  Crouching by the fire, Rhys took bread and cheese, thinking of those he had known and lost as well as those he had with him now. There were many more gone than still here, the perils of war capricious at times. Brian had trained with him as a lad, but others of his childhood lay in tombs or hot desert sands now. Still, he counted himself fortunate to have men loyal to his cause whether by birth, companionship, or coin. He thought then of Owain and hoped to yet find him well. The faithful steward would be avenged, but better to have him alive.

  “Still, King Richard took Acre,” said Sir Robert, and Rhys nodded agreement.

  “Aye, and defeated Saladin at the Battle of Arsuf. We would have taken Jerusalem if not for bad weather. He will not stop until he has gained access to Jerusalem or lies dead. It is his goal.”

  “A feckless goal, say some,” Sir Robert murmured, then shrugged. “There are those who say England suffers while Richard drains the coffers for Saladin.”

  Rhys looked up at him. Age sat upon the older knight’s face, visible now when he had not noticed it before. “And you, my old friend? What do you say?”

  A faint smile curved Sir Robert’s mouth. “I say it is a noble cause to fight for one’s home and people, but a fool’s errand to poke a hornet’s nest with a stick. The Holy Land is a hornet’s nest. Gaining the prize does not mean it can be kept.”

  “King Richard fights for glory and riches. It is an honor to fight with him, yet I am not convinced he fights for England as much as he craves a victory in battle.”

  “Perhaps he justifies leaving England and Wales to enemies as less important than taking Jerusalem for God, but it risks much of his kingdom.”

  “He still has France and Brittany,” Rhys observed. “And when I left, Askelon and Jaffa. I do not think he cares about Wales save as a resource.”