Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Without another word, he grabbed her hand and yanked her to him, drawing his face so close to hers that his breath, hot and smelling faintly of ale, fanned her skin. “We have a bargain, m’lady, and I’m holding up my end. Now you must honor yours. As for marrying Strahan, you should consider yourself very fortunate. Many a lady would love to be his bride.”

“Then find him someone else,” she retorted, trying not to notice the hands binding her and the silvery sheen to his eyes.

“Should I break my promise to your father? I’ve already left him some of my best men, and your sister and brother will be at Abergwynn soon. I promise to do Wenlock no harm, as long as you fulfill your obligation.”

“As I said, I’ll willingly try to find your boy.”

“And you’ll marry Strahan. I’ll hear no more about it.”

“Does he still want me? I did, after all, sleep with his lord,” she jeered.

“I touched you not! Besides, Strahan trusts me,” Garrick stated, the back of his neck staining red, his eyes glittering with a deadly fire. “I doubt you would lie about your virtue to Strahan, so don’t threaten me.”

It was all Morgana could do to keep from kicking the blackheart as he grabbed her elbow and propelled her toward the stairs. The sounds of merriment and music already drifted up the staircase, but at the top of the circular steps, Garrick paused, his mouth compressed. At the landing, his gaze swept her face, and his eyes narrowed as he studied her for what seemed forever. Then, cursing under his breath, he turned her back the way they had come, his long strides eating up the corridor as Morgana’s skirts swept the floor. “What’re you doing?” she demanded, suddenly frightened. Did he mean to punish her?

“Before we join the others, you must visit Logan’s room,” he said, deciding that the guests would wait. He was impatient and did not care much for festivities to begin with. The sorceress was here for a single purpose, and there was no reason not to start. She struggled against him, pulling back, as she was forced to half run to keep up with him.

At the door of his own chamber, he growled at the guard, “We are not to be disturbed,” and Morgana’s face turned ashen.

Silly girl. Did she think that he was ruthless enough to have his way with her now, in this very castle where her intended was waiting, to rob her of her virginity, then pack her neatly into the arms of Strahan? The thought made him smile, for though he loved his cousin, he also loved to best him, for Strahan was forever competing against him — in the hunt, at tournaments, even in battle. As boys, Strahan had always been triumphant, winning every bet and race. However, as Garrick had grown older, he’d become stronger than Strahan, taken more chances, been more daring. He’d also grown taller than his cousin by a few inches and had become more agile, his reactions quicker, much to Strahan’s disgust.

Now, as Garrick stared down at Morgana, whose razor-like tongue, for once, was frozen in fear, he couldn’t contain his amusement. He touched the side of her face gently when he saw her eyes stray to the curtained bed he’d shared with Astrid.

Astrid, with her red-gold hair and amber eyes, the one woman who had captured his black heart and turned him away from a life of wenching and warring. The only woman he would ever love, the mother of his child. His heart wrenched painfully when he thought of the plans he and Astrid had made, the delight they’d taken in the coming of the baby, and then the shocking tragedy of Astrid’s death on the night Logan was born. Clearing his throat, he caught Morgana staring at him, as if she could see into the depths of his soul.

“His things are here,” he said gruffly, walking to a large antechamber where Logan’s clothes still lay folded neatly, his few toys placed on shelves near his felt boots.

Morgana, insides churning, followed Garrick, then reached forward and touched the tiny shirts and breeches, her fingers running over the rough fabric as she tried to concentrate. She touched the boy’s toys — a tiny bow, some arrows without heads, a wooden horse and knight, a small castle carved of wood. But as her fingers grazed Logan’s belongings, she felt nothing of the lad, no current of life passing through the objects of Logan’s affection. Oh, Lord, was the boy truly dead? If so, how would Garrick survive the loss of his child?

A lump settled in her throat, and her eyes grew moist.

Garrick’s gaze was fastened to her back; she could feel its weight against her neck. She closed her eyes, willing some vision of the boy to appear, but knew that the effort was useless. No life force lingered in the dark closet.

“Well?” Garrick demanded.

“I — I cannot hear or see anything.”

“Why not?” he asked, and when she turned to face him she read the scorn on his face — scorn that hid a dozen deeper emotions.

If only she could ease his pain. Though she felt no fondness for this man who would destroy everything she loved at Wenlock, she could not bear to see him in agony. “It takes time,” she whispered, closing her ears to the lie. Giving him false hope was no better than inventing a falsehood. She swallowed against the thickness in her throat. “May I take his shirt?”

He seemed about to question her, but motioned impatiently instead. “Take everything. His clothes and toys are without meaning to me.”

She reached for a shirt that was soft and felt as if it had been worn often, perhaps loved, and also took a tiny pair of soft boots. Tucking the items under her arm, she followed Garrick back to the main chamber where the baron slept. The room was larger than her father and mother’s chamber at Tower Wenlock, and the stone walls were painted white and covered with tapestries in rich hues of green, gold, and scarlet. The rushes on the floor were piled thick and smelled of roses and cowslip. The hearth, opposite the bed, was built into the wall, and was tall enough for a man to walk beneath its stone arch. Great andirons held spilt wood ready to be lit for the evening fire.

Castle Abergwynn was a keep fit for a king, she thought, and yet the man who was its monarch was unhappy and lonely. She sensed much pain in this room.

Suddenly aware of her thoughts, she looked up and found Garrick staring at her, his countenance thoughtful, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression no longer harsh, he was almost handsome in a savage way. His features were bold but even, his lips thin and sensual. His eyes a flinty gray, bored into hers in such an intimate manner that her silly heart skipped a beat.

She couldn’t help swallowing, not from fear but from a restlessness she felt deep within her heart and soul. The silvery sheen of his eyes and the firm set of his jaw caused a lightness in her head, and her breath came in shortened bursts. “There was someone with the boy when he was last seen,” she said, as much to break the awkward silence between them as to find an answer.

“Aye. His nurse, Jocelyn.”

“She has not returned?”

“She was with Logan that day and disappeared with him,” Garrick said, his brow furrowing again. “Come.” He again took her arm, but this time his grip was less punishing, his expression far from angry. She felt the warmth of his fingertips, but no longer sensed fury flowing through his blood as he guided her through the antechamber to a small room that held two beds. “This was Logan’s chamber,” he explained, motioning to the smaller bed. “The boy slept there.” Morgana felt a chill in the room, as if a cold breeze off the sea had stolen in through the cracks in the castle walls and settled here in this empty chamber. Her skin prickled slightly as she approached the larger bed.

“Jocelyn slept there. C