Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Whose blood?”

“I know not.”

“For the love of God, Morgana, why do you torment me with half-truths?” he demanded, his strong fingers digging into her flesh. “You tease me with only partial visions. You make up stories that have only a trace of truth. You—”

“You must believe me!” she cried desperately, grabbing hold of the sleeve of his tunic. “Why would I lie?” Looking up, her face twisted in terror, she whispered, “My family is there, too, Garrick. My brother and my sister.”

“Who would dare attack me? Who would know that my army is split?”

“Someone who knows you well,” she said quietly. “Someone whom you trust.”

He studied the lines of her face, the worry planted deep in her eyes. “I might be close to Logan here,” he argued, but she shook her head.

“Jocelyn has been dead for several days. The murderers are far away.”

Shoving an impatient hand through his hair, he weighed his choices. He couldn’t let go of his obsession with finding Logan, and yet he couldn’t dismiss Morgana’s premonition. Not entirely. Had she not foreseen the golden ribbon floating in the water? Now, if truly there had been bloodshed at Abergwynn, he would never forgive himself if he ignored her advice.

“We ride back to the castle at dawn,” he said, “and if there is nothing wrong at Abergwynn, I will hold you responsible.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” he asked, his voice low and threatening.

“I’ve seen your justice, m’lord. A boy who openly thwarts you is forced to clean the stables; a brother who disagrees with you is left to guard the castle; a cousin who makes the silly suggestion that you search out a witch to help you find your son is given that very witch as a bride and a large parcel of land as a reward. Even the silversmith who is accused of killing a buck in your forest is allowed to keep the meat and has to pay a fine of two silver cups. Aye,” she mocked, “your brand of justice does not frighten me.”

His eyes searched her face. “You have no fear of me? Am I not the death of all that is Tower Wenlock?” His voice was softly mocking, the hands on her arms tightening ever so slightly. Morgana couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her gaze centered on his lower lip — so close. “Am I not the danger from the north?”

“A — aye,” she whispered, her blood stirring. She watched as a crooked smile twisted that slender lip.

“But you would taunt me?”

“Nay … just tell you how I feel,” she said. Forcing her eyes upward, she met the sizzle in his gaze with difficulty.

“How do you feel?”

“Frightened for Abergwynn and Wenlock, but not … not frightened of you.”

Noticing the lines of strain near the corners of his eyes, she watched as one of his thick eyebrows arched. A strong man, a powerful man, a man used to taking what he wanted, he was nearly felled by the loss of his son.

“I could destroy all that you hold dear,” he said as a nighthawk circled overhead.

“Aye. But you will not.”

“I’m not a good man, Morgana.”

“No?” She touched the side of his face with the palm of her hand. “Then why am I not frightened of you? Why do I sense this great hurt you bear? Why do I feel that you are not the beast I first thought you were?”

“Because you’re a foolish woman!” He jerked his head away from her touch, yet he restrained her still, flexing his hands in his anger against her arms.

“Nay. I think not,” she argued. “I think you’re a kinder man than you pretend to be.”

Unmoving, his eyes dark with the night, he stared down at her. Her breath was lost, her heart pounding an irregular beat as she tilted her face upward and the wind tangled her hair, blowing some of the dark curls in front of her face.

“You’ve turned my thinking all ’round, Morgana of Wenlock.” He lowered his gaze from her eyes to her mouth, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from moistening her lips.

His jaw tightened, and he drew her swiftly against him. Her breasts were suddenly crushed against the wall of his chest, and his mouth captured hers. He groaned and pressed his tongue hard against her teeth, urging her lips apart so that he could plunder the wet velvet recesses of her mouth.

Morgana’s thoughts swirled crazily as he cupped her buttocks and held her abdomen against the hardness of his manhood. “I want you, Morgana. As no man should want a woman, I want you. Is this some magic, you’ve cast upon me?”