Enchantress

by Lisa Jackson

  “My marriage to Sir Strahan will not bring back your boy.”

  “You insult me and my castle.”

  “As you’ve insulted me by keeping me prisoner!”

  “Why can you not accept your fate?”

  “For the same reason that you cannot accept yours!”

  His hands opened and closed in frustration. “You try my patience, woman.”

  “As you try mine, m’lord,” she tossed back, her green eyes flashing with emerald fire.

  Without another word, he grabbed her hand and yanked her to him, drawing his face so close to hers that his breath, hot and smelling faintly of ale, fanned her skin. “We have a bargain, m’lady, and I’m holding up my end. Now you must honor yours. As for marrying Strahan, you should consider yourself very fortunate. Many a lady would love to be his bride.”

  “Then find him someone else,” she retorted, trying not to notice the hands binding her and the silvery sheen to his eyes.

  “Should I break my promise to your father? I’ve already left him some of my best men, and your sister and brother will be at Abergwynn soon. I promise to do Wenlock no harm, as long as you fulfill your obligation.”

  “As I said, I’ll willingly try to find your boy.”

  “And you’ll marry Strahan. I’ll hear no more about it.”

  “Does he still want me? I did, after all, sleep with his lord,” she jeered.

  “I touched you not! Besides, Strahan trusts me,” Garrick stated, the back of his neck staining red, his eyes glittering with a deadly fire. “I doubt you would lie about your virtue to Strahan, so don’t threaten me.”

  It was all Morgana could do to keep from kicking the blackheart as he grabbed her elbow and propelled her toward the stairs. The sounds of merriment and music already drifted up the staircase, but at the top of the circular steps, Garrick paused, his mouth compressed. At the landing, his gaze swept her face, and his eyes narrowed as he studied her for what seemed forever. Then, cursing under his breath, he turned her back the way they had come, his long strides eating up the corridor as Morgana’s skirts swept the floor. “What’re you doing?” she demanded, suddenly frightened. Did he mean to punish her?

  “Before we join the others, you must visit Logan’s room,” he said, deciding that the guests would wait. He was impatient and did not care much for festivities to begin with. The sorceress was here for a single purpose, and there was no reason not to start. She struggled against him, pulling back, as she was forced to half run to keep up with him.

  At the door of his own chamber, he growled at the guard, “We are not to be disturbed,” and Morgana’s face turned ashen.

  Silly girl. Did she think that he was ruthless enough to have his way with her now, in this very castle where her intended was waiting, to rob her of her virginity, then pack her neatly into the arms of Strahan? The thought made him smile, for though he loved his cousin, he also loved to best him, for Strahan was forever competing against him — in the hunt, at tournaments, even in battle. As boys, Strahan had always been triumphant, winning every bet and race. However, as Garrick had grown older, he’d become stronger than Strahan, taken more chances, been more daring. He’d also grown taller than his cousin by a few inches and had become more agile, his reactions quicker, much to Strahan’s disgust.

  Now, as Garrick stared down at Morgana, whose razor-like tongue, for once, was frozen in fear, he couldn’t contain his amusement. He touched the side of her face gently when he saw her eyes stray to the curtained bed he’d shared with Astrid.

  Astrid, with her red-gold hair and amber eyes, the one woman who had captured his black heart and turned him away from a life of wenching and warring. The only woman he would ever love, the mother of his child. His heart wrenched painfully when he thought of the plans he and Astrid had made, the delight they’d taken in the coming of the baby, and then the shocking tragedy of Astrid’s death on the night Logan was born. Clearing his throat, he caught Morgana staring at him, as if she could see into the depths of his soul.

  “His things are here,” he said gruffly, walking to a large antechamber where Logan’s clothes still lay folded neatly, his few toys placed on shelves near his felt boots.

  Morgana, insides churning, followed Garrick, then reached forward and touched the tiny shirts and breeches, her fingers running over the rough fabric as she tried to concentrate. She touched the boy’s toys — a tiny bow, some arrows without heads, a wooden horse and knight, a small castle carved of wood. But as her fingers grazed Logan’s belongings, she felt nothing of the lad, no current of life passing through the objects of Logan’s affection. Oh, Lord, was the boy truly dead? If so, how would Garrick survive the loss of his child?

  A lump settled in her throat, and her eyes grew moist.

  Garrick’s gaze was fastened to her back; she could feel its weight against her neck. She closed her eyes, willing some vision of the boy to appear, but knew that the effort was useless. No life force lingered in the dark closet.

  “Well?” Garrick demanded.

  “I — I cannot hear or see anything.”

  “Why not?” he asked, and when she turned to face him she read the scorn on his face — scorn that hid a dozen deeper emotions.

  If only she could ease his pain. Though she felt no fondness for this man who would destroy everything she loved at Wenlock, she could not bear to see him in agony. “It takes time,” she whispered, closing her ears to the lie. Giving him false hope was no better than inventing a falsehood. She swallowed against the thickness in her throat. “May I take his shirt?”

  He seemed about to question her, but motioned impatiently instead. “Take everything. His clothes and toys are without meaning to me.”

  She reached for a shirt that was soft and felt as if it had been worn often, perhaps loved, and also took a tiny pair of soft boots. Tucking the items under her arm, she followed Garrick back to the main chamber where the baron slept. The room was larger than her father and mother’s chamber at Tower Wenlock, and the stone walls were painted white and covered with tapestries in rich hues of green, gold, and scarlet. The rushes on the floor were piled thick and smelled of roses and cowslip. The hearth, opposite the bed, was built into the wall, and was tall enough for a man to walk beneath its stone arch. Great andirons held spilt wood ready to be lit for the evening fire.

  Castle Abergwynn was a keep fit for a king, she thought, and yet the man who was its monarch was unhappy and lonely. She sensed much pain in this room.

  Suddenly aware of her thoughts, she looked up and found Garrick staring at her, his countenance thoughtful, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression no longer harsh, he was almost handsome in a savage way. His features were bold but even, his lips thin and sensual. His eyes a flinty gray, bored into hers in such an intimate manner that her silly heart skipped a beat.

  She couldn’t help swallowing, not from fear but from a restlessness she felt deep within her heart and soul. The silvery sheen of his eyes and the firm set of his jaw caused a lightness in her head, and her breath came in shortened bursts. “There was someone with the boy when he was last seen,” she said, as much to break the awkward silence between them as to find an answer.

  “Aye. His nurse, Jocelyn.”

  “She has not returned?”

  “She was with Logan that day and disappeared with him,” Garrick said, his brow furrowing again. “Come.” He again took her arm, but this time his grip was less punishing, his expression far from angry. She felt the warmth of his fingertips, but no longer sensed fury flowing through his blood as he guided her through the antechamber to a small room that held two beds. “This was Logan’s chamber,” he explained, motioning to the smaller bed. “The boy slept there.” Morgana felt a chill in the room, as if a cold breeze off the sea had stolen in through the cracks in the castle walls and settled here in this empty chamber. Her skin prickled slightly as she approached the larger bed.

  “Jocelyn slept there. C
lose by, in case the boy needed anything,” Garrick explained.

  “She was fond of Logan?” Morgana asked.

  Garrick nodded, his eyes still trained on his son’s empty bed. “I would not entrust my son’s safety and upbringing to anyone else. Jocelyn, though only a maid, had been with my wife since she was a child. They had grown up together, and Jocelyn was Astrid’s choice of a servant when we were wed. Jocelyn grieved sorely when my wife died. She would not have harmed the boy. She loved Logan as if he were her own.” His voice had grown quiet.

  Morgana closed her eyes for a second and felt the icy breath of death against her face. She lifted the coverlet of Jocelyn’s bed and shivered from deep within.

  “You’ve seen something,” Garrick guessed when Morgana’s eyes flew open and she dropped the fur blanket.

  “No … no vision,” she admitted, though something wasn’t right here. Something within these cold stone walls was very, very wrong.

  Morgana’s heart thumped with fear, and her footsteps faltered as she crossed the short distance to Logan’s bed, afraid of what she might feel as she touched the furs that were piled upon the feather mattress. Again the frigid cold swept through her, chilling her skin from the inside.

  “What is it?” Garrick demanded. His eyes had become intense, as if he, too, felt the icy hand of death.

  “’Tis nothing. Just a coldness. As if something … wrong … something evil … has happened,” she said, her voice shaking.

  He crossed the room and grabbed her shoulders. “By the blood of Christ, tell me what you’ve seen! Is my boy alive?”

  “I’ve seen nothing!” Morgana assured him. “’Tis but a feeling I have that something is wrong. Very wrong.”

  His lips flattened, and he cursed the fates. “God’s teeth, Morgana, I know something is wrong. My boy is missing. The maid is missing. But what I do not know is what happened to them. Tell me!”

  “Would that I could!”

  “Yet you suddenly fear for my son’s life,” Garrick surmised. “I see it in your eyes.”

  She rubbed her arms, trying to warm her cold skin. “I’m afraid that someone has betrayed you.”

  A sharp rap sounded upon the oaken door of Garrick’s chamber. “M’lord?” the sentry called through the heavy wood, and Garrick crossed through the anteroom to fling the door open. Morgana followed him and watched as the guard and Garrick exchanged words.

  As the sentry left, Garrick held out his hand to Morgana. “Come. We will finish this later,” he said, his gaze resting for a second on hers. “But make no mistake, we will finish it. Now ’tis time we went downstairs.” He wrapped his strong fingers familiarly around her smaller hand, and his eyes darkened with an unnamed emotion that was but a shadow passing quickly from his gaze. He tried to smile, but the grin faltered and for a second Morgana’s breath felt trapped in her throat. With a strange premonition she knew that Garrick was about to lower his head and touch his lips to hers. A strange, not unwanted, anticipation stole into her heart, causing it to beat as quickly as the wings of a dove.

  The seconds dragged out until a quiet cough caught Morgana’s attention, stealing her gaze from the enchantment of Garrick’s face.

  “Morgana!” a low male voice exclaimed as Strahan of Hazelwood entered Garrick’s chamber. He stood nearly as tall as Garrick, and above a hawkish nose his dark eyes moved from Morgana to Garrick and back again.

  Morgana stiffened at the sound of his voice and tilted her chin upward. “Sir Strahan,” she said, though her stomach roiled at the thought of this man as her husband. His skin was smooth, his stature that of a knight. He did nothing to offend her, and in a dark way he was handsome, yet the frigid current in the depths of his eyes curdled the contents of her stomach.

  “What keeps you?” Strahan asked. “’Tis time we went downstairs and announced our betrothal.” He glanced meaningfully at his cousin.

  “We will be but a moment, Strahan,” Garrick assured him. “Morgana was trying to help me find Logan.”

  “In your chamber?”

  One corner of Garrick’s mouth lifted. “Wherever need be.”

  Strahan’s lips became a thin, unbending line. “Lady Clare awaits you.”

  “We will be but a minute more,” Garrick said, dismissing his cousin.

  Strahan, his anger barely reined in, nodded stiffly, turned on a booted heel, and strode out of the room.

  Shoving his hair from his eyes, Garrick wondered why he felt the need to bait Strahan. His cousin had every right to be offended to find his wife-to-be in another man’s bedchamber, especially since Garrick had been about to kiss her. Yea, and if he were truthful with himself he’d been bedeviled by thoughts of Morgana night and day, lustful thoughts that kept him awake and caused him to be surly during the daylight hours.

  He’d been gruff with his men, barked orders, and expected excellence on the most mundane of tasks, all because of this woman and how she’d turned his head about.

  Not since Astrid had he wanted a woman so fiercely. He thought about his wife and mourned her yet again. Why was he lusting after another man’s intended?

  He slid a glance at Morgana and found green eyes that held mystery and promise. If nothing else, Morgana of Wenlock was a free spirit, a woman who could enchant a man with a wistful look or flay his pride to ribbons with her whiplike tongue.

  “Come,” he said, pulling on her hand and following after his cousin. “Strahan is right. ’Tis time you took your place by his side.”

  “I’ll not—”

  “Don’t argue with me, woman,” he growled, angrier at himself than at her protest.

  She yanked back her hand and glared up at him. “You would not so easily accept marriage to one you distrusted, m’lord.”

  “I would do as my king asked.”

  “Then pray that Edward is a kind man who will not ask you to marry an ugly, barren Scottish lady who would hate the very sight of you and would rather slit your throat than lie with you.”

  He grabbed her then and forced her up against the wall. “Perhaps you’d best send up a prayer of thanks that you are to marry Strahan and not me, for I swear that if I were wed to a woman whose tongue was as cutting as a butcher’s blade, I’d find a way to tame her!”

  “What if she would not be tamed?” Morgana asked, barely daring to breath, her back rigid against the stone wall. Her breasts were rising and falling, their peaks pushing against the cloth that separated his body from hers, and yet her breath came shallow and fast. She knew she was being willful and defiant, arguing with a baron much more powerful than her father, a man known for his black moods and vengeful ways, a lord who had the king’s ear, and yet she could not stop the challenging words from spewing from her mouth.

  “I would find a way,” Garrick insisted, his body pressed hard against hers. “Now, no more arguments.” Taking her roughly by the elbow, he again started for the stairs. “Come,” he whispered as his breath caressed the shell of her ear. “Your beloved awaits.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Remember,” Garrick muttered to Morgana as they started down the stairs, “everyone here knows you claim to be a sorceress—”

  “I made no such claim!”

  “—so be on your best behavior.” He cast her a look then a kinder glance than any he’d offered her so far. The hint of a smile flashed against his dark skin, and Morgana caught a glimpse of the man he’d been before tragedy had robbed him of all that he held dear. She wondered what Maginnis would have been like if his wife had not died and his child had not vanished. She couldn’t help but think that buried deep behind his fierce exterior was a gentler, more thoughtful man.

  As they climbed down the stairs, Garrick’s touch was warm. The hand on her elbow seemed possessive, though she knew she was imagining that thought, just as she had imagined that he wanted to kiss her in his chamber. He was guiding her to her betrothed. And to her doom.

  In the great hall bustling serv
ants carried trays laden with cups of ale and wine. Musicians played their lutes and pipes, and pages attended the raised table where household members and honored guests were already seated, drinking wine and talking among themselves. Morgana caught Strahan’s eye as he lifted his cup, then drank slowly, his throat working. His gaze, over the rim of the cup, was almost mocking as he stared at her.

  Morgana resisted the urge to flee — not that she could have with Garrick’s firm grip on her arm. She tossed back her hair and took in the surroundings, purposely avoiding Strahan’s smoldering gaze.

  Garrick introduced her to his sister, a tall, regally built woman with large gray eyes that seemed to stare into Morgana’s very soul. Her tunic was gold brocade, and an elegant necklace of emeralds encircled her long neck. Clare’s smile was warm, and though she cast her brother a look of disapproval that Morgana didn’t understand, the smile she offered Morgana seemed genuine. There was a pride in Clare’s bearing, and Morgana guessed that though Garrick was lord of the manor, his sister ran the household.

  Garrick’s younger brother, Ware, was seated beside Clare. A striking boy with black hair and eyes the color of the sea, he blushed when he was introduced to Morgana, and from the stubborn set of his mouth, she guessed that he and Garrick were often on opposite sides in an argument. Ware’s eyes lingered a little too long on the swell of Morgana’s breasts before he forced his gaze back to the musicians at the far end of the hall in the minstrel gallery high over the screens separating the corridor from the great room. Music rose with smoke and laughter to the lofty ceiling and everyone, save Garrick and Morgana, seemed in a festive mood.