by Lisa Jackson
“I’ve seen your justice, m’lord. A boy who openly thwarts you is forced to clean the stables; a brother who disagrees with you is left to guard the castle; a cousin who makes the silly suggestion that you search out a witch to help you find your son is given that very witch as a bride and a large parcel of land as a reward. Even the silversmith who is accused of killing a buck in your forest is allowed to keep the meat and has to pay a fine of two silver cups. Aye,” she mocked, “your brand of justice does not frighten me.”
His eyes searched her face. “You have no fear of me? Am I not the death of all that is Tower Wenlock?” His voice was softly mocking, the hands on her arms tightening ever so slightly. Morgana couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her gaze centered on his lower lip — so close. “Am I not the danger from the north?”
“A — aye,” she whispered, her blood stirring. She watched as a crooked smile twisted that slender lip.
“But you would taunt me?”
“Nay … just tell you how I feel,” she said. Forcing her eyes upward, she met the sizzle in his gaze with difficulty.
“How do you feel?”
“Frightened for Abergwynn and Wenlock, but not … not frightened of you.”
Noticing the lines of strain near the corners of his eyes, she watched as one of his thick eyebrows arched. A strong man, a powerful man, a man used to taking what he wanted, he was nearly felled by the loss of his son.
“I could destroy all that you hold dear,” he said as a nighthawk circled overhead.
“Aye. But you will not.”
“I’m not a good man, Morgana.”
“No?” She touched the side of his face with the palm of her hand. “Then why am I not frightened of you? Why do I sense this great hurt you bear? Why do I feel that you are not the beast I first thought you were?”
“Because you’re a foolish woman!” He jerked his head away from her touch, yet he restrained her still, flexing his hands in his anger against her arms.
“Nay. I think not,” she argued. “I think you’re a kinder man than you pretend to be.”
Unmoving, his eyes dark with the night, he stared down at her. Her breath was lost, her heart pounding an irregular beat as she tilted her face upward and the wind tangled her hair, blowing some of the dark curls in front of her face.
“You’ve turned my thinking all ’round, Morgana of Wenlock.” He lowered his gaze from her eyes to her mouth, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from moistening her lips.
His jaw tightened, and he drew her swiftly against him. Her breasts were suddenly crushed against the wall of his chest, and his mouth captured hers. He groaned and pressed his tongue hard against her teeth, urging her lips apart so that he could plunder the wet velvet recesses of her mouth.
Morgana’s thoughts swirled crazily as he cupped her buttocks and held her abdomen against the hardness of his manhood. “I want you, Morgana. As no man should want a woman, I want you. Is this some magic, you’ve cast upon me?”
“Nay, Garrick, I—”
His lips crushed hers, tearing the breath from her lungs, robbing her of any thought of protest. She felt the sweet pressure of his hand against the small of her back, forcing her to feel him, all of him, muscle to muscle, flesh to flesh.
One hand caught in her hair, and he raked his fingers through the long black strands, gently forcing her head back so that he could caress the arched column of her throat. His lips and tongue were wet and hot against her skin, and the female beast within her, a fiery but long dormant creature, began to yawn and stretch, sending flames of lust through her veins. Her blood pounded, and her skin quivered as his mouth delved lower still to the neck of her tunic.
Her breasts began to ache, and her nipples hardened in expectation. Slowly, with his weight, he drew her to the ground. His mouth found hers again, and one hand cupped her throat, gently touching the pulse, causing the female beast within her to break free. As the creature moved inside her, it created a deep, hot void. Morgana arched upward, silently begging for more of the bittersweet rapture of his touch.
Garrick complied, drawing her tunic over her shoulder and kissing her exposed skin. He groaned against her, and again she bucked upward. “You are so willing?” he rasped as a large hand scaled her ribs, one at a time.
“I want — Ooh.”
His hand cupped her breast, feeling its weight, rubbing the soft fabric of her tunic over her taut nipple. “Tell me what you want,” he said, but before she could answer, he stretched out beside her, and covered her breasts with his mouth. His tongue, held at bay by her clothes, sought to taste and stroke her. He groaned, and his muscles strained. The fabric of her tunic became wet and hot. Damp fibers grazed her nipple until she cried out with frustrated desire.
He didn’t waste any time, but stripped her of the clothing and lay atop her. “Ahh, woman,” he whispered in awe as he stared down at her breasts. She wanted to cover up, but didn’t move as his eyes roved across the firm white skin with only a few veins showing through. Her nipples rose proudly — small, hard buds that puckered beneath his stare. He touched her tenderly, almost reverently, massaging her breasts while still dressed, he straddled her. “You are Strahan’s woman,” he whispered, in a tormented voice that trembled. His entire body shook, and she knew that he was fighting a losing battle with desire.
“I’m no man’s woman.”
“But I promised—”
“Tonight I am my own woman,” she said boldly and rose upward, clasping a hand behind his neck, feeling the brush of his hair against her knuckles.
With a groan of surrender, he slid down her body, his legs still surrounding her, lowering his head until his mouth found her naked breasts. His tongue darted forward, flicking her nipple, and she arched upward again, wanting more … so much more. Lying with him was dangerous, she knew, but she couldn’t stop herself. His breath was a fan to the already rampant fire of her desire. He suckled at her breast hungrily, like a starved babe. Again she cried out, closing her eyes against the stars shooting across the sky. He massaged her rump with one hand, holding her close to him so that his hardness, through his breeches, was pressed deep into the yielding flesh of her abdomen. Desire flowed through her veins to moisten the cleft between her legs. She could feel her female parts, awakened as they were.
He lowered himself further, his tongue darting in and out of her navel, his fingers creating a sweet magic against her buttocks. She gasped as he prodded her legs apart and probed deep into her womanhood. Her eyes flew open, and she stared up at him as he touched her. His eyes were glazed, and sweat collected on his upper lip. “Stop me,” he whispered, but her hands found the hem of his shirt. His gaze was tortured, but his eyes burned with a desire so hot that she knew he was fighting vainly against his passion. “You’re a virgin.”
“Aye,” she murmured, her voice a faint whisper.
“You should save yourself—”
“Aye.” But she pulled his lips back to hers and kissed him like a wanton, her tongue seeking his. He growled deep in his throat and then returned her kiss with a hunger so raw that he shook. He yanked off his clothes, ripping seams as he made himself naked, his muscles gleaming in the moonglow.
She had never seen a naked man before, and the sight of him was an aphrodisiac. Sinewy muscles, some bearing scars, moved fluidly, his eyes glittered with unbridled passion, and an animal musk scented the air. He straddled her briefly and she saw his manhood, hard and erect, as he poised himself over her.
He pressed her knees apart with his own and, after only a second’s hesitation, plunged deep into her waiting nest of moist black curls.
Pain knifed through her, and she cried out, her eyes flying open as her maidenhood was ruptured. Panic streamed through her blood, but Garrick held her close, folding his arms around her as she caught her breath. “It will hurt for you but a second, little one,” he said against her ear, and slowly the pain subsided.
He kissed her, moldi
ng his lips to hers as he began to move within her, slowly at first, until she began to respond, her hips catching his rhythm, her fingers digging into his shoulders. The heat within her swelled, and she closed her eyes against the pressure that was building deep inside her. This was Garrick, her foe, her lord, her lover. Her breathing was short and shallow, her mind spinning in circles that blurred the stars and moon.
An explosion, like the very earth shuddering, ripped through her, sending shooting stars into splintering fragments behind her eyelids. She felt him stiffen before throwing back his head and calling her name as he plunged into her one last time, spilled his seed, and collapsed upon her body.
“Morgana,” he whispered over and over again. “Morgana, Morgana…”
Instinctively she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in the sweat-dampened crook of his neck. He smelled of the earth and musk, and he held her as if he were afraid she would escape him. Great convulsions rocked her, and she felt warm and dreamy in his arms. It was as if all the elements had come to this very spot — earth, air, water, and fire — swirling about them, wrapping them in a protective shield.
“Morgana.” His breathing was ragged and hot. Propping himself up on his elbow, he gently pushed the tangled strands of her hair off her face. “Did I hurt you?”
She shook her head and couldn’t stop the smile that teased her lips. “Do I look wounded?”
“No, but you were a virgin…” His eyes darkened, and his voice was edged with torment.
“Aye.”
“And I took that virginity from you.”
“Nay, Garrick, I gave it to you.” She stared up at him honestly, with no hint of regret.
“But you are promised to Strahan.”
She felt the warm afterglow surround her like a cozy coverlet that would protect her. “You can change that, Garrick. You have but to say the word and I shall be free of Strahan.”
He stared at her, his pride hardening his expression. “I do not go back on my word.”
“But—”
“I will not, Morgana,” he said swiftly, and her heart cracked. “I hope you did not lie with me in an effort to persuade me to change my mind and break my vow to my cousin.”
“No, but—”
Again he caressed her face, but this time she rolled away, not wanting his hands or his glorious body to touch any part of her. She felt suddenly soiled and dirty. He’d lain with her and had no intention of ending the betrothal! “I trusted you!” she said, shivering and rubbing her arms. Her dignity shattered, she searched the ground for her clothes. What a fool she’d been — a silly, lovesick fool! Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she hurriedly pulled on her tunic.
Garrick watched her, his eyes troubled. “As I said before, I’m not a good man, Morgana. I lusted after you. I wanted you as I’ve never wanted a woman, even though you were forbidden.”
“By your own tongue!” she cried, discovering one of her boots and yanking it onto the wrong foot. “Curse it all!”
“This — this lovemaking — ’twas a mistake,” he said, and the words seemed to echo through the forest and pound in Morgana’s brain. She dropped the second boot. One of the slumbering horses, tethered near the camp, stamped a hoof and snorted while the creek gurgled and rushed nearby.
“A mistake,” she repeated dully, knowing that her betrothal to Strahan was sealed and that the love she’d felt stirring in her breast wasn’t returned. As her grandmother had predicted, she would become the bride of Hazelwood. Discovering the missing boot again, she pulled it on her foot, cramping her toes. Oh, she’d been a twit all right, a ninny, to think Garrick of Abergwynn could care for her.
He touched her lightly on the shoulder, but she drew away from him as if his very touch repulsed her.
“Morgana—”
She didn’t answer him, didn’t look over her shoulder. Tears washed from her eyes and clogged her throat. She heard him behind her as he struggled into his clothes, but still she stared away into the forest. Even when he grabbed her and spun her around, forcing her chin up with his fingers, she avoided his eyes.
“There is no other way,” he said.
“Of course not, Lord Garrick. ’Tis your way or no way,” she declared bitterly. She raked her gaze over his disheveled clothes and shook her head. “So I am to marry your cousin. What will he say when he discovers I’m not a virgin, I wonder? What will he do?”
Garrick winced.
So Garrick knew of Strahan’s cruel streak. And yet he would wed her to him! “Leave me alone, Garrick, and do not worry about tonight. ’Twas nothing.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “If I could change things—”
“You can, and yet you will not, because of some foolish sense of loyalty to your cousin. Let it lie, m’lord, for at least we now know where we stand with each other. And trust me, I will never breathe a word of this to anyone!”
Chapter Twenty
Abergwynn is lost, Abergwynn is lost, Abergwynn is lost … lost … lost …
A chill wind, blowing low through the trees, tickled the back of Morgana’s neck. She opened her eyes to see the light of dawn just beginning to chase the stars away. The moon was still visible, three-quarters full and sending light through the fog rising off the creek.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. Her skin prickled, and she heard a soft-voice droning through her mind. Her throat closed for a second, and she rolled off the pallet to face the breeze. A cool current pressed itself intimately against her face and lifted her hair from her neck. Several dark strands blew across her eyes, but she didn’t notice.
The fate of Abergwynn is in your hands.
“But how?” she whispered, hardly daring to believe the voice. Was it her imagination? Was her silly mind playing tricks on her? A foggy picture formed in her mind, and she saw the stone hallways of Abergwynn spattered with blood. Women screamed and men cursed and Wolf howled piteously. “Oh, God, be with them,” she prayed, her throat dry with fear.
Morgana, why have you abandoned us? Glyn’s voice rang with terror. Help us please. Our Father, who art in heaven …
Morgana fell to her knees as the vision faded. “Glyn, oh, Glyn,” she whispered, her fingers clenching in the dirt and grass. “Please be safe. God, please let them be safe!”
Only you can save the baron’s son and his domain. The voice was cold and commanding. She lifted her face, expecting to find a messenger from God standing before her, but she saw only the trees of the dark forest.
“Logan? Where is he?” she asked the voice, but heard nothing. Then a vision, soft around the edges, showed her the face of a small boy, his hair matted, his face streaked with mud and tears. He was in darkness, and water dripped steadily down the slick stone walls of his prison. Morgana’s heart beat faster. “Where is this? Logan, can you hear me?” she cried, but the vision started to fade. “No! Where is this dungeon that would imprison a child so small?”
Home, the voice whispered. Home.
Frantic, nerves strung as tight as a bowstring, she swiveled her head, searching, hoping to learn more. “Home? What means this?” she cried. “He is not at home!” Her insides churned, and she heard nothing save the frenzied beat of her heart and her own frightened breathing. “What say you? Please don’t leave me now!” With all her strength, she forced an inner calmness to tranquilize her. From experience she knew that she couldn’t hear the voice when she was overwrought. She had to remain calm, to coax the stubborn voice to answer her. She imagined the gentle roll of the sea, the feel of sand beneath her feet, the soft fur of a newborn foal, until her heartbeat slowed. “Tell me of the boy,” she begged.
He is frightened.
“But safe?”
If you rescue him.
“Who holds him?” she asked, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip.
One with whom Garrick of Abergwynn would trust his very life.
But Garrick trusted so many! Why, oh, why, did th
e voice speak in these wretched riddles? “One of Lord Garrick’s knights?” she asked, her mind clicking off the possible traitors. Ivan, Guy, Randolph, Marsh, Joseph! There were far too many to count.
One he loves like a brother.
“Not Ware!” She wouldn’t believe it. No, Ware was young and mayhap impatient, but he would be true to Garrick to the very death!
The voice retreated as the wind picked up, and instinctively Morgana knew that the conversation was over. “Wait! Please. Tell me! Ware would never…” Her innards shook, and she trembled violently. “Ware! Oh, please, God, not Ware,” she prayed, still on her knees, her tunic stained, her eyes wet with tears.
But the voice had not said that Garrick’s brother had betrayed him. No — what were the exact words? “One he loves like a brother” —that was it. Not his brother. Not Ware! Another man or woman whom he trusted. But who? Clare would never … Strahan! Oh, God, of course! Strahan. The very blackguard to whom she was betrothed!
Her shoulders slumped in shame and desperation. After last night, after giving herself to Garrick and trying to talk him out of forcing her to marry Strahan, Garrick would never believe her if she told him that she’d heard the wind condemning his cousin, the man she detested. Garrick would laugh in her face. He would remind her of how she had pleaded with him to revoke her betrothal. No, the great lord would assume she had made up a story that would release her from her obligation to a man she despised. Her small fists curled, and she wished she could find a way to escape. But she had no time to think. The blood-spattered walls of Abergwynn and Glyn’s terrified scream convinced her that she had to make Garrick believe her.
The campfire had burned low; only a few embers glowed red in the gray dawn. A sentry, his back propped against a tree, was staring into the words. Morgana ducked into Garrick’s tent and found it empty. With no time to spare she quickly scanned the area, then entered the forest on the other side of camp, picking her way to the creek that gurgled and rushed through the saplings.
She followed a deer trail until she was certain that the baron had eluded her and had perhaps wandered to the other side of the camp. Then suddenly she came upon him, kneeling on the creek bank and staring into the watery depths.
