“It’s not a wise thing to practice magic,” he said grimly as his eyes bored into hers. “Witches burn at the stake here.”
Her skin crawled at the thought. “I…I wasn’t going to hurt anyone.”
His expression didn’t change and he looked around, scanning the area. “Whom did ye expect to meet?”
Deidre frowned. “Meet? No one. I told you, I was just going to see if there really was any magic. Silly of me. I didn’t realize it was dangerous. We probably should be getting home.” She turned and walked toward Winger.
He was beside her immediately, a hand on her arm, spinning her around.
“The truth, Sassenach.”
She tried to pull her arm away, but his fingers were like steel. “You’re hurting me.” Instantly, he relaxed his grip, but not enough for her to move away. “I told you. I’d heard Janet and Sheila talking about Litha. Someone mentioned standing stones—”
Gilead tightened his hold slightly. “I doona like being lied to, Sassenach. Who are ye here to meet?”
“No one! Why won’t you believe me?”
He stared at her for a moment and then he lifted his head and scented the wind, eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of movement. Deidre watched him, trying to ignore the feeling of warmth that always flooded her at his touch. Right now, he looked like an alert panther ready to pounce. What was he looking for?
The valley floor was flat, the meadow grass just knee high. A crooked little burn meandered through it and continued past the circle. The hill that she had ridden down was craggy and spotted with scrubby gorse, hardly anything a man or a horse could hide behind. The forest, where it picked up on the other side of the circle, was at least fifty fathoms away, well out of arrow shot. A lone rowan tree stood a few feet away, near the horses. “Whom do you think I’m meeting? Niall?”
Gilead grimaced and he released her. “He’d not have let ye get more than a quarter-mile from the gates before he’d taken ye, lass.”
Intent as she was on making her escape, she hadn’t even considered that Niall might have followed her. Deidre shuddered, knowing Gilead was right. Niall would have waited only long enough to make sure no one heard her screams. Still, since she’d need a horse to try an alterative escape, she couldn’t afford to admit that. “I was just testing my skill at riding and…well, when Formorian showed me the circle, I was curious. I didn’t think I was taking that much of a risk.”
“But ye did take a risk. A big one, riding alone at night, hours from help. Did the friends ye’re meeting get the night wrong?”
Deidre rolled her eyes, exasperated. “I’ve not got any friends outside of your people. What do you think I am, a spy?” When he raised an eyebrow, she gasped. “You can’t really believe that!”
He took a step toward her. “Ye are an outlander, yer accent more Saxon than Briton. Ye arrive in the middle of the night without baggage or coin. A good way to gain entry, asking for charity.”
“I didn’t ask! I told you we had been waylaid—”
Gilead moved closer, his face inscrutable. “Nae, I doona think that happened.”
Deidre stepped back involuntarily. She had never seen him look so determined. “I’m no Saxon! I told you where I’m from.”
He shook his head. “I sent inquiries to Armorica. Neither ye nor yer family has ever been heard of and no drownings reported.”
She had to think quickly. If Gilead really believed she was a spy, she would be in big trouble when they got back. What did they do with spies here? Hang them? Stone them to death? She swallowed hard. “Brocéliande is a huge forest. Your messenger probably went to the wrong place.”
“I doona think so. My grandmother—my father’s mother— resides in the middle of it, by the Black Loch. She would know.” He looked at Deidre steadily and inched closer. “I really doona like being lied to.”
Deidre moved back and struck the tree. Before she could turn away, Gilead had braced an arm on either side of her, locking her in, his body inches from hers.
“I will have the truth from ye, lass.”
His breath was warm on her cheek and she could smell his clean scent of soap and light spice, mixed with leather and horse. Her body started to tingle, her hopelessly romantic mind inclined to quite willingly acquiesce to any persuasion he might attempt.
“Perhaps I didn’t tell you all of the story.” Deidre kept her eyes fastened on Gilead’s broad shoulders. That wasn’t exactly making the tingles go away, but she knew she couldn’t lie if she looked him in the face. “I…it was true that I had been in Brocéliande before I came here, but my family is not from there.” She paused, trying to think, but he remained quiet. Funny that she’d never noticed…the most fascinating dusting of black curls is visible where the top part of his shirt was unlaced. She refocused…oh, yes. The story. Back to that. How much “truth” could she tell him?
“My mother was a kind of healer,” she said. “She traveled the land from Rennes to Carhaix. We moved about quite a bit; your grandmother would not have heard of us.”
Deidre watched Gilead’s chest slowly expand as he took a deep breath. He put a finger under her chin, lifting her face up, forcing her to look at him.
“Ye are a bloody poor liar, Sassenach.”
“No! It’s true.”
He sighed and released her. Walking to his saddlebags, he rummaged through one and took out a length of cord. He looked troubled when he turned back to her.
Deidre eyed the rope warily. “What are you going to do with that?”
“Ah, lass. Ye leave me no choice. I will bind ye to the tree until ye tell me the truth. Who ye are, where ye are from, and why ye are here.”
Deidre sprang away from the tree, trying to judge the distance to the horses. Gilead stood between her and Winger. She would never make it.
He moved toward her, the rope dangling in one hand. Deidre backed away.
“I doona wanna do this, ye know. Tell me the truth, lass.”
“I…did.” She took another step back and sideways. Maybe if she could somehow circle around him, put the horses between them, she’d have a chance.
He stepped sideways, too. “Ye know ye canna escape me.”
Deidre angled away, alert for any sudden lurch on his part. A few more steps and she could dart around the tree, put Malcolm between them and make a dash for Winger.
He followed her movements, an eyebrow lifted. “Ye want to make a game of this?”
Some game. She stepped sideways, eyes watchful.
The edge of his mouth lifted and he mimicked her. Deidre took a step back; he took a step forward. She took two more steps and so did he. Merde! He was playing cat and mouse with her and enjoying it. Of course, he was not the one who was going to be tied to the tree.
Then she realized what he’d been doing. As he was letting her move backward, he had been slowly and subtly herding her away from the horses. More distance parted them now. Deidre swore silently and then her eyes caught the moon’s reflection on the stones. The circle! There had been some sort of energy there. She knew she had felt a magical pull. Maybe she could elude him by zigzagging through the menhirs. She turned and ran.
He caught her before she was halfway there. One strong arm circled her waist and before she could fall, he had picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder. One hand caressed her rump while the other arm held her calves firmly against his stomach. So much for making his groin sore. She couldn’t get a kick in. He knew so well where to hold—how many women had he carried like this?
“Let me down!” She pummeled his back with her fists and received a sharp slap to her behind. It stung through the thin leather of the trews and, for once, she would have been grateful for the hated full dresses with the layers beneath them. “Ouch!” She redoubled her efforts, only to receive another stinging pop.
“I doona want to hurt ye, Dee,” Gilead said as they approached the tree and he slid her down the length of him, catching her hands. She struggled briefly, only to have
him press her against the trunk, pinning her body with his. She felt his hard erection brush the softness of her stomach, but he swerved his hips away. Deftly, he wound the rope around one wrist and spiraled the cord around the tree, catching it easily in his hand and securing it to her other wrist. There was enough slack that she could raise her arms somewhat, but not enough for her fingers to touch.
Deidre glared at him as he unsaddled the horses and tethered them. He dug through one of the saddlebags and brought out a flask of water.
“Are ye thirsty?” he asked.
After all that exertion, she was, but she wasn’t about to let him know it. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He cocked an eyebrow and then took a long drink himself. Deidre could almost taste the water, but she averted her eyes when he held out the flask questioningly.
Gilead shrugged and put the water away. He spread out the horse blankets and laid his bedroll on top. He looked at her. “It will be cool by morn. Would ye like me to wrap my plaid around ye?”
Deidre stared at him. “You don’t mean to make me stand here all night, do you?”
Gilead yawned. “Only a few hours until Prime. Unless ye want to tell me the truth now, I plan to get some sleep.”
“I’ve told you the truth.” Lord, how was she going to sleep standing up?
“Och, well. Mayhap ye’ll think differently in the morn,” Gilead said. He unwrapped his plaid and draped it over her breasts and shoulders, reaching around her neck to fasten it with his brooch in the back. He tucked the sides in behind her. “There, now. If ye doona move much, ye’ll stay all warm.”
“How can I move at all? Gilead, untie me. Please. I promise not to run away.”
He laughed. “Aye. I’d not wake up due to a dirk in my heart, I think.”
“I would never kill you!”
“If ye are a spy, ye might.”
Deidre stamped her foot in frustration. The plaid came loose on that side, allowing the cool night air to invade her cocoon. “Keep me tethered to you, if you must.”
Gilead retucked the edge of plaid around her thigh and straightened. “If I did that, neither of us would get any sleep.” For a moment, his glance fastened on her lips and he bent his head slowly toward her.
Deidre glared at him. He was going to kiss her now? She was furious with him. She really was. Her breath quickened and her traitorous lips parted.
He hesitated, only an inch from her. Then, slowly, he cupped her face in his hands and leaned forward to kiss her lightly on her forehead.
“Good night, Dee. We will talk again in the morning.”
◊♦◊
It took Deidre less than an hour to decide that cooperation might be the better part of valor. Spirited defiance wasn’t working. Gilead was asleep, blast him, and she was getting tired of shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Determined as he was, they could be out here for days unless Angus sent a search party. She’d wracked her brain for another believable story, but came up with nothing. Well, if he wanted the truth, he’d have it. She just hoped she could convince him she wasn’t a Frankish spy.
She pressed her back against the trunk and bent her knees, sliding down the scratchy bark a few inches. It was as far as she could go. Balancing her weight, she stretched out one leg and pointed her toe, trying to push at Gilead’s boot. Just out of reach. She muttered a string of expletives that would have made Clotilde swoon, and painfully pushed herself another inch lower. There. Just barely. She nudged him.
Gilead groaned and rolled over, his leg sprawling over her foot. Aha. Deidre kicked him as hard as she could.
He let out a roar and sprang to a crouching position, dirk in his hand. He glanced around wildly and then looked at her.
“Ye woke me?”
Deidre bit back the splendid retort that she wanted to make. “I’ve decided to tell you the truth.”
He looked wary. “If this be another story—”
She shook her head quickly. “It isn’t. Please untie me.”
“I should make ye stand and tell it.” He muttered something in Gaelic and moved toward her, sliding the dirk between her wrist and the rope. “Doona make a fool of me.”
Deidre rubbed her wrist and sank to the ground. Grass had never felt so soft. “May I have some water first?”
Silently, he handed her the flask. Deidre tried not to guzzle it, but she was parched and some of the water dribbled down her chin. She wiped it off with the back of her hand and handed the flask back.
Gilead laid it down beside him. “Talk, Sassenach.”
Deidre drew the plaid around her. His scent was somehow comforting. She took a deep breath.
“I am cousin to King Childebert of Gaul.”
Gilead’s eyes narrowed. “Not Saxon, but still a spy.”
“No spy. My mother, King Clovis’s sister, was descended from a royal bloodline dedicated to keeping the truth and wisdom of the Goddess alive.” She paused.
“Go on.”
“The code to that wisdom lies embedded in something called the Philosopher’s Stone. It was my mother’s duty—and that of her priestesses—to guard and protect it. It was stolen years ago by a magician.”
Gilead looked puzzled. “And ye have searched for the Stone all this past?”
Deidre shook her head. “At first we did, but the magician was more powerful than we thought. Mayhap he was a Druid, for their powers are strong, and even our oldest seeress could not discern where he had hidden the Stone. Then my mother killed herself. The priestesses that had been under my mother’s care found their way to Provence—to Rennes-le-Château—and I was taken to Childebert’s court.”
“I still doona understand. Why are ye here?”
“When news reached Childebert that one of the Briton bishops had launched a search for a grail that the Christos had used, my cousin remembered the Stone. He wanted it found so he could turn it over to Rome and be rewarded.”
Gilead looked skeptical. “And he sent a woman to find it?”
“No. He wanted to use my gift of Sight—”
“Ye have the Sight? ’Tis not wise to admit that, with the Christian zealots eager to find such people.”
“I know.” Deidre tried not to sound impatient. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I sent my uncle’s men searching in the wrong direction. The Stone is here. I can feel it.” She went on to tell him the whole story and then finished softly, “Over the years, I always thought the magician would keep it safe, since I had his Book.”
Gilead’s eyebrows lifted. “Ye practice magic, too?”
“No! The Book is about…” Her voice trailed off. How could she tell him about knights in armor who rescued damsels and pledged their faith? He’d think her totally mad or worse, laugh at her whimsies and for having her head in faerie clouds. Well, she could tell him of some of the problems laid out. “The Book says that descendants of a man named Cerdic will conquer Britain—”
“Cerdic?” Gilead asked in a shocked voice. “He is a Saxon plague already in the far south. Ye are a spy.”
“No!” Deidre racked her brain about how to convince him and then she had an epiphany. “Didn’t Turius say that Gunpar has spotted Saxon longboats?” At his nod, she went on. “The Saxon who leads them is named Ida.” She hoped she was correct; she had skimmed the parts in the Book that didn’t really interest her, looking instead for romantic interludes between Lancelot and Gwenhwyfar. “Ida will claim land near Lothian and bring more families.” She wrinkled her forehead in thought. “Soon.”
Gilead looked troubled. “Ye must not talk like that, Dee. Witches burn.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m no witch. All I’m looking for is the Stone, which must be returned to its grotto, safe from the wrong hands. Especially the hands in Rome.” She moved away from him and brought her fist to her mouth, trying to hold back the tears. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. That’s why I made up the story of bandits. My real escort was overcome by Turius’s men and I didn’t kn
ow if those soldiers were friend or foe.” The tears spilled over and she sobbed. “I was afraid you’d lock me in a dungeon or send me back to Childebert.”
She felt comforting hands on her shoulders as Gilead turned her around and brought her against his chest. Deidre put her arms around his waist and buried her face in his shoulder as he stroked her hair, speaking soothingly as he would to calm a skittish horse. No doubt he thought she was a stark, raving lunatic who danced to no music and spoke to thin air.
“There, now, lass. Cry yerself out,” he said as he rocked her gently. “Ye’ve nothing to fear from me. Yer secret’s safe. I doona believe ye are a spy.”
Deidre raised a tear-stained face. “You—you don’t?” she asked doubtfully.
“Nae.” He took his thumb and wiped the tears away from one side of her face and then the other. “I doona think ye a witch, either.” His fingers trailed lightly down the side of her face and traced the outline of her lips as he looked into her eyes. For a moment, the two of them were suspended in time and then he slanted his mouth over hers as he drew her tightly into his embrace.
Gilead kissed her softly, his warm lips tantalizing hers as he teased them, tugging at her lower lip, then nipping at the corner, and applying easy pressure against the fullness of her mouth. From somewhere deep inside her, Deidre emitted a primal groan and moved closer, pressing her aching breasts into his broad chest. Gilead ran his hands across her back, and slowly down her hips, cupping her buttocks and pulling her hard against him. He growled low in his throat as his tongue gained entrance to her mouth and he plunged inside that warm, wet orifice. His kisses were hot and demanding now, nothing teasing about them, his tongue only a promise of what his manhood, pulsating against her mound, could do. Her body prickled as though a thousand tiny flames burned her skin.
With a great shudder, Gilead pushed himself away from her. He stood there gasping, his hands on his knees. Deidre stared at him in bewilderment. How could he bring her so close to the brink—of what it was exactly, she didn’t know, but her very core was throbbing—and then suddenly stop?
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