by Lisa Jackson
Morgana, too, left the growing light of the fire and found a path through the thicket of saplings guarding a creek. Ferns and vines grew along the bank, and the air smelled dank in the coming darkness. She washed the dirt from her face and hands and was still kneeling near the shore when she felt the first tickle of the wind against the back of her neck. Like an icy finger the breeze stirred the leaves overhead and touched her skin, causing gooseflesh to rise on her arms.
“Please,” she whispered desperately, squeezing her eyes shut as she instinctively turned to face the current of air. Water dripped from her hands. “Tell me of Logan.”
She strained to listen, but heard only the rustle of leaves, the flapping wings of an early-rising bat, and the soft, steady gurgle of water splashing over stone.
“Help me!” she whispered again, her wet fists clenching in frustration. “Give me a sign.”
A low moan of air streaming through the undergrowth was the only sound that reached her ears. The voice, stubborn old thing, had decided to fall silent again. Morgana ground her teeth in frustration. What was she supposed to do? Garrick wanted her to help him by using her powers, but so far her gift seemed able only to play games with her and tie her insides into knots.
With a sigh she opened her eyes. “Stupid voice,” she grumbled, kicking at a stone. “Go ahead, be obstinate, but I don’t know how I am to find the fierce one’s son without your help” When the wind didn’t answer, she added, “You started this, you know. Telling me of some danger to the north! Ha!”
She sank to her knees again and finished washing, unaware that Garrick was standing in the undergrowth not ten feet from her, observing her with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. Morgana rose and walked to a wet spot of earth, where she knelt down, and with the sharp blade of her dagger began one of her nonsensical drawings, taking painstaking care as she worked.
“What is that?” Garrick asked. She started in surprise, raising her large eyes until their gazes touched. Staring into her night-darkened eyes, Garrick felt his abdomen shove hard against his lungs. She was beautiful. Even in the dusk, her eyes shone a verdant green, her hair fell around her face in tousled disarray, and her mouth, pinched at the corners, was a succulent pink blossom.
Without answering, she turned her attention back to her scratches in the dirt, completing the sketch. “This is a rune for safety — ours as well as Logan’s.” He snorted and stepped forward. The toe of his boot nearly touched her work. Craning her neck, she stared up at him again, and this time her tunic gaped open, allowing him a quick glance at her breasts, round and full. “You asked for my help, remember?”
He forced his gaze away from the view of her flesh. “And you think some lines in the mud will ward off our enemies?”
“I don’t think they will hurt.” She tossed her head, and once again, his gaze shifted and he was captivated by the fullness of her breasts. Firm, white, and supple, they swung free. Beneath his breeches he grew hard, and it was all he could do to pretend that nothing was amiss, that the ache in his loins wasn’t so hot and straining that he wanted nothing more than to throw her onto her back, rip off her clothes, and plunge into that magic between her legs. The mossy bank would do for a bed, and their bodies would mesh intimately together. Over the thunder of his heartbeat and the hiss of her breath, he would listen to the cool trickle of water and the hoot of owls while he was joining with her, feeling her velvet warmth surround him, pushing deep inside her, hearing her pant and moan while he tasted those sweet and perfect breasts.
He swallowed hard, using all his willpower to stave off the fire running rampant through his bloodstream. She was promised to Strahan — promised by his own traitorous tongue.
Morgana seemed to notice the change in him. As the night deepened around them, lengthening the purple shadows and closing about them like a private cloak, she stood still. The glow from a half-moon pierced the canopy of leaves overheard and shone in her eyes. She glanced down to the bulge at his crotch, looked away.
He swallowed hard, hearing the muted sounds of insects. He and Morgana were not touching, but they were standing so close they could have embraced each other if either had reached out. The air seemed to crackle with unspoken emotions. Garrick burned for her. She inhaled unsteadily, and he stifled a groan, yet neither he nor she was able to take the first step.
“We — we should get back,” she said, but made no move away from the creek.
“Not yet.”
“But I…” She let out a whispering breath, and her eyes begged for the truth. “What is it you want from me?”
He wanted to lie, to say that she held no fascination for him, but he wasn’t a man who dealt in untruths. “I want you,” he said simply, and it seemed as if all the sounds of the night disappeared. He heard her quick intake of breath, noticed the widening of her eyes, watched her glorious breasts rise as she gasped in surprise at the boldness of his words. Oh, if he could touch her.
“You’ve betrothed me to your cousin.”
“Aye, and I was a fool to do it,” he said, cursing loudly as he threw back his head and stared up at the pale moon. “Have you bewitched me, Morgana? Is one of those drawings in the ground a plea to God to torment me? Because that’s what you’ve done. I tried to get away from you, to come on this journey alone, because I knew I couldn’t … wouldn’t be able to restrain myself.”
He turned back to her, and she looked so lovely in the starlight, so innocent and pure, that he damned his wicked thoughts of taking her right then and there. By rights he could do so. He was the baron. He could force himself upon her despite her protests. He could claim her in that most primitive of ways. But he had never taken a woman by savage means, and he was certain that Morgana wouldn’t fight him. No, she would willingly lie with him just to rid herself of the shackles of marriage to Strahan. He could see it in her eyes — a flicker of something akin to desire. So why not?
He reached forward slowly. Twining his fingers in that thick mane of black hair, he drew her head back. She didn’t protest. He sampled further, pressing his lips against the curve of her throat. Her skin was cool, and she quivered. From fear or passion? Or both?
The hardness beneath his breeches strained to life. Slowly, he licked her throat, starting at her jaw and moving with deliberation, tasting every inch of her, his tongue sliding down the satin smoothness of her skin to the fragile circle of bones at her throat, her pulse jumping wildly within that delicate ring.
“You want me, too,” he said in a voice raw with lust. His tongue dipped lower, past the neckline of her tunic, near the ribbon that laced her bodice together.
“I — I want no man,” she whispered, but he didn’t believe her. His knees buckled, and he dragged her to the damp earth with him.
She didn’t protest, and he kissed her, long and full on the mouth, feeling her open to him as a flower might open to the sun. His tongue rimmed her teeth and found its mate, glorying in the sweet, soft pleasure of her mouth.
Slowly he untied the ribbon that held her tunic together, exposing more of her skin. He kissed her lips again, and when the fabric gaped he moved lower, his lips teasing and tasting as he slid against her body, letting her feel the need that was hot and hard between his legs.
“’Tis wrong,” she whispered, though she didn’t resist, but seemed to yield even more to the gentle pleasure of his body against hers. Her eyelids fluttered down, and she gave herself to him, body and soul. As surely as the wind rustled in the leaves overhead, she let go of her doubts.
He closed his eyes, bent on releasing her, but he couldn’t stop himself. The smell and feel and taste of her were too inviting. He pressed his face against her soft flesh and kissed the top of each rounded breast.
She moaned low in her throat and arched a bit, though her hands had moved to his shoulders and her fingers dug into the muscles of his arms.
“Garrick, please,” she cried as he slipped the tunic off her shoulder and her breast, bou
nd only by her chemise, spilled into the night, white and full, peaked with a round button of darker skin that begged him to kiss her, to taste of her, to suckle like a newborn babe. He kissed her through the soft fabric, his tongue wetting the lace, and she quivered in his arms, growing warm and impatient.
“So you do want me?” he said in wonder, and when she didn’t deny her desire, he kissed her again, his lips melding with hers while one hand found her breast, touching the nubile flesh, teasing her nipple to a proud point that begged him to suckle again.
“M’lord?” a voice remotely familiar in Garrick’s dazed mind, called through the trees and cut into his fevered thoughts. His desire cooled instantly, and he scrambled to his feet.
“Get up,” he ordered, through tightly clenched teeth. He yanked her to her feet and helped her smooth the wrinkles from her tunic.
“Lord Garrick?” The voice inquired again. Hunter’s voice, Garrick now realized.
“Over here, near the stream,” Garrick yelled, straightening his clothes and feeling a deep flush burn its way up his neck.
With a crashing of branches Hunter joined them and came up short when he saw Morgana. “Oh, I … uh, I didn’t mean to disturb—”
“You disturbed naught. Morgana was just showing me what her sketches in the earth mean.”
Hunter’s gaze dropped to the smudged rune, only partially visible in the darkness, but he didn’t comment on it. Nor did he say anything about the untied ribbon at Morgana’s neckline or the glimpse of breast he no doubt caught. But he seemed disappointed. “Just letting you know that Giles is opening the mead and Fulton’s killed a buck. We’ll be eating well tonight.” Then, as if he knew he was intruding, Hunter returned down the path from which he’d come.
“Come,” Garrick said, nettled at the intrusion and wishing to God that his desire for Morgana would just go away. “Our absence will be noticed.”
“And that bothers you?” she asked.
“Among other things.” He looked meaningfully at her partly exposed breasts and felt a little pang of pleasure at her response. Her mouth grew round, and she had the good grace to seem embarrassed as her fingers fumbled with the ties. He pointed impatiently at the ground. “I don’t see that your sketches are doing anything to help us find Logan.”
“And nearly bedding me did?” she threw back, unable to hold her tongue. Brushing a twig from her hair, she glared at him, waiting for a response.
His jaw grew hard. “Why do you mock me?”
“Because you mock me. Do not make light of my gift just because you are as angry as a boar that wants to rut and cannot. I’m only trying to help you, m’lord, and the way I see it, we need all the help we can get, be it from God himself or from magic.”
“You talk in circles!” Garrick scowled darkly. In truth it wasn’t the silly lines in the dirt that bothered him; it was the woman. He couldn’t get her out of his mind, or his heart. He wanted her, and he’d nearly taken her right here and now. He was a man who was used to taking what he wanted. The fact that she felt desire for him only made self-restraint more intolerable. Even now, seeing the embers of anger in her sea green eyes caused his gut to tighten. His gaze dropped from her face to the swell of her breasts and the curve of his waist. He imagined what it would feel like to span that small waist with his hands and plunge into her velvet warmth. Closing his mind to such willful and sinfully luscious thoughts, he grabbed her hand and drew her roughly through the trees and into the circle of reddish light cast by the fire. He couldn’t consider her charms. He had to concentrate on finding his son.
Morgana yanked her hand away from his touch and held her head at a defiant angle as she half ran to keep up with his long strides, but Garrick tried to take no notice of her. God’s teeth, she was more trouble than he’d bargained for when he rode to Wenlock to fetch her for Strahan’s bride.
That thought curdled like bad milk in his stomach. Strahan’s bride indeed! Christ, he was a fool.
Garrick tried to hide his irritation with Morgana. Already some of the men were gathered about the fire, sampling the mead, joking together, their stomachs growling as the buck roasted and sizzled over the coals. A few of the braver soldiers cast knowing glances toward Garrick, but no one commented on his whereabouts. Only Randolph seemed to smirk at Morgana, while Hunter, obviously embarrassed, avoided her gaze. No doubt the poor knight, too, had fallen for her charms, though seeing her half-undressed while she was alone with Garrick had probably destroyed his fantasies about having her for himself. Even if Hunter’s lips remained sealed, word would no doubt get back to Strahan that Garrick had been found with her and she’d been half-undressed. Damn and double damn. Garrick shoved the hair from his eyes and only hoped to talk to his cousin first. Obviously Strahan wouldn’t marry Morgana now. Bah, what a mess! True, she was still a virgin, or so she seemed, but she’d been willing, willing to give her virginity to him.
He poured himself a cup of mead. Somehow he’d find a way to appease his cousin while allowing Morgana her freedom. That settled in his mind, he turned his thoughts to the present. If he could keep his breeches on and his desire at a level he could control, he could concentrate on finding Logan. Lifting the cup, he swallowed a long draft of the warm mead and felt the familiar heat that inflamed the back of his throat and scorched a path all the way to his belly. He would drown himself in mead, if need be.
The witch and her sorcery be damned!
Garrick didn’t touch her again. In fact, he barely spoke a word to her or acknowledged her the next day. He drove the small company without respite, and by nightfall the men were grumbling among themselves and the horses were lathered, muddy, and dead tired.
Morgana tended to Luck, offering him an extra handful of grain, which the stallion munched greedily, his thick lips brushing her palm for every last kernel. She brushed him long and hard, content to tend to the animal rather than join the men. Never had she felt more alone — a single woman among men with blood in their hearts.
“You’re a good one,” she told Luck, fondly patting his muscular shoulders. The horse nickered softly, and Morgana smiled for the first time that day. The night was warmer than last, and the first stars were beginning to wink above the trees. Clouds drifted lazily across the sky. “Aye, better than any other destrier or palfrey bred in that wretched Abergwynn,” she added, enjoying her scathing comment about Garrick’s home. She threw the brush she’d been using into an empty pail. It clattered against the metal, startling some of the horses. “Damn Abergwynn,” Morgana swore.
At the mention of Garrick’s castle, the wind picked up, dancing featherlight and ice cold through her hair despite the mild night.
Morgana shivered and heard the lonesome cry of a wolf. Was it an omen — her thoughts of Abergwynn and the response of nature? Or was she imagining things, putting too much belief in the magic everyone else assumed flowed through her veins? She thought she heard the crack of a whip and the sharp cry of a soul in torment, but when she stood perfectly still, she heard nothing other than the swish of horses’ tails, a soft nicker now and again, and the muted laughter of the men drinking at the fire.
They’d camped in a glen where the hills gently sloped down to the valley floor. Some of the men were becoming disenchanted with Garrick’s quest. She’d heard the murmurs and whispers behind his back, and yet no one dared broach the subject that wasn’t far from anyone’s mind: how long would they be asked to follow a trail that was colder than a dead fish — if there was any trail to follow at all? More and more the men were beginning to believe Will Farmer to be a fool who had risked Garrick’s wrath for a few silver coins and a horse that the witch had easily stolen from him. Sir Randolph muttered that they were on a fool’s mission, and Sir Henry only shook his head sadly, as if he felt concerned for his baron’s state of mind.
She ate alone, barely tasting the leftover venison before she slipped between the furs of her makeshift bed. She was tired, her bones and muscles ached, and sh
e welcomed sleep, since she’d spent the previous night remembering Garrick’s embrace, seeing it over and over in her mind. She’d tossed and turned for hours, her body on fire. Deep inside, she ached, feeling an emptiness she’d never known existed.
But tonight she’d have no more of those wickedly wanton thoughts. No, by all that was holy, she’d sleep and keep her mind pure, she told herself. But try as she might, her mind continually strayed to Garrick. She knew he had taken the first watch again and wasn’t yet sleeping. Though she’d spread her blankets far from the fire, beneath the protective branches of a willow tree, she felt as if Garrick were staring at her.
Eventually all the men had rolled themselves in their robes and settled down near the fire. Snores and groans replaced their loud jokes and hearty laughter. The campfire burned steadily as one or two of Garrick’s men stood guard.
Morgana, from sheer exhaustion, fell into fitful slumber, her mind not yet settled, though her body craved sleep. She tossed and turned as images filled her brain — vivid and dark pictures that would not let her rest. Golden silk rippled beneath the surface of moving water, and a small child’s cry echoed through her dreams. Morgana chased after the boy’s screams. She ran through a blackened forest, and her feet caught on the gnarled roots of ancient oak trees. Hoisting her skirt so that she could run faster, she nearly stumbled, and the trail gave way to a wildly thrashing river where gold streamers floated beneath the surface like gilded eels. She heard the boy and caught a glimpse of him on the far shore. But in gazing at the boy, she caught sight of the countryside beyond him, where Castle Abergwynn, charred and skeletal, stood, its banner no longer showing the colors of the House of Maginnis. A new flag snapped loudly, waving bright colors against a steel-colored sky. Blood red, the banner bore the emblem of a black sword and triangle pointing toward the center of the earth, as if it could burrow straight to hell. Morgana screamed and tried to run. Despite the symbol of death on the flag, she plunged into the icy depths of the river and tried to reach the boy. Strips of gold silk knotted around her wrists and ankles, pulling her down beneath the surface. Her lungs burned for air. She struggled against the gold ribbons that wound tighter and tighter, like a fisherman’s net, as she tried to reach Logan. Her head broke the surface and she gulped air, screaming to the child. “Logan!” she cried, hoping her voice wasn’t drowned by the rush of water and praying that he could hear her as the golden cords drew her down to the black bottom of the river.
