by Lisa Jackson
“Aye.” Kent’s back straightened. He gave a stiff nod.
“Good. Wait for me. When I return, we break camp.” Spurred by anger and the thought that Tara was riding alone into the gates of Twyll to face Tremayne, Rhys strode swiftly to the spot where Gryffyn was tethered. He saddled the big stallion, swung onto his back, then rode like fury through the main gate.
He would ride until he found the witch and when he did—he would either shake the living hell out of her or make love to her and never quit. He wasn’t sure which.
“Run, damn you, run!” Tara leaned low over her Dobbyn’s neck, her knees tight against the mare’s heaving sides, her eyes squinting against the icy wind that tore at her face and clawed at her hair.
She’d ridden most of the night before, slept a few hours, and stopped at an inn at the outskirts of a village where she’d eaten, fed Dobbyn, and asked for directions to Twyll.
A sense of urgency claimed her, as she’d been unfamiliar with the forest surrounding Broodmore and had lost much time finding a path that led to a rutted trail wide enough for a single cart. For most of her journey she’d avoided the main roads, hoping not to attract attention, for she wanted to enter Twyll unnoticed and unaccosted as she searched out Father Simon. She didn’t want to have to explain herself to other travelers, soldiers, any of the criminals of Broodmore, or Rhys, should she have the misfortune of meeting him.
Rhys. Dear Lord, is he still alive? It had been but a few days since she’d seen him, and yet it felt like an eternity. The thought that he may have come upon the soldiers, a sheriff’s search party, or another thug sent chills down her spine. He’s an outlaw, Tara. He lives in defiance of the law, is a sworn enemy of his half brother, the lord of Twyll. Sooner or later he will be caught and imprisoned or hanged. She set her jaw against that unavoidable thought, but the painful images whirled through her mind and the prospect that she might not see him again caused a stone to settle deep in her heart.
Where the trail met a river, she slowed Dobbyn, so the mare could catch her breath. Fir and pine trees gave way to mossy rocks that banked the water. A partridge fluttered through the cold, shimmering air, and the mists of evening began to rise, thin wisps of fog that crawled across the ground and slowly ascended to the darkening heavens.
Good. Nightfall and fog would soon give her the cover she needed.
She kneed Dobbyn forward, through the river. ‘Twas the only way to Twyll. The mare balked at the icy current, but Tara prodded the beast, and Dobbyn nervously splashed into the rush of freezing water that swirled swiftly around her legs and belly.
“You can do it,” she assured her horse, though fear gnawed at her insides when Dobbyn slipped. The mare tried to catch herself but stumbled, pitching Tara forward. The horse floundered again, neighing in fright. Her legs thrashed. Water as cold as death splashed upward, showering Tara.
Madly she clung to the sodden rein and the horse’s heavy mane. “Come on, come on,” she whispered, her teeth chattering. Dobbyn lunged forward toward the shore. The bay’s hooves scrambled on the slick stones, her legs flailed desperately.
“You can do it!” Her heart pumping madly, Tara hung on for dear life as the little mare finally found her footing again. Tara held her breath. Please, Father in heaven, help us.
Rocks and gravel shifted under the horse’s hooves, but she slogged onward, the deadly river giving up its grip unwillingly. With a snort, Dobbyn found solid ground beneath her hooves and flung herself up the bank, then sprinted madly along the shore.
With numb fingers Tara pulled on the reins, slowing the frightened horse and turning her into the woods again, north toward Tower Twyll. Her teeth rattled, her skin was turning blue, and she knew she must find a place to rest and build a fire. She hoped it wouldn’t catch anyone’s attention, but she hadn’t eaten for hours, her stomach grumbled, and she shook from the cold. Come the morning, she would enter the gates of Twyll and search out Father Simon.
And what then, Tara? What if you find out you are the true daughter of Gilmore? Clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering, she rode until she found a clearing with a pit where an old campfire had burned. “ ‘Tis here we be, Dobbyn,” she said on a sigh. The mare, too, was hungry and tired. “In the morning I’ll see that you’re fed and fed well.” She patted the horse’s soft neck and was rewarded with a soft nicker, snort, and nudge of Dobbyn’s forehead against her chest. “Yea, ‘tis a good mount ye be.” Tara’s fingernails scratched between the mare’s eyes and ears, and she felt an incredible sense of connection to the animal.
As she gathered dry sticks from beneath the surrounding trees and used her dagger to strike the flint over and over again until a spark ignited, she tried not to think about how alone she was. Images of Lodema, old now, her joints aching as she crushed herbs or tended the fire or made candles, flitted through her tired mind. Oh, Mother, how I miss you.
Bending low, she leaned over the ring of rocks and blew on the start of her fire, watching as the embers glowed brighter, tiny flames exploding to eat hungrily at the twigs. Images of Rhys came to mind, and as she tried to heat her chilled body and dry out her mantle, she remembered how warm and safe she’d felt in his arms, how right it had seemed to sleep cuddled together with him, the current of desire passing between them.
He is an outlaw, Tara. A man who held you captive. An arrogant thief who will stop at nothing to serve his own purpose.
The fire burned brighter and she rested, her drying mantle wrapped around her torso, her eyes growing heavy. She would sleep for a few hours, then awaken and ride the few miles that separated her from Twyll … from her destiny.
Yawning, exhaustion finally taking its toll, she closed her eyes, and as she drifted off to sleep she imagined that Rhys was with her, touching her, pushing her hair away from her face as he kissed the hollow of her throat …
So there she was.
Finally.
Damn the witch! Morgan Le Fey? Tara of Gaeaf? Missing daughter of Gilmore?
Bah!
Lying on the forest floor, her face turned toward a fire that burned low in a ring of stones, Tara was as beautiful and as cursedly bewitching as ever.
Rhys’s gut clenched and his heart pumped hard. He’d been searching for her for too many long hours, had just about given up after a full day, believing that she was already inside the massive gates of Twyll, a prisoner of Tremayne. Bloody Christ, what a mess! At least she was safe and not a captive in Twyll.
Bone-weary, every muscle aching from nearly three days in the saddle, he climbed down from Gryffyn’s broad back and, pulling off his gloves, quietly walked up to the pit where the embers of the dying campfire glowed a deep scarlet. Tara’s small, beautiful face was illuminated in the dancing red shadows. Her black hair was burnished with crimson light, and as she sighed, the anger surging through his veins cooled a bit. Dear God, she was lovely. As lovely a woman as he’d ever set eyes upon. His heart thudded and he gritted his teeth in a combination of fury and lust. Why did he want this woman? Why? Aye, she was exquisite, but she was a thorn in his backside, a fiery-tempered upstart who had the stubborn streak of an ass and the ability to make him think of nothing other than taking her to his bed and taming her.
But he hadn’t. The nights he’d spent with her he’d kept a tight leash on his lust, closed his eyes to an ache that had been with him since the first moment he saw her at the shore of the creek, chanting her spells and holding the damned stone high in the air.
So what was he going to do with her? Haul her to her feet, force her back onto her horse, and ride all the way to Broodmore? He hesitated but a second. He had no choice. He’d promised Abelard that he would take the stone from her, and Rhys’s word was his law. She would have to return to Broodmore; the forest of Twyll wasn’t safe.
Kneeling, he stretched out a hand. She started. Before he could touch her shoulder, she turned swiftly, a dagger in her hand, her eyes wide. “Stand back!” she yelled, scrambling to her feet and facing him.
Wild black hair fell around her face, her body was tense and ready to attack, her wicked little knife pointed directly at him. “Oh … Rhys.” Some of the fear in her eyes disappeared, but she didn’t drop the weapon. Her chin inched upward a notch. “You’ve come to take me back.”
“Aye, to Broodmore. What’s left of it.”
“What?” she whispered.
“From the fire.”
“Oh, no! It did not burn down!” Wariness turned to despair. Regret showed in her beautiful eyes, and in that moment’s hesitation he lunged. His fingers surrounded her small wrists and forcefully he yanked her arms over her head. “Nay, witch, your plan did not work. Broodmore still stands and everyone was saved.”
“Thank the saints.”
“What? No thanks to Morrigu? Or Myrddin? What about Rhiannon?” he growled, anger beating a pulse in his temple as he considered the danger she’d brought to those who had pledged their lives to him. “How would you have felt if anyone had died?” He shook her wrists. “How?”
“But—but I did not start the fire.”
He snorted. “Lie not, Tara.”
“ ‘Tis not a lie.” She glared up at him, some of her rebellious nature surfacing in her expression.
“Others say differently.”
“Then they are the ones who speak not the truth.”
“Why did I know this is what you would say?”
She looked about to argue but held her tongue. Staring down at her upturned face, he could barely stop himself from giving in to the urge to kiss her.
“I make no apologies,” she said, and he noticed the rapid rise and fall of her chest, as if she’d been running. “I harmed no one. You held me captive.”
“For your own protection.”
“And because I have the stone,” she shot back. “I saw the greed in Abelard’s eyes as he gazed upon it, heard him whisper that he wanted it.” She tossed her hair back from her face. “I wonder if it is me you are after, outlaw. Did you chase me down for my safety or because of the ring?”
“Mayhap both.” His hands around her arms were sweating, his fingertips feeling the wild beating of her pulse on the soft inside of her wrists. In the darkness, with only a bit of moonlight and the shadows of the fire for illumination, she seemed more ethereal than ever. Her eyes were luminous, her skin a pearly white, her lips dark and lush.
“Let me go,” she whispered.
“Never.”
“Unhand, me, Rhys, or I swear, I’ll … I’ll …”
“Cut out my heart with your dagger?” he mocked, his gaze flicking to the useless weapon still curled in her fingers.
She shifted just slightly, lifting her foot, but before she could kick him, he widened his stance, still holding her fast. “Careful, witch. Do not provoke me.”
“As you provoke me?” she taunted, and his temper snapped. In one swift movement he yanked her closer. She tumbled against him, the knife falling from her fingers, and he kissed her. Hard. Punishing. Demanding. Still holding her arms imprisoned over her head he slanted his eager lips to hers and felt her stiffen in resistance.
“Nay—” she began, but the word died in her throat as his tongue pressed against the seal of her lips. With a sigh she yielded, her mouth opening to him, her eyes fluttering shut.
A thousand reasons to stop raced through his mind.
She is your enemy, mayhap the daughter of Gilmore.
The tip of his tongue touched hers.
She is a witch, a woman who has cast a spell over you.
She moaned low in her throat.
She is heartless, a person who would burn down a castle for her own means.
His heart thudded, his blood raced hot, and he began to ache as his member grew hard.
She is like poisoned water, innocent-looking but death to you.
Her lips moved anxiously, her body quivered, and all the reasons not to claim her as his own quickly fled. He wanted her. All of her. Had from the first time he’d seen her. He ached to feel the touch of her skin on his, the heat of her naked body against his own. All the nights of holding her close and yearning for her, needing her and forcing himself not to do what was only natural burned through his mind.
His tongue probed deeper, flicked against the end of hers, mated, and clung as if created for this. Rhys, Bastard Outlaw, a man who knew no master, was suddenly lost. His weight dragged them onto a carpet of needles and leaves, and she didn’t fight him. They tumbled together, the forest seeming to draw close as he kissed her again and again and again.
Tara’s blood thundered through her veins. Her heart raced and she could barely breathe. Stop, she thought in a moment of sanity, but she could not. Too long had she wanted this. His mouth was warm and demanding, his hands possessive as they stroked her back.
Remember who he is—an outlaw who wants only to bend your will to his.
He kissed her cheeks, her eyes, the corner of her mouth. When his lips brushed lower, across the sensitive skin of her throat, her head lolled back, and she felt the tingle of his mouth caressing her.
Her breasts ached, and deep inside she experienced a longing so intense it throbbed with need. More. She wanted more. Her arms encircled his neck, her fingers twining through his hair.
The wind moaned softly through the trees, the firelight faded to the faintest of scarlet glows, and Tara opened her eyes to stare into his. “This is madness,” he whispered, and she thought with a sense of disappointment that he might stop.
And yet she knew in her own heart that he was speaking the truth.
Darkly shadowed, his face hovered over hers for the barest of moments before he growled, “Oh, bloody hell.” Lightning blazed in his eyes and he kissed her again, his lips firm, his tongue demanding.
Tara barely caught her breath.
Rolling her onto her back, he began unlacing her mantle, his hands searching beneath the layers to find her skin. Quickly he pulled the cloak over her head. Still kissing her, he managed to rid himself of his own cloak, then he went to work on her tunic.
His hands were everywhere, unlacing bindings, pushing wayward locks of hair off her face, splaying possessively over her back. Throughout it all, his lips locked with hers, his breath mingled with her own, and the night seemed to fade around them.
Alone in the universe with pine needles as their mattress and the branches of leafless trees as their canopy, he removed her tunic. Moonlight caressed the forest and caught in his gaze. He kicked at her boots as well as his own, and somehow the soft doeskin fell from her feet.
She shivered as he stared down at her, and though she was wearing her chemise, she felt naked to him. To God. To the universe. Her heart beat wildly, and her body heated from the inside out.
Through the thin fabric of her chemise, he touched her breast, his palm at her nipple, his fingers five warm pressure points as he squeezed gently.
She gasped. Her nipple hardened and he lowered his head. The tip of his tongue teased her through her chemise and a dam of aching need burst deep within her. Her back arched and he nipped at her, his teeth playing, one hand open against the small of her back as he dragged her even closer.
Liquid warmth seeped through the darkest, most intimate places of her body and her soul. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel the hard, sinewy strength of him. His heart beat counterpoint to her own, his eyes shone with a smoldering lust that was a reflection of all the emotions raging through her.
Refusing him was impossible, denying herself even more so. Of their own accord her arms surrounded him, her fingers searching beyond the folds of his tunic to the steely muscles beneath.
Straddling her, he yanked the garment off, and she saw him above her in the moonlight, the silhouette of muscular shoulders and torso, his dark hair wild, his eyes gleaming like a wolf regarding its prey.
His fingers found the hem of her chemise and he slowly bunched the fabric, crawling it upward, over her calves, her thighs, her hips and waist. Finally he pulled the sheer garment
over her head and she was naked in the night.
Though the air was cold, bringing goose bumps to her skin, the womanly fires deep inside burned hot, and he stoked the blaze by dragging a solitary finger up her ribs.
Her breath caught.
He leaned forward. Kissed her breast. Lifted his head and let the wet nipple pucker in the night air.
Her throat turned to sand, and her hands explored the sinewy muscles of his arms and shoulders and back. The tips of her fingers discovered old welts— scars upon his skin, and her heart ached for all the pain he had borne.
Again he leaned forward. He kissed her breasts, his tongue lapping, his teeth teasing. She arched upward and he caught her, one big hand on her back, forcing her upward, her lower abdomen pressed hard against the coarse fabric of his breeches. She felt his manhood, hard, thick, and pulsing. Deep in her mind she knew that she should stop, that she was near the edge, that if there was any way to end this madness, she had little time before ‘twould be too late.
“You be the most bewitching woman in all of Wales,” he admitted as his mouth moved anxiously against hers. His lips were hard, his tongue wet and teasing, the stubble of his beard rough. Tara met his passion eagerly. His hands slid over her body, the fingers trailing heat. Her blood thundered, and she sensed that he removed the last barrier between them. He kicked off his breeches and spread her knees with his own.
Deep inside she throbbed.
He gazed down at her.
Desire pulsed hot, wild. He was so close to her, the shaft of his manhood only inches from her most intimate of places.
With one hand he reached up and molded her breast, then slowly pulled his fingers down the ladder of her ribs to her waist. “ ‘Tis beautiful you are,” he said, fingering the cord that held the ring against her. “So damnably beautiful.”
She quivered. Swallowed hard. He played with the ring and the cold stone grazed her flushed skin. She thought for a second that he might try to remove her treasure, but he kissed her lips and his hand moved to the nest of curls between her legs. Her hips lifted in response and he cupped her buttocks in his hands. Tingling sensations swept upward. The cold air blew across her bare skin.
