Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

He advanced upon her, and as he drew closer, she tilted back her head to eye him full in the face, though her knees threatened to buckle. “What is it you wish of me?” she whispered.

“You must help me find my son.”

Chapter Three

“This is not the way to the tower,” she said, half running to keep up with the baron’s longer strides as he pulled her across the sand. He’d plucked her dagger from her hand and kicked sand over her fires, then told her that she had no choice in the matter.

“But it is the way to my camp.”

“You have your soldiers with you?”

“Aye.”

“To attack Wenlock?” Fear rose in the back of her throat.

He stopped, turning to face her in the darkness. “You think I would lay siege to my own vassal’s keep?”

“Aye … you bring death.” She quivered beneath his hand, but thrust her chin forward mutinously.

“I bring no death,” he said angrily, tugging at her arm again. “I only want my son.”

She didn’t believe him. The man was too like the warrior in her vision. Nay, she had made no mistake. Garrick Maginnis was the danger — the death.

They reached the northernmost point of the beach. A black steed minced nervously. Nostrils flared, raven-colored ears pricked forward, one foot anxiously pawing at the sand, the horse snorted and tossed his great head as Garrick approached.

“He trusts no one but me,” Garrick said before lifting her as easily as a sack of grain into the saddle.

“I can walk,” she said.

“Ah, witch, are you frightened of the beast?” He climbed up behind her.

“The only beast I fear is man — a warrior from the north who will bring death to my home — and even he does not scare me all that much.”

“Why is that?”

She slid a knowing glance over her shoulder. “God and the fates are with me.”

“Ha! A witch who believes in God,” he mocked, strong arms closing around her as he slapped the reins on the charger’s shoulder. The stallion bolted and Morgana nearly lost her balance, but the muscular arm surrounding her waist kept her astride. The steed was swifter than her own mare, and the wind tore at Morgana’s hair, stealing her breath and stinging so that she had to blink against the tears that formed in her eyes.

She clutched the stallion’s mane and tried to feel neither the front of Garrick’s thighs pressed intimately to the backs of her legs nor the apex of his legs so intimately caressing her buttocks. She sought to ignore the way his body molded itself around hers, making her feel small and womanly for the first time in her life. His breath was hot against the nape of her neck as the horse sped through the mists that lingered on the sand.

They rode up the path that wound through the woods, leaving the sea far behind. The forest closed around them, the light from the moon glimmering through the branches overhead.

Saints be with me, Morgana thought desperately as she spotted the fires of the camp, glowing embers that flashed through the trees. Even if Garrick was honorable, which she doubted, what of his army? She had met many soldiers in her lifetime, but always in the company of her father, behind the secure fortress walls of Tower Wenlock.

Perhaps Glyn had been right, Morgana thought morosely. Perhaps she was being punished for escaping the castle walls.

She frowned in consternation and wished she had not given up her dagger so easily. Now, aside from the fact that Garrick’s men thought she was a witch, she had no protection other than her wits. However, men had often proved as superstitious as women — afraid of that which they could not explain. If need be, Morgana would let them think she was a sorceress, a witch empowered to cast horrible spells upon them. They would believe her as easily as Glyn had.

“Who goes there?” a sentry called as the horse galloped into the clearing.

“’Tis Garrick,” the fierce one responded.

The war-horse slid to a stop in the circle of light cast by the fires. Garrick hopped lithely to the ground. Several men surrounded them, and eager gazes sought out Morgana, still astride the sweating steed.

Despite her thudding heart and weak knees, Morgana held her head high and met each lusty gaze with imperious eyes.

The first sentry, a thin knight with a bony face, smiled as his gaze lingered for a hopeful minute on the swell of her breasts before landing full on her face. “Have you a prisoner?” he asked his lord, desire already gleaming in his dark eyes.