Sorceress

by Lisa Jackson

  Bryanna, who had sat poised on the bed, her hands folded in her lap as the servants hustled about, thanked them as they finished up and filed out the door. “This is quite splendid, Cain,” she teased, taking in the food and steaming tub. “Who knew one could be treated as royalty in the town of Holywell?”

  Gavyn couldn’t help but return her smile as he poured her a cup of wine. “Bathe first. The food will wait.”

  “And what will you do?”

  He eyed the size of the wooden vat. “Watch, of course.”

  “Gav— Cain!”

  “Well, ’tis too small for both of us. You go first.”

  “In front of you? Are you daft?”

  “I’ll turn my back.”

  “If you think that you can give me a nice new mantle and then I’ll let you . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “I think we’ve come too far to worry about impropriety, don’t you?” He poured himself a cup of wine and sat on a stool near the fire. “Hurry, now. ’Tis not getting any warmer.”

  “Fie and fiddlesticks,” she grumbled, walking to the tub, then waiting until he dutifully turned away from her.

  He could hear the rustle of her new mantle falling to the floor, then the sounds of water splashing. There was no reflective metal or piece of glass in the room, so once he was certain she was inside the tub and had a few minutes to clean off some of the grime from the journey, he turned again so that he was facing her.

  “Gavyn!” she nearly shrieked, and he grinned wickedly as he watched her cover her breasts with her hands. “Leave!”

  He took a sip from his cup. “Never. And it’s—”

  “Cain. Yes, I know.” With one slick, dripping arm, she pointed to the door. “Leave, now. If you were a gentleman—”

  “You would hate it. You wouldn’t be here with me. Trust me, Brynn, ’tis not just fate that put us together. You like being with me. You’d be bored to death with a gentleman.”

  “You arrogant son of a cur! I’ve never heard anything so inane in my life. I do not like being with you. At the very least I wouldn’t feel the heated compulsion to wring a gentleman’s neck every step of this quest.”

  “Nor would he help you dig up graves in the middle of the night, or hide the fact that you stole a horse and who knows what else from a woman who was murdered. Nay, I think you prefer to be with a ruffian like me. You enjoy my lack of propriety.”

  He leaned back on his stool, took another sip, and enjoyed the view. Her wet, curling hair ruffled around her flushed face. Her greenish eyes narrowed at him in fury. And her body, white skin visible beneath the shimmering surface.

  “For the sake of decency . . . ,” she tried again.

  But he felt his grin grow wider at the anger in her eyes, the way she tried to hide her nipples, pinkish disks that slipped through her fingers.

  Suddenly she snatched up the slippery cake of soap and threw it at him. He ducked as it screamed past. The soap hit the fireplace, fell with a clunk, then skidded across the floor. “Turn around, damn it!”

  “Now, wife, is that any way to talk to your husband?”

  “You are not—”

  He hadn’t intended to do anything but watch her, but the soap gave him inspiration. “I think you’ll need this,” he said, picking up the wet cake. Rather than tossing it to her, he placed his leather cup on the mantel and crossed the few feet that separated them.

  “Oh, for the love of Rhiannon!” She tried to cover herself with one arm while stretching out the other and opening her palm, as if she expected him to just drop the slick bar into her hand and leave her be.

  But he had other ideas.

  To her horror—or was there a bit of interest in those angry eyes?—he rolled up his sleeves.

  “What are you doing?” she whispered, as if anyone else was in the room. “Gavyn, don’t you dare—”

  But he was already on his knees, dipping one arm into the warm water, the soap in his hand.

  “You wouldn’t!”

  He rubbed the bar along her back, his eyes devouring the silken curve of her shoulders, his hands smoothing down to the curve of her waist.

  “Oh, no!”

  “No?” he mocked her, amazed at the soft texture of her pale skin.

  “You’re—you’re evil!”

  He laughed, leaning forward to take in her face and the glimmering sheen of her breasts. “As I said, ’tis what you love about me.”

  “What?” Her mouth dropped open. “I don’t love you.”

  “Sure you do.” He ran a finger along her shoulder.

  “No.”

  “And I love you, Bryanna.” He winked, as if he were teasing, though it came from his heart. “I always have.”

  “No . . . but . . .”

  “Shhhh.”

  “Gav . . . Cain,” she said in protest, but as she gazed into his eyes and saw that he was serious, he saw her swallow hard.

  “I . . . I don’t think . . .”

  “ ’Tis good. Don’t think.”

  With a sigh, she closed her eyes. “Oh, damn you. . . .” It was a whisper as much as a curse.

  At that she relaxed beneath his fingertips, and he began to wash her body carefully.

  Just as she was immersed in the water, he felt himself becoming immersed in Bryanna. Seeing her womanly legs folded beneath the water’s soapy surface . . . smelling the scent of lavender in her newly washed hair . . . spying the red thicket at the juncture of her legs.

  His cock came to hard and immediate attention.

  “Oooh . . .” Her head lolled back as he washed her, his hands running over her back and arms before he laved her breasts. He watched in fascination as her nipples hardened and her entire body flushed. When he slipped one hand lower, across her abdomen, and over that fiery mound, her legs parted. He kissed her as he washed her, his soapy hands skimming her skin, his fingers exploring the wonder of her.

  Her eyes opened just a bit. “Do you really love me?” she asked.

  Rather than answer, he leaned down to encircle her body with both arms and carried her to the bed, where he showed her just how much. She didn’t protest as he stripped off his clothes. Her own fingers seemed anxious and eager as they explored his chest and shoulders, then pulled him down upon her. She kissed him with a fever that infected him as he kissed her back.

  She tasted of soap and water and all things feminine. His tongue and teeth scraped along the side of her neck, down her breasts. While he paused to suckle, his hand found that intimate little slit between her legs, and once again, he loved her. Never did he lift his mouth from her breast, not even when she bucked in anticipation, not when she yelled, arching, then shuddered. Still he kissed her pink nipple, tasting, teasing, toying until she was whimpering for more, her woman juices hot.

  And then he knew she was ready. He came to her, rising above her. Their eyes were locked upon each other as he skimmed her legs wide with his knees. The tip of his cock rested against her and he thought he would go mad as he brushed it across her, watching her pupils dilate, hearing her gasp with anticipation.

  “Husband,” she whispered, and he leaned down to kiss her as he plunged. Deep inside her. Feeling her body sheath him. Slick. Hot. Eager. She began to moan, to feel the swelling wave, and he was with her. Holding back, fighting the mounting pressure, extracting every bit of pleasure from her, not letting go until . . . she cried out, her body convulsing. With a cry he spilled himself in her and collapsed upon her, his own body covered in sweat.

  Lost in afterglow, he wondered vaguely how he would ever be able to let her go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “So you dance with the devil,” Vannora accused, her present guise vibrant and full of life. Her dark hair gleamed around a face that was no longer lined. Her lips were full, her body nearly seductive in its purple tunic that appeared as soft as velvet. Yet, there was still an opaqueness to her eyes. He thought it strange how they resembled his own cursed eyes.

  She stood within the circl
e on the floor of her cell-like chamber. The cauldron was bubbling again, though oddly there was no fire. Thick steam rose to the cavernous ceilings, where, he was certain, bats roosted in the darkness. “The Lord of Agendor is not to be trusted,” she said.

  “Nor am I.”

  She nodded. “But you are planning to leave the keep, in daylight.”

  “My eyes are . . . The light of day does not burn them as much as it once did,” he admitted, a phenomenon he’d discovered in the past few weeks.

  “So she has found one of the gems, an opal.” Vannora nodded, as if confirming something she already knew. “You must not do anything to stop her, Hallyd. For the curse to be lifted all of the stones must be located and inserted into the dagger.” Vannora rubbed her neck and her eyebrows drew together, as if she were actually perplexed.

  Never before had he seen her so worried. It gave him pause, needling at him. Had he been wrong to band with Deverill? By all means, he did not want to risk losing the modicum of daylight sight that had been restored to him. He did not want the searing pain to return. . . .

  “Listen to me. Do not let that dog Deverill interrupt the search for the stones, for if you find Bryanna and stop her from her quest, then all is for naught.” She looked him squarely in the eye, her opaque orbs mystifying.

  “Deverill wants his bastard son, that is all,” he said, trying to dismiss her concern.

  “But you must intervene to be certain that Deverill’s crusade does not spoil yours!” she growled, her voice raspy as a snake. “Nothing must get in the way of the sorceress finding all of the stones. As for Deverill, use him to locate her, to follow her. Let him have his damned bastard son, but, if you want this curse lifted, do not interrupt her quest.”

  Bryanna woke to sunshine streaming through the open slats of the window. Stretching on the bed, she recalled the splendid night with Gavyn . . . making love to him, eating and sipping wine while he bathed in the tepid water, then returning to the bed for more lovemaking and finally sleep.

  She’d barely stirred earlier when he’d leaned over and kissed her forehead. Now the room was empty and cold, the bare platters and tub of cool water the only reminder of all that had transpired.

  She dressed in her new tunic, smiling as she touched the embroidery. A rich, vibrant brown trimmed in gold, it felt good upon her body. Clearly she remembered that he’d told her he loved her and then had gone about proving it in the bed. Oh, what a wanton woman she’d been! Even now, she trembled inside at the thought of his body joining with hers.

  “Think not on it,” she told herself as she quickly braided her hair. Intent upon finding him, she hurried downstairs, where the innkeeper’s wife, a rotund woman with breasts that rested upon her protruding stomach, glanced up at her.

  “Ye’re the missus, are ye not? ’Tis Theone I am.”

  “Brynn,” Bryanna said.

  “Ever been to Holywell before?” the woman asked, and when Bryanna shook her head, she added, “Then ye may not know the legend.”

  Before Bryanna could stop her, Theone happily launched into the tale of St. Winefride, who was slain here, her head severed by a prince who could not persuade the unwilling virgin into his bed.

  “’Twas horrible.” Theone’s eyes grew round with horror, as if she’d witnessed the event rumored to have happened centuries before. “He pleads his case, he does, Prince Cradoc. And when she denies him and tries to leave, he lops off her head.” Theone made a brandishing motion with her broom.

  Bryanna pressed a hand to her roiling belly, but Theone didn’t seem to notice, so enraptured was she with her own story.

  “Well, the head, it rolls along and eventually stops in a bit of a hollow and, lo and behold, a spring, that very spring that still spouts today, erupted from the ground right there. Winefride’s uncle, now that would be St. Beuno, he saw the whole damned thing. Quick as a fox, he grabbed up Winefride’s head, crammed it onto her body, draped it in his cloak, and prayed to the Father that Winefride be allowed to live, that she be as one again, that her head and body be whole.” Theone leaned upon her broom as she added, “And that was when the miracle occurred. Winefride, she got to her bloody feet. Alive, she was. Oh, aye, but from that day forward she had a thin white scar around her neck.” Theone ran one large finger along the base of her own thick neck, and Bryanna cringed at the awful tale, which she assumed the woman had embellished.

  “This is true?”

  “Oh, aye! Every word of it.”

  Bryanna swallowed hard and touched her own throat, where only recently a ring of bruises had appeared.

  Coincidence?

  Or prophecy?

  “People come from miles around to bathe in the waters from the spring, they do. Rich and poor, noblemen and peasants—it matters not who they are, because they are all healed, their crutches and canes left at the well as a testament to the miracle.”

  “And what happened to the prince? The one who tried to kill Winefride?”

  “Cradoc?” Theone snorted in disgust. “I heard he was struck by lightning. Others believe he was swallowed by a great hole in the earth. Either way, he was kilt dead! And he deserved it, too.” She took up her broom again and chased a spider across the stoop. “Git,” she muttered as Bryanna left, heading through the village.

  She strolled down the hill past people on foot and horseback until she came to the well at the center of town. As Theone had said, a spring bubbled clear from the ground, a few shafts of sunlight reflecting in the shiny ripples.

  Bryanna searched the streets for Gavyn. Although she did not find him, she did observe a man dressed in black hanging around the edge of the buildings, staying in the shadows.

  ’Tis just your imagination running wild, she told herself as her heartbeat increased. You’re just nervous because you can’t find Gavyn.

  And yet, the man in black reappeared as she strolled past the tailor’s shop, then again outside the tanner’s hut.

  In fact, the somber-robed man never disappeared.

  Who was he?

  She circled the spring, searching for Gavyn, telling herself not to panic. Mayhap she should have stayed at the inn. Even now he could be returning.

  She glanced around the small buildings again, then wondered where a witch would hide a gem.

  Deep in the well?

  Of course not.

  Buried nearby in the hill leading to the village?

  Trying to calm her uneasy pulse, she paused and surveyed the area. People, crippled and whole, prayed at the spring’s edge, touching the clear, healing liquid in an attempt to restore their bodies as well as their souls. In a town always stirring with villagers and travelers seeking a cure, there would be no proper place to hide a gem.

  “ ’Tis impossible,” she said, and a man in a monk’s robe standing nearby turned to her.

  “Nothing is impossible,” he said. “Is not the miracle of St. Winefride of Holywell proof enough of that?”

  She managed a small smile for the religious man, then quickly turned away before he could launch into a speech about faith and piety and trusting in God. Not today, not when she had a bloody emerald to find. Not when she was being watched by a strange man in black.

  She glanced around, searching for him, but the dark figure was now nowhere to be seen.

  Had he existed?

  Or was he a product of her frightened mind? Her own fears crystalizing?

  She could not think of it now, not when she was so close to fulfilling another part of her quest. Shading her eyes, she looked up the hill to the village, where carts, horses, and people on foot traveled the old road. One woman sold eggs near the side of the cart tracks, another peddled rounds of cheese, and a tinsmith loudly clanged the bells he hoped to sell. Horses neighed and geese clucked. A boy rolling a wheel with a stick flew by, a younger girl with golden hair chasing after him. Both children giggled madly as they raced down the hillside.

  Bryanna pressed her lips together, thinking of the child Isa kept mentionin
g. Could it be any child she saw, skipping down a lane?

  “He is the Chosen One,” Isa’s voice flowed, cool and familiar as the spring that bubbled through Penbrooke.

  “Isa?” she whispered, weak with gratitude that the voice had come to her again.

  “Sired by Darkness, born of Light, protected by the Sacred Dagger,” Isa’s voice echoed through her head, right in the center of the crowded village. “A ruler of all men, all beasts, all beings. It is he who shall be born on the Eve of Samhain.”

  Bryanna folded her arms across her chest defensively at the realization that her child was due to enter the world around Samhain. But no . . . ’twas impossible. And wasn’t it like Isa to rattle off an ancient prophecy when she had more pressing matters at hand . . . like how to find the emerald?

  “Aye, so I’m to protect the Chosen One with the dagger.” Hard to believe, but even if it were so, how was she to find him? “I can’t even find the second stone,” Bryanna rasped loud enough to attract the attention of a passing woman.

  With a carry cot slung over one shoulder to hold her swaddled infant, she was clinging to the pudgy fingers of her toddler with her free hand. The young mother looked up sharply, and then quickly shepherded her children to the other side of the lane.

  Bryanna didn’t blame her.

  Certainly she sounded and looked like a madwoman chattering to herself. Reflexively, she touched her own flat abdomen. A child grew within her and she understood the cause of the mother’s anxiety. Bryanna’s babe had not yet come into the world, and yet she would do anything she could to protect it.

  Clouds collected overhead as Isa’s voice rang clear. “That is why you were chosen for this journey. To save the child. Do not be cross! Do not run in circles! Forestall all evil. Find the gem and leave. Danger abounds.”