by Nora Roberts
His mouth tightened. “Witch, you go too far. I granted you a room for the night, food from my table, and you have used magic against me—”
“Against you? No.” She rose from the chair with grace and sureness. She was steady now, strong. And lovely as a dark, summer flower. In her face he saw dignity—and something else. Willfulness. This was not a female who would be easily swayed.
“I used it for myself. To help me learn more about you, about how to reach you and persuade you to help me save my sister’s life!”
“You seek the impossible. Your sister is as dead as my brothers and my father. Ondrea is untouchable. She hides herself in a place where evil thrives and good is destroyed. I have seen it and I know.”
“You saw Ondrea?” She blinked at him.
“Once. A glimpse. I would have killed her if I’d been able, for it is she who—” He broke off. Bitterness twisted his lips. “She was far away . . . too far away. I allowed myself to be driven back and I failed.”
A profound silence shook the chamber.
Gwynna broke it, stepping toward him. “Ondrea had a hand in their deaths, didn’t she? The deaths of your father and your brothers. It was she I saw in the vision,” she realized slowly, her thoughts spinning. “You and I—we have the same enemy.” The realization stunned her.
Then her attention was captured by the expression on Keir’s face. That strong, stern gaze was filled with anger and despair—and something more: guilt.
“Why do you blame yourself for their deaths?” she asked. She placed her hand upon his arm and again felt that strange hot current run between them. “It was not your fault that Lise didn’t choose you and align with you against Leopold—”
“It was my fault that I failed to visit justice upon the witch responsible for my family’s deaths,” he said, shaking off her hand. Anger darkened his eyes. “I hunted her down and was close to reaching her, but not close enough, not strong enough—”
He spun away from her and stalked across the room, then back, glaring at her as a turbulent anger roiled through him.
Many men had quailed before Keir of Blackthorne’s rage—for often it was seen in battle and his enemies fell faster than summer rain. But Gwynna of Callemore stood her ground with no more fear or alarm than if she was facing a servant summoning her to supper.
“Tell me,” she said quietly when he could not finish once more.
“You don’t need me to tell you,” he snapped. He seized her arms suddenly, yanking her close. She felt his immense, overpowering strength, yet he did not hurt her. “You have magic in you. Your visions must have shown you what happened. You admitted as much.”
“My visions did not show me that. They showed me a woman with hair of flame and eyes brimming with seduction. They showed me blood and bodies in the snow. And a man . . . she was whispering to him. He resembled you. . . . Was he your brother?”
Pain shadowed his eyes. “Yes, he was my brother. Raul. He was wise in the ways of the world, a skilled soldier and a man of learning, and yet, he fell victim to the enchantress’s charms. He didn’t know who she was—or that she was plotting with Leopold. And certainly not that she and the warlock king were lovers,” he added bitterly.
As Gwynna’s eyes widened in surprise, Keir continued. “I learned later that she used a mind-blurring potion on him and a spell to blind him to the danger, to pry his secrets from him. And he told her, even as he bedded her, of the secret plans of my father the duke to journey to Cyr Tantiem with Raul and my brother Alden to seek an alliance against Leopold that would have defeated him swiftly.”
Keir’s voice was bitter. “Of course they never reached Cyr Tantiem. They were slain by Leopold’s hired murderers.”
His hands dropped to his sides. The depth of his grief seemed to creep into her bones. She felt it shadowing her heart. And in his eyes she saw something else.
“You killed them. Those murderers.”
He nodded. “I hunted them and then I rid the world of them.”
“But that isn’t all. You went to Org to kill Ondrea.”
“And failed.” He raked a hand through his hair and paced the room. “If I failed in all my rage and determination, what hope do you have?”
“I love my sister,” she said simply. “And I must bring her back to me, to her husband, to Callemore. Antwa, my teacher, tried to discourage me as well and if she could not, no one can. But you could help me if you choose.”
“The Valley of Org is a damp, fetid hell. Dark spirits inhabit it, evil breathes in the wind, rises from the bogs. It crushes the spirit, it torments the mind. Don’t you understand? Good cannot survive there.”
“You did. And you got out alive.”
In his silver eyes she saw the memories swirl. Agonizing memories. Her heart shivered.
“I got out—barely,” he said at last. “But it took me months to recover. Nightmares haunted me night and day and I very nearly went mad.”
She swallowed, suddenly realizing, as she had not realized before, how truly dangerous and difficult her mission would be. Antwa had warned her, but she’d chosen not to listen. Yet, listening to Keir of Blackthorne, a powerful man if she’d ever seen one, and seeing herself how deeply his journey to Org had affected him, she suddenly knew that the path before her was darker than she ever could have guessed.
Fear flickered through her. And with it, dread. But neither changed her resolve. And as she gazed into Keir’s hard, haunted eyes, as she felt the anguish in his soul, her heart opened to him. She suddenly sensed how painful her appearance in his keep and her stated quest must be for him. Without thinking, she reached up and laid a gentle hand against his face.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I had no idea of what you’d lost, of what you’d gone through. I didn’t know that Ondrea and the Valley of Org was linked in any way to your family’s deaths.”
But instead of responding to her sympathy, he jerked back, suspicion hardening his features. “For all I know, you are working with Leopold, too, and this is another trick. Another trap.”
Her chin notched up. “I am not evil. I am not lying. Look into my eyes and trust yourself to see the truth.”
Keir did look into her eyes. They were beautiful beyond words. And so was she. A dark bewitching beauty whose brave spirit seemed to call to him.
But was it a siren’s call? Did a witch’s cunning heart lie beneath that alluring face and figure? Behind the shimmering amethyst eyes that seemed to contain the depth and mystery of the seas?
“I can’t trust what I see.” He turned away from her, stalking toward the door. “Raul trusted a witch and was deceived. It cost him his life and more. You have power. I’ve seen it—”
“Would I have shown it to you if I planned to use power against you? I would have hidden the fact that I have the sight, that I can use magical protection when I choose.”
“Perhaps.” He turned back toward her, and there was doubt in that strong, handsome face. He couldn’t trust her, and in this case, couldn’t trust himself. Men he could sum up in a glance, after a word or two. Women were more complex and this one was unlike any he had ever met.
“Perhaps you are the one not to be trusted,” she said as he continued to gaze at her as if at any moment she might turn into a crow and scratch his eyes out. “Why did you send me this gown and summon me? You could have sent me on my way in the morning without another glance.”
That was the same thing he’d been telling himself since he sent the damned gown. He wasn’t sure of the answer to her question himself.
“Perhaps I wanted to see if you would don it.” He shrugged. “And what kind of a woman you were beneath the boy’s garb.”
“Garments do not make a woman,” she retorted.
“Very true. But they can be useful in tempting them.”
She stared at him. “You mean as in buying favors? Jewels work better,” she said coolly. She understood now, and it was as she’d suspected when she’d first touched the gown. But
she was disappointed that he had stooped to this. Why had she wanted to think better of him? He was as harsh and cold as his keep, his soul as sparse as the rooms here. Perhaps he had been tainted, changed by the Valley of Org.
“You wanted to see if I would don this gown and use it . . . and my woman’s wiles, to seduce you,” she said, her lip curling in revulsion. “You wondered if I would use my body to gain your help.”
“I wondered if you might try to make a bargain.” His gaze burned over her and she felt painfully naked beneath that raking glance. Anger flooded her, filling her cheeks with color, quickening the beating of her heart.
“You mean you wanted to see if I would sell myself to save my sister. You wished to prey upon my desperation but first you wanted to see the goods before you paid a price—”
She rushed at him, her hand raised to strike his face, but he calmly seized her wrist and held it firm.
“Can’t you find a woman to come to your bed who isn’t frantic to save her sister’s life?” she cried. “Are your charms so feeble that you must bribe a woman to open her body to you?”
“Enough.” His tone was a low growl as one powerful arm snaked around her waist and held her still, her body pressed helplessly against his.
“That is not the bargain I had in mind,” he said.
“Then what is?”
She struggled to free herself, but he was too strong and she had to bite her lip to keep from shouting a curse that would turn him into a toad.
“If you give up this quest of yours to die in the Valley of Org, I’ll make you my wife, the Duchess of Blackthorne.”
She couldn’t have been more shocked if he had shot her with an arrow. “Your . . . wife? What makes you think I want to be your wife?” She gaped at him in stunned disbelief. “Or that I’d give up on my sister’s life for that?”
The way she said it made him sound like such a loathe-some monster that Keir almost smiled. Every moment he spent with her, she surprised him—with her quick mind, her intensity, with a determination that went far deeper than he’d first expected. This sensuous enchantress from Callemore sparked his interest more than he would have thought possible. Since his fourteenth summer, when he’d grown tall and strapping for his age, many women had fallen enthusiastically into his bed and—Lise of Callemore notwithstanding—would have been eager to win the title of Duchess of Blackthorne.
This one implied it would be a fate worse than Org.
Why was he bothering with her? Merely to try to save her foolish life? If he had a whit of sense he’d send her packing right now.
But he had not felt this alive in a long while.
“I need a wife and why shouldn’t it be you?” he said bluntly, deciding to lay it out to her as plainly as possible.
“A truly charming proposal. My pet lizard could not have done better.”
She was right. It was an idiotic proposal and a stupid plan. Yet he couldn’t resist explaining it to her. On the off chance she would accept? he wondered ruefully.
“I am the last of my family and I want—I need—heirs. I have no interest in attending balls and feasts and fairs in search of an appropriate biddable bride. You have fallen into my lap, so to speak.”
“So you think!” she exclaimed, struggling with renewed zeal. But it was no use. Breathless, she gave up, glaring at him, her hair falling over her eyes.
“You are a beautiful and intelligent woman,” he remarked grimly. “You could give me strong, fine children, worthy of carrying on my family’s lineage. And besides,” he added as she opened her mouth in outraged protest, “if you accept my proposal it will save your life. It is the one decent thing I can do for you—save you, too, from becoming a victim of Ondrea’s evil magic.”
“Your kindness leaves me nearly speechless, but I must decline. I’ll choose my own husband when I wish to marry,” she said breathlessly. She had given up struggling, as it was both useless and undignified. But being this close to him had the effect of making her breath catch in her throat. He was so very strong, and male and handsome—and irksome—all in a way that combined to compel her attention and trigger a warm flame deep under her skin.
She didn’t understand the heady sensation his nearness created or why she wasn’t quite so furious with him any longer. A tingling warmth swept over her as they stood like this, locked together, his face only inches from hers, the leather and spice and man scent of him all around her.
If he kissed you right now, you might very well decide you are ready to marry, some mad voice inside of her whispered and she was appalled.
She’d once thought herself in love with a traveling minstrel, and at Lise and William’s wedding feast, she’d danced with a young knight who’d made her heart flutter crazily, especially when he’d kissed her later in the garden. But neither of them had ever affected her quite like this coolly handsome duke with the hard face and haunted gray eyes.
She fought to ignore the way her heart was tumbling in her chest. “My sister is all that matters. I’m afraid even such a romantic proposal as this,” she added with asperity, “cannot tempt me.”
For a moment there was silence. Then his eyes narrowed. “Fair enough. The women of Callemore have scorned me twice.” He spoke softly but there was a decided edge to the words. He released her so suddenly, Gwynna nearly stumbled. As he stepped back, she caught the sheen of ice in his eyes.
“If you wish to go to your death, it’s on your own head. I want you gone from my keep at first light.”
“Done.”
She swept past him, the gown rustling about her ankles. He made no move to stop her as she sailed into the hall and raced up the staircase to her chamber.
An odd emptiness filled her. She had failed. Failed to glean from Keir how he had managed to escape from the Valley of Org. “No matter,” she whispered to herself as she tore off the amber gown and dropped it to the floor. “I don’t need his advice, his marriage proposal or anything else the Duke of Blackthorne has to offer.”
Tugging back the scarlet silk coverlet she crawled into the bed, her face turned toward the high open window.
Tension pinched her shoulders, throbbed in her neck. I may not get out alive, but I will get Lise’s beauty and youth and life back into her body. My sister will live, she told herself desperately.
Beyond the window, a cloud passed over the moon.
And Gwynna tried not to think of the man who had offered her marriage. The tall, hard-faced man with the shadows haunting his soul.
But his warning words filled her mind as she struggled to sleep. So did the memory of his eyes and his touch.
Keir of Blackthorne was the most arrogant, lonely, infuriating man she’d ever met—and the most stimulating.
And she was never going to see him again.
Chapter 4
THE Valley of Org was near.
Gwynna knew it, for the terrain had changed during the last hour of her trek and it grew steeper, more inhospitable and darker the farther she travelled, as she left behind the borders of Blackthorne, the rolling hills and level pastures, and made her way toward the unknown banks of the Wild Sea.
She had awakened before the roosters and donned her boy’s garments once again. Then she’d slipped out of Blackthorne Keep without a word to anyone. Keir had been nowhere about, neither had Roslyn or the serving girl who’d brought the amber gown to her chamber.
She’d gone immediately to the hut at the edge of the village where she’d left her horse and sack the day before.
But when the farmer’s boy had offered to fetch and saddle Aster for her, she’d shaken her head. “Thank you, but no. I won’t take her where I’m going. I’m sending her home.”
She’d fed Aster and stroked her neck, speaking silently in the manner she did with all creatures, asking her to return to Callemore. The boy stared in amazement as Gwynna stepped back and watched the chestnut mare gallop toward home.
“You’ve cared well for her and you shall be rewarded,” she told the
boy as he led her into the hut. “Here, take this for my mare’s food and keep.”
The boy’s eyes grew round as she handed him two shimmering gold coins.
His mother, who’d been slicing fresh-baked bread, stared in wonder at the coin-giver, who was not much larger than her son. He was dressed humbly, but he spoke with the dignity and assurance of nobility.
“You are generous,” she murmured as she stared at the youth before her, wrapped in a plain gray cloak and cap. “But . . . where did a boy like you come to have such sums?”
Smiling, Gwynna extended her hand to the woman and in it glinted a third coin. “I have come by these coins honestly, and you are welcome to them. You have done a favor for the Princess of Callemore.”
“You serve the Princess of Callemore?” the woman asked in astonishment.
“No. I am the Princess of Callemore.” She tugged off her cap and her cloud of wild dark curls spilled out. Ignoring the gasps of the woman and her son, Gwynna drew from the sack her traveling gown and matching cloak of deep forest green.
Now, clad in her own garments, she strode through the rocky terrain that would lead to the Wild Sea. She was glad to have shed her boy’s garments; they had seen her through to Blackthorne well enough, but now their usefulness was done. Once she entered the Valley of Org, she would not be safe no matter how she was attired, so she may as well go in as a princess. If Ondrea or her spies saw her, so much the better.
It might speed her mission along if they knew that Queen Lise’s sister, the moon witch, Gwynna, was paying a call. Perhaps she’d be met by Ondrea’s underlings before she’d gone more than fifty paces inside the Valley of Org and be escorted to Ondrea’s fortress.
She reached the rise that overlooked the Wild Sea in late afternoon as the wind picked up and the towering waves swelled and roared beneath an increasingly leaden sky.
Even the velvet lining of her cloak didn’t stop the chill as she gazed down at the wharf in the distance and at the row of fishermen’s huts trailing down a rocky hillside to the shores of the sea.
