Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

She didn’t struggle, and her arms, reluctant at first, wound slowly around his neck. He became bolder — perhaps she was no virgin after all — and his tongue rimmed her lips, flicking against her teeth, probing the velvet-soft recesses beyond.

Morgana moaned, low in her throat, wishing to stop this assault on her senses, but unable to protest. Garrick’s strong arms surrounded her. The feel of his muscles, hard against hers, with only the thin hindrance of their clothing, created in her a blinding need to explore further, to return his kiss, to let this tingling sensation go on and on. The smooth stones near the doorways were wedged against her back, but she cared not, felt nothing but the sweet pressure of his lips against hers and the provocative flick of his tongue mating with hers.

She knew, deep in a faraway part of her mind, that what she was doing was dangerous. Men could not be teased. She’d heard from her very own mother how a man, once aroused, was not to be denied. And yet, all Meredydd’s warnings seemed to spin away, caught in a useless whirlpool that slipped away from her.

Garrick’s breathing was as ragged as her own, his hunger evident in the part of him that pinned her hips to the wall. His fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, and when he drew his mouth from hers, he let his lips trail down her neck, causing a chill to scamper up her spine. Gooseflesh appeared on her skin where his tongue pressed hot and wet against her.

Her knees felt weak, and she would have sagged to the ground had it not been for Garrick’s rigid body supporting her. As it was, she was wedged between the wall of the keep and his own hard muscles. He kissed her again, more slowly this time, sucking on her lower lip, and her heart raced so quickly she thought it might burst. Desire, like a nest of butterflies breaking free, fluttered through her blood, and she found herself clinging to him, her hands wound high over his neck.

New sensations assailed her, and her skin quivered for his touch. He groaned and buried his face in her hair, as if trying to restrain himself. When at last he lifted his head, she opened her eyes and saw the smoke of desire still drifting through his gaze.

Studying her features, he couldn’t restrain himself. He knew she was pledged to his cousin and would do anything to break free of the betrothal — perhaps even lie with another man so that Strahan would want her not — but Garrick could not help himself. It had been too long since he’d been with a woman, and his body cried out for this little sorceress with such hunger that he could not stop stroking her smooth skin and kissing her neck. His manhood ached to be set free, and he imagined the warmth of her tight body as he delved deep into her.

He knew that he was playing with fire, that becoming emotionally involved with Morgana was more than dangerous, but though he fought his passion, he was a prisoner to it. He imagined the sight of her breasts, two white globes, full and firm, peaked by dusky pink buds that would beg to be kissed, to be tasted, to be suckled from.

With a groan he gave in. His body was strung as tight as a crossbow, and he reached for the ribbons at her neck, but her small hand stayed his. “Nay. We must not,” she whispered, her voice ragged as his heartbeat. “Someone watches.”

What kind of deception was this? Garrick made a derisive sound. “Who?”

She shook her head, but shivered, and the fear in her eyes was real, as if she were certain that unseen eyes were observing them. “I know not.”

“No one but the sentries is about.”

From the forest there came the cry of the wolf, closer this time, and Garrick felt a cold sliver of fear slice into his heart. Was she but playing a game with him, or did she really believe they were being observed?

Morgana took advantage of his hesitation and slipped through the door. She was careful as she mounted the steps to her room, her felt boots making not the ghost of a noise. She hurried to the door and slid inside, her heart thundering with a painful beat. Oh, she’d been so foolish! What had she been thinking, kissing the beast that was Garrick of Abergwynn? He cared not for her, though his desire was evident enough. Nay, he was used to having women, whomever he chose, and expected them to indulge his whims — even a woman he’d unwillingly betrothed to his cousin!

But her own heart was betraying her. She was beginning to care for the dark lord who had brought her here, though why she felt anything for him, she had no idea. She reached for the bottom of her tunic, intent on stripping and slipping between the covers, when she realized she was not alone. Her heart slammed to her throat as Sir Strahan, leaning against the wall near the hearth, pushed himself upright.

The fire in the hearth had burned low, and the room was lit only by the coals that glowed scarlet, reflecting against the walls and floor.

Morgana swallowed with difficulty and hastily smoothed her tunic, inching up her chin to meet the darkness of his gaze. “You frightened me. What are you doing here?”

Strahan shook his head. “Just making sure that you were well.”

“’Tis indecent for you to be in my chamber—”

“As it was for you to be in Garrick’s room earlier this evening?” Strahan asked, rubbing his chin. “I was worried about you, and I knocked at your door. When you did not answer, I called out. Again you didn’t reply, so I opened the door to find that you had not yet slept.” He crossed the room slowly, and Morgana’s blood turned to ice. Clucking his tongue, he stopped bare inches from her. “Lady Morgana,” he said in a voice so low she could barely hear it over her own heartbeat, “up so late and creeping about the keep? Where, I wonder, have you been?”

Chapter Twelve

“She was with me!” Garrick shoved open the door and stepped inside Morgana’s chamber.

“With you, m’lord?” Strahan’s voice was scornful, and Morgana, grateful for the darkness, blushed at the thought of just how intimate she’d been with Garrick, though she felt no obligation to Strahan. As despicable as Lord Garrick was, she knew instinctively that he was a better man than his cousin.

“We were trying to find Logan,” Garrick explained evenly.

“Now? In the middle of the night?” Strahan couldn’t hide the sneer in his voice. His eyes, glowing with cold jealousy, reflected the dying embers of the fire. “And tell me, cousin, did you find him?”

“Not yet,” Garrick said, “but I’ve been told we must be patient.” He cast Morgana a look, and she managed a wavering smile. “Patience is not known to be my strongest quality.”

“Yea, it well may be your weakest,” Strahan agreed, but the doubt did not leave his tone. “However, I’ve always known you to be true to your word, Garrick, and I would not believe that you would do anything dishonorable to me or to my bride.”

The unspoken accusation hung on the air like a bad smell.

Morgana was glad for the darkness and swallowed with difficulty.

But Garrick managed a grin. With a hollow laugh, he threw an arm around his cousin’s shoulders, guiding him out the door. “Come, Strahan. Let us find a glass of wine and a game of dice before we rest.”