by Nora Roberts
It was good policy, Braden had reasoned, to keep the enemy believing that Erinn was a force of strong magic, a witch to be reckoned with.
Thus it was that every victory was attributed to a vision by Princess Erinn—or to a spell she had cast that had somehow hindered the enemy. Her powers were legendary throughout the land, and she’d heard tales that the llachlanders used her name to frighten young children into immediate obedience. She was feared and respected, held in awe and reverence.
And none of it is deserved, she thought dejectedly as she huddled on the bench. She was nothing but a weak and hapless pretender.
And she hated it. But there was no use arguing with her father, much less with Braden and Cadur. They thought they knew best about everything.
The only thing that saved her from total despondency over her inability to be of use was the time she spent helping to care for the widows and orphans of Marlbury. Her father had allowed her to oversee the welfare of families who had lost fathers or sons in service to the king during the border wars. It was Erinn who visited their homes, who sent wagonloads of food or firewood or woolens and blankets to those in need, and who brought smiles to the faces of even the poorest child with stories and songs and treats baked in the castle ovens.
Her efforts on their behalf filled her days, and at night she studied her book of spells. She knew every spell backward and forward—for all the good it did her.
None of them ever worked—at least not the way they were supposed to.
“Erinn!” Her elder brother’s voice shook her out of her reverie. “By all the stars in heaven, what are you doing out here at this time of night? Why aren’t you in bed?”
Braden’s chin jutted out as he strode across the garden and frowned down at her.
“Stop scowling at me, Brade. I couldn’t sleep. And—” She suddenly fixed her vibrant green eyes on his strong figure and studied him with interest. “I could ask you the same question. Where have you been?”
“To the inn, visiting a certain…friend of mine,” he answered impatiently. “Not that I have to account to you, little one.”
“And neither do I have to account to you,” she retorted, but she was smiling as she said it. At twenty-eight, Braden was three years older than Cadur and seven years older than Erinn, and he was a hothead who thought he was in charge of everything, that he knew better even than their father how to care for the kingdom, the people, his family, and above all, his sister. Braden was brilliant at strategy and battle plans, while Cadur was the strongest, bravest soldier in the kingdom, capable of fighting three men at once and triumphing while scarcely losing his breath.
And they both thought Erinn was still a baby, would always be a baby, that she needed protecting and coddling—and bossing around.
If she hadn’t loved them so much, she would have gone mad by now. But she knew how to fight for every inch of her freedom, and most of the time her father supported her.
“Why is it that you are allowed to go beyond the castle gates at night at will, yet I have to answer to someone every time I choose to set foot outside the walls?” She stood up, poked a finger against Braden’s chest, and grinned.
“Perhaps I should go to the inn and find some friends there to amuse me,” she began, then started to laugh at the horrified expression upon his face.
“Inside with you—now,” he ordered, but a grin tugged at his lips as she continued to laugh. He forced his mouth into a stern line. “It’s too cold out here for you. You should be asleep before a warm fire. Not to mention the fact that—”
He broke off, but not before Erinn saw concern deepen the fine lines around his eyes.
“Not to mention what?” she demanded.
Braden shook his head. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“What’s nothing?” Erinn persisted.
“I don’t wish to worry you.”
“You already have,” she pointed out and stepped closer. “What is it now, Brade? Surely not…Tynon?”
“No, no.” Her brother gave a grunt of satisfaction. “He’s still licking his wounds from the last skirmish. It will take time for him to regroup his forces and attack again. But…” He hesitated, then continued, grimacing, “One of the guards at the gate thought he heard a splash in the moat earlier, yet he could see nothing, no one. Still…” Braden shrugged. “It is not for you to worry about, Erinn. I’ve set the guards on alert. No doubt it was only a goose that flew off before it could be spotted. Or perhaps a swan. Nothing to concern you. Now go—go to bed.”
“Oh, Brade.” She tilted her head up at him, and her rich green eyes glinted with amusement. “You’re the one who’s worried. By the angels, from the way you looked when you mentioned it, one would think Tynon himself had breached the moat and was sneaking into this very garden.” There was a catch of laughter in her voice. “No doubt to ravish me,” she continued with a grin, “and then single-handedly slaughter all our men while they sleep.”
“Don’t even speak of such things, Erinn.” Braden caught her arm and gave it a shake, his face grim. “That bastard is capable of anything. Of course, I’d die before I’d let him get within a stone’s throw of Marlbury Castle, much less you—”
Suddenly, even as he spoke the words, she heard a thwack, then Braden tumbled forward in the darkness, straight at her.
“Braden!” Erinn tried to catch him as he fell and somehow managed to break his fall, though she struck the ground as well, caught beneath his weight.
“Braden!” she cried again, trying to struggle out from beneath his arm, staring in horror at his closed eyes and unmoving form.
Before she could scramble free and see if he was all right, a dark shadow stooped down and tossed her brother aside as if he were no more than a log. A powerful arm seized her and yanked her to her feet.
For one instant, and one instant only, as moonlight spilled down into the garden, she stared into the face of the man who loomed over her. And went cold with shock.
It was his face—his. The man in her vision.
“Y-you!” she gasped, shock and terror vibrating through her body. He glowered back at her like the devil himself, his mouth twisting into a hard, mirthless smile.
“So you saw me coming, did you?” His voice was low, dangerous, containing a barely controlled fury that curdled her blood.
“For all the good it will do you,” he added grimly.
Erinn screamed then. At least she tried to scream, with every ounce of strength in her body, but he was too quick for her. A heavy hand clamped over her mouth, squelching the scream, stifling her breath. Quick as a blink, he dragged her against him, and though Erinn struggled frantically, terror giving her fierce strength, there was nothing she could do to break the powerful hold that imprisoned her.
She kicked, bit, squirmed, elbowed—all to no avail. Her captor might have been a mountain, for all the effect she had on him. In short order, as terror for Braden and for herself swept through her, she was gagged and tied, a blanket was thrown over her head and wrapped tight around her body. Then she felt herself hefted in thick, suffocating darkness and tossed like a sack of grain over his shoulder.
Braden! Silent screams rocked her. Was he dead? Had this monster killed him? And who else? The guards…the knights asleep in the hall, the servants…Cadur…her father?
Panic filled her as she was carried through the garden, helpless and dazed, telling herself that her abductor could not possibly get out of the castle grounds alive. There were too many guards, and they had all been put on alert. Braden had told her that. The gates were closely watched, and the moat would be patrolled.
He would be caught, and she would be freed. And she would watch him get sliced into little pieces for what he’d done to Braden.
But even as she began to squirm and wriggle and try to make some sound to help alert the guards, she felt a queer sensation creeping over her. Her senses seemed to be swimming in murky greenish water. A sickening sweet stench reached her nostrils and made her
feel ill. And sleepy. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t keep her eyes open.
He has drugged me, she thought wildly, as dizziness assailed her. Something in the fibers of the blanket was working upon her, enveloping her in a thick greenish fog that clogged her throat and stilled her body and made the world spin—and spin—and spin.
Until at last the world fell away, and there was only the poisonous sweet scent and the hot green darkness—and the man from her vision carrying her through the garden.
And then there was nothing. Nothing at all.
2
“WAKE UP, WITCH. Damn it, wake up.”
The early-morning sun glittered down into the clearing along Marlbury’s eastern border as Tynon knelt beside the sleeping figure of the girl. He had wrapped his gray woolen horse blanket around her to ward off the chill as she slumbered upon a pile of dead winter leaves. Her golden hair lay against her cheek, and with her eyes closed, she looked as peaceful and ethereal as an angel who had tumbled—mussed and lovely—to earth.
But she isn’t an angel, Tynon reminded himself sharply. She might be delicate-looking, and more beautiful than any woman he’d ever set eyes on, but she was a witch—a cold, powerful, and most dangerous witch.
And she’d stolen his home.
He was only unsettled by the sight of her, he told himself, because she hadn’t stirred since being overcome by the sleeping potion he’d steeped into the blanket. That was worrisome, though Albreth had warned him that the effect might be just so. Still, twice during the long journey from Castle Marlbury, he’d stopped to make certain she was still breathing. There was a risk to these potions, so Albreth had told him. Death was unlikely, though not out of the question.
She must not die, Tynon thought desperately. His fists clenched, as if he could somehow use his strength and his fighting skills to summon her back to wakefulness. But he couldn’t. She would awaken when the potion wore off, and there was nothing he could do to speed that.
Just so long as she didn’t die.
It wasn’t merely that he needed her alive to undo what she’d done, to restore Bordmoor Keep to its normal form. That was the most important matter, to be sure, but there was also the fact that he’d never taken a woman prisoner before, and it didn’t sit well with him. Not in the least. He’d done it only because there was no other choice—she had put the damned spell on the keep, and now she could damn well take it off.
Be that as it may, Tynon didn’t want a female’s death on his conscience. He would let her live, once she’d done as he bade. Even though she was from the hated House of Marlbury, even though she was a despicable little witch. He wouldn’t kill a woman. He would wait and exact his vengeance on her father and brothers, the whole damned lot of them.
Fine, sleep then, damn you, he thought. By the time you awaken, perhaps we’ll be at the keep. And you can lift the spell. Then I can be done with you.
As if in defiance of his thoughts and his wishes, the perverse woman began to stir. Her eyelids quivered. A small moan escaped her lips.
Then her eyes slowly opened, and Tynon felt the breath rush out of him as if a giant had slammed a tree into his belly.
By the sun and the moon, she was beautiful.
He tried to catch his breath, and to tighten his resolve at the same time.
Rich green eyes gazed blankly into his. Her lips trembled, and what lush, inviting lips they were, pink as roses in contrast with her creamy skin. At that moment, the wind lifted a lock of her pale hair and tossed it playfully as Erinn of Marlbury studied him in dazed bewilderment.
“So, you’re awake,” he managed to choke out in a voice that sounded almost like his own curt, deep one, the one he used when barking commands to his men. She recoiled as if he’d struck her, and he saw the memories come flooding back, turning her eyes the color of an angry sea.
“You!” she cried, just as she had in the garden when he’d confronted her in the golden moonlight. “What have you done to my brother?”
“Killed him, I hope,” Tynon answered grimly, and was surprised when she lunged up at him and struck him full in the face with the palm of her hand. But even as his arm shot out and captured her wrist, she fell back with a cry.
“Lie still, little fool,” he ordered. “The potion leaves you dizzy until its power is gone.”
Her eyes closed, and she took deep, steadying breaths, unable to move despite her anger and her fear. Her thoughts were a tortured jumble—terror for Braden, fear for herself, and wonder that this dark intruder who had come to her in a vision, perhaps the first in her life that had ever signaled anything of importance, had somehow managed to smuggle her out of Marlbury Castle without being caught and instantly killed.
“Who are you?” she asked, her eyes still closed against the whirling dizziness.
“Don’t you know?” His voice held an edge of mockery. It infuriated her that he was standing over her, watching her, while she couldn’t even open her eyes to confront him face-to-face. This damned dizziness. Damned potion. Her fingers itched to claw his face.
“How in the world should I know?” she snapped, then realized too late that it was the wrong thing to say.
“You’re a witch. You see things, don’t you? Know things. It was clear that you recognized me back there in the garden.”
Desperately, Erinn summoned her wits. “I recognized your face,” she told him with the cool hauteur she felt worthy of a great witch. He thought her powerful, therefore she must keep up that illusion. It might be her only protection. If he feared her, even a little, it might give her an advantage, a chance to escape.
“But the vision didn’t offer your name.” At least that much was the truth. She forced her eyes open, bracing for a fresh assault of dizziness, but the world had steadied, at least for now. She didn’t know what would happen if she tried again to sit up.
He was kneeling beside her now, studying her, those keen blue eyes narrowed against the sunlight.
Oh, indeed, the vision had not lied. He was handsome. And large. Every bit as tall as Braden and Cadur, perhaps even more strapping in the shoulders. His hair was inky dark as in the vision, his features hawklike in a lean, sun-browned face. A fighting man, confident and cool, in cloak and armor.
But who was he? What did he want?
“Here.”
She flinched as he moved his hand toward her, but then saw that it held a flask. “Wine,” he told her sternly, with a shake of his head. “Surely the great witch Erinn is not afraid of a sip of wine?”
“The great witch Erinn is not afraid of anything—or anyone, including a cowardly scoundrel like you who sneaks into gardens and steals ladies from their homes—and poisons them!” she flashed back. The eyes that had before peered at him blankly now blazed with green fire.
His mouth thinned. “It was a potion, not a poison. You’re alive, aren’t you? For the time being. Gad, woman, the potion may have made you dizzy, but it has not softened your tongue. So I assume your powers are intact as well.”
“As intact as ever!” she informed him. Unfortunately this, too, was the truth, Erinn thought in despair.
She could suddenly bear it no longer—lying here, motionless, afraid to even move as this man studied her with insolent leisure. She sat up, more slowly this time, and was relieved to find that the dizziness had faded. The potion must be wearing off, thank the stars. The world held steady, the trees remained rooted in the ground, the sun, like molten amber, glowed in a fixed spot within the soothing blue sky.
She pushed the flask away as he held it toward her.
“No.”
“It’s not poisoned.” He frowned. “You must be thirsty. And hungry. A touch of wine will revive you.”
“What kind of a fool do you think I am?” Erinn spat out. “I will take nothing you offer, not food or drink. You are not a man to be trusted.”
“But I am a man to be reckoned with.” His eyes narrowed. He stuffed the flask into a pocket of his cloak. “And if you don’t wish sustenan
ce, that is well and good with me. I brought you here for one purpose and one purpose only. And you will do my bidding.”
“Will I?” Through the pounding of her heart, Erinn managed a frosty little smile. “You forget who I am. Are you not afraid that I will turn you into a toad—or perhaps a worm?”
“If you were going to do that, I think you would have done it already.” His gaze was appraising. “Back there in the garden—or when you first awoke.”
“I might have.” She took a deep breath. “But…I am curious.” She had to stand up, if only her legs would support her. She had to be ready to run.
Glancing around, she saw that his horse grazed nearby—a huge black steed with long, powerful legs. She didn’t recognize her surroundings, and she knew Marlbury well. Where was she?
No matter, Erinn told herself, though her throat was dry, and not only from thirst. If I can steal his horse and escape, I will find my way back to the castle. Or come across someone who will help me get home.
She rose warily, and found that the effects of the potion had indeed faded. The world remained stationary, and she tugged her cloak closer about her, chilled not by the new dawn but by the cold eyes of the man who rose alongside her, towering over her, blocking the sun.
“Why are you afraid to tell me your name?” she demanded, lifting her chin to meet those intense blue eyes head on. “You must be shamed by it.”
She was stalling for time, watching for an opportunity to escape. To return to Marlbury and see if Braden was all right. He must be all right, she thought frantically, and her heart tightened painfully at the memory of how her brother had fallen and lain so still and so silent.
She couldn’t allow herself to think about that. She must think only of how to outwit this scoundrel and get back to her home.
The scoundrel took a step closer to her, which struck fear into her heart. He was too big, too strong. Too angry.
“You don’t need me to tell you my name. You know it.”
