“Nay, ’tis the witch herself.” Garrick helped her to the ground, his hands spanning her waist.
The sentry’s expression changed. His skin turned white, and suspicion darkened his gaze. “If she is not a prisoner—”
“She is my guest and will take us to Wenlock at dawn.”
Morgana whirled upon him. “You would keep me here? Nay, I must return to the castle. My father would not be pleased should he find me in the company of soldiers.”
“Would your father be pleased if he found you alone on the beach?” Garrick wondered aloud, his eyes silently appraising her. “What kind of father would let his daughter run free near the sea, chanting spells and calling spirits in the middle of the night?”
“A father who believes his daughter wants only to protect his castle,” she snapped back. If Garrick thought she really called spirits to help her, so be it. His own belief and fear of the dark arts could prove to be his downfall. Never mind that she practiced no witchcraft — let him think what he would.
“Is Daffyd such a fool to think you can protect Wenlock by the casting of spells?” he asked skeptically.
“My father trusts me.” Even as she spoke the words, she felt a pang of guilt. She’d betrayed her father’s trust, and in truth he would be furious. Her sire, though usually a calm man, had a bitter temper and could sometimes conjure up the most horrid punishments.
“If your castle needs protection, why did Daffyd not send a messenger to me?” Garrick asked. “As he is my vassal, ’tis my duty to protect Tower Wenlock.”
“Then you’ve been sorely lacking in your duty,” she replied, and the sentry drew a quick breath between his teeth, clearly not used to hearing impertinence spoken to his lord.
Garrick’s expression hardened. “We will discuss this in the morning,” he muttered.
“I’ll not be held prisoner!”
“Did I not say you were a guest?”
“Then as a guest I would like my dagger back and would appreciate my privacy.”
“To run back to the beach and call up your devil spirits?” he mocked. “Nay, you could be harmed. I will see that you are returned to your father safely.”
“As part of your duty?” she sneered.
“Yea.”
The sentry cast a worried look from his lord to Morgana. “Where will she sleep?”
“In my tent.”
“Nay!” she spat out, horrified. What kind of protection was this? Had he taken her for his own lustful pleasure? Furiously she rounded on Garrick. “I’ll not warm your bed, my lord.”
He smiled then, a rakish slash of white in the darkness. “I’ll not harm you.”
“And your soldiers?” she asked, glancing at the curious gazes cast her way.
“Nay. They will not want to force themselves past the portal that devil magic guards. I will see to it.” To his men he said, “Return to your posts. We have but a few hours until we break camp.”
Obediently the men scattered among the fires and tents, casting only a few curious glances over their shoulders at Morgana.
“Where will you sleep?” Morgana asked when she was alone with Garrick and his one stubborn sentry who would not leave.
“At the entrance of my tent, to protect you. As I said, ’tis my duty.”
“Curse your duty!”
“No doubt you already have,” he said maddeningly. Motioning quickly to the sentry, he ordered. “Take her to my tent. See that she is given food and water, and post guards on all sides. I shall sleep at the entrance.”
“You cannot do this!” she said, desperate to return to Tower Wenlock. She had to warn her father, even if it meant admitting that she had disobeyed him.
“You forget that I am your lord.”