Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Let me go,” she commanded in a whisper that was rough and frantic.

“You’ll stay here. With me.” Garrick seldom doubted the wisdom of his decisions, but this time he knew he’d made a vast mistake. Lying with Morgana tucked against him had been a horrible error in judgment. The woman was betrothed to Strahan, by Garrick’s own word, and yet here he was, one arm tucked around her waist, another gripping her right hand. She was rigid in his arms, her breathing shallow, showing her fear. She smelled of lilacs and spring, and his fingertips felt the beat of her pulse on the inside of her wrist.

“I’ll not lie with you.”

“You’ll rest, little one. That is all.”

“I cannot rest with you holding me prisoner. Release me!” She struggled, but her arms, though strong, were no match for his.

Who was this tiny woman who snarled orders like a king? Did she really think she could best him? He smiled in the darkness at the challenge. “Release you? And have you slit my throat? I think not.”

“You have no right!” He felt her tense, then straighten. Her heel connected painfully with his shin.

His breath whistled through his teeth. “Do not test me, witch.”

“I’ll not lie here on your bed and — oooh!”

He swung one leg over hers, pinning her to the pallet. Still holding fast to h

er arms, he leaned over her. In the tent’s dark interior he could barely make out the features of her small face, but he saw her eyes — round, reflecting the golden illumination from the filtered firelight, sizzling like lightning. When his gaze shifted lower, he noticed that her tiny mouth was pursed, her full lips drawn together, and he wondered if she had the nerve to spit at him.

“Unhand me,” she warned.

He didn’t respond, just shifted his weight slightly. He felt every point where their bodies touched. His leg, though covered with a coarse legging, fit perfectly inside hers, and even as she tried to squirm away, he held her fast. Her hair streamed out over the furs. Night-black curls gleamed as they framed a face so small and enchanting he could think of nothing save kissing her.

Nervously she licked her lips, and as he watched the silken path of her tongue, he felt his manhood rise, stiff and full, pressing hard against his clothes, betraying him.

“What?” he finally asked when she stopped moving beneath him. Aside from the rise and fall of her breasts, she was still. “No chants? No spells? No talking to the wind?”

She swallowed hard but did not reply. Her gaze locked with his, and deep inside, he suppressed a groan. The ache between his legs tormented him. Not since his beloved wife, Astrid, had he wanted a woman more … and perhaps this passion he felt for Morgana, this forbidden desire, was even more intense than his faded memories of Astrid. Caught between anger and awe, he became the same kind of beast as many of his men, wanting to feel her supple body yield to his, wanting to feel her hips rise to greet his manhood and hear that soft whoosh of her breath as he entered her. He wanted her to pulse around him, to writhe anxiously beneath him, to buck upward in silent invitation, to —

“Do not mock me, m’lord,” she whispered on a ragged breath.

His wild, humiliating fantasies were brought up short. “Why not?” he demanded in a voice that was rougher than usual. “I brought you on this journey for your skill with magic. Prove to me that you’re not a fraud.”

“And what would you wish? That I turn your hands into hooves? That I cause the fire to rise up and devour your tents? That I turn a beetle into a war horse? What?”

Gazing down at her, seeing the glimmer of humor in her eyes as she openly ridiculed him, Garrick felt foolish. He flung his knee from between her legs, and still holding onto her wrists, he cursed the fates that had brought him to this. “On Logan’s soul, woman, all I want from you is help in finding my son,” he said, unwilling to admit how his body cried out for hers.

Morgana shivered, but not from the cold. “I will try,” she said, grateful that he was no longer poised above her, that his gray gaze was no longer searching hers. Her heart had begun to beat rapidly, as if she’d been running and was out of breath, and the feel of his legs pressing against the inside of her thigh had caused a heat to race like wildfire through her blood.

Aye, she’d felt fear of this man, but there had been a new emotion swirling through her heart, and she’d been spellbound by his face, so close to hers, his hands surrounding her fingers, the pressure of his hips against her thigh. Her throat dry, she didn’t move, but the scent of him, male and leather, forest and sweat, was everywhere and the touch of his hands, warm and firm, made sleep impossible.

She closed her eyes, wishing for the oblivion of slumber, wishing for morning, wishing she’d never met the man who held her prisoner.

For the rest of the journey to Abergwynn, Morgana held her tongue. Garrick insisted she ride next to him, and amid the hidden smiles of the men and their knowing gazes, she sat in the hated saddle, her back stiff with as much pride as she could muster. Obviously the men thought she had lain with their lord. Though her cheeks turned crimson when she caught the shrewd glances of Garrick’s most trusted warriors, she let the men think what they would. Professing her virtue would do no good. Besides, her soiled name might prove helpful, for certainly Sir Strahan would not want a woman who was no longer a virgin.

Only three people knew the truth — Morgana, Lord Garrick, and Springan, all of whom had shared the tent. Springan, however, could have slept part of the time, thinking that while she dozed Garrick had taken Morgana, when, in truth, he’d shown no interest in her whatsoever.

Morgana had not slept a wink as she lay rigid next to the man who held her dagger in one hand and her wrist in the other while snoring softly — as if he didn’t have a care in the world! She was jealous of the rest he could so easily attain.

When she’d dared move her hand away from his as they stretched out upon the pallet, he’d half awakened and dragged her nearer to his warm body, so she’d forced herself to lie without moving a muscle, her sleepless body aching, her eyes burning for lack of rest.

In the morning, of course, the soldiers had attributed the dark circles under her eyes and her weary posture to the belief that their lord and master had spent hours pleasuring her, teaching her the art of lovemaking. That scandalous thought brought fresh color to her face.

She’d thought about what it would be like to lie with him. Aye, trying to rest with her body so close to his, hearing the soft sounds of his breathing, and feeling his leg brush against hers had caused her silly heart to beat much too rapidly. She’d imagined his callused hands against her bare skin more than once and had been ashamed at the stirrings deep within her at the turn of her thoughts.

The knights’ belief that she was Garrick’s lover served another purpose, however. None of the men dared send her lust-filled glances any longer. The soldiers kept their distance from her, for which she was thankful, though she had trouble lifting her head proudly, knowing that they thought she was no better than a common wench.