Didn’t Garrick know how Ware itched to do battle, how he longed to feel the charge of a lightning-swift war-horse as it galloped into a clattering melee of swords and beasts and sweating men? He longed to hear the clang of metal, the thunder of hooves, the battle cries and screams of death. He could almost smell the smoke from the campfire and the sweat of men who hadn’t washed for weeks. He imagined the laughter and bawdy jokes and exaggerated tales of warring and wenching as the men, after conquering a rival castle, gathered around the enemy’s hearth, drank the man’s finest wine, lay with his wenches and servants girls, and felt a camaraderie and a bond like no other on earth. Ah, war would be glorious, and he would come back victorious, a hero, able to make the women — especially Morgana — sit up and take notice of his prowess as a warrior. Yet Garrick denied him.
“Bloody damned idiot!” Ware strode to the target and yanked his arrows from the straw that was packed beneath the target. Blasted stupid prideful Garrick. Just because he was a few years older …
From the corner of his eye Ware spied Morgana. A small smile crept across his lips, and his chest puffed out with pride. She was indeed the most beautiful woman in all of Abergwynn. Though she was pledged to Strahan, Morgana obviously cared little for his company, and personally, Ware didn’t blame her. Strahan could be a self-important pig when he wanted to be. As for Garrick, well, if Garrick was so smart, why had he gone to all the trouble of bringing back this so-called sorceress who hadn’t helped him at all? True, she was the most intriguing woman Ware had ever seen, and there was an unearthly quality about her. He half-believed the stories of her magic himself. However, the fact that her hair was as black as a raven’s wing, her eyes were the color of the sea, and her lips were soft and pink gave Garrick no reason to drag her here using her supposed magic powers as a feeble excuse.
Squaring his shoulders, he walked back to his mark and fired another straight-on shot, one that would surely impress her, before he turned his attention in her direction again. “What is it?” he demanded when she didn’t speak. Perhaps she was awestruck by his skill.
“Now that Garrick’s gone, you’re lord of the castle.”
Ware lifted a shoulder and took aim at the boar again. He couldn’t hide the touch of pride in his voice. “What of it?”
“I wish to leave.”
“What?”
“I’m asking your permission to follow Lord Garrick.”
He had just drawn back his bow. At her words he released the arrow and scowled as it barely nipped the target’s edge. “Garrick ordered you to stay here.”
“I know, but—”
“You’ll do as he said,” Ware ordered, shaking his head at her stupidity. Was she daft? Defy Garrick in his current mood? In Ware’s opinion, she might as well ask for a death sentence. Some of his cockiness drained away. “For the love of Christ, Morgana, you’re asking for more trouble than either of us could handle.”
“I can help him.”
He plucked another arrow from his quiver, took aim, and smiled grimly in satisfaction as he hit the boar dead center, near the heart. “You’ll help him by staying here.”
“Ware, please—”
He whirled on her, his bow taut. “Don’t argue with me!” Angry that he had to defend his brother’s rash decision, he kicked at a muddy stone and sent it flying toward the bailey wall. Had it been up to him, he’d have let Morgana go where she wanted, for he knew she was as restless as he. They were kindred spirits, held prisoner behind the castle walls when all the adventure the thrills, the excitement in life, lay out there somewhere …
She laid a hand upon his shoulder, and Ware nearly came undone. His gut wrenched up, pressing hard on his abdomen, and he was more aware of her than he’d ever been. She smelled of wildflowers and soap, and her black hair gleamed in the pale rays of sun, which had managed to break through the gloomy clouds. “Garrick needs me.”
“You?”
“There is trouble. I can feel it—”
“Enough, Morgana! If I let you leave Abergwynn, Garrick would have my head. You’re my responsibility, and so you’ll stay here, where you’re supposed to, and I won’t hear another word of it.”
Ware knew she wanted to argue. He caught the flash of defiance in her eyes, the petulant curl of her lips, the strong, disobedient thrust of her small chin, but she bit back whatever words were hovering on the tip of her tongue.
“Look, Morgana, would that I could let you go wherever you bloody well pleased, but I cannot defy Garrick’s orders, nor can you. Just wait. He’ll return, and when he does, if he has his son, he’ll be more responsible.”
He saw the clouds gathering in her clear eyes, and the sight pained him. Ware had never been in love and had sworn he’d never let a woman make a fool of him. But if he did allow himself to fall, if he let himself trust any female, it would surely be Morgana. Bloody damn, maybe she was a witch after all. She certainly managed to turn his thinking all around.
“How long must I wait?” she asked, seeming to agree.
“Just until he returns. I doubt he’ll be gone more than a week — a fortnight at most. Be patient, Morgana,” he heard himself say. He could easily have given that advice to himself, for he knew the torment of impatience, how it could tear a man up inside, make him do foolhardy and rash things. He supposed women felt it, too, though probably not the same way.
Women were strange creatures, as was proven by Morgana and her sister, who were as different as night and day — one beautiful and coy, a woman easily understood, the other as mysterious as a sea goddess, her beauty a sensual creeping being that seemed to grab him by his heart as well as his loins. Aye, he’d spent more than one sleepless night imagining what she would feel like against him, how her soft body would encase his as he thrust into her … He pulled himself up short. Already his manhood had sprouted to life, and a wave of embarrassment washed up his neck and cheeks. He was grateful that she’d already turned away and hadn’t — please, God — seen the bulge in his breeches.
Morgana left Ware practicing his archery, his face flaming, his eyes averted. She stepped through the mud and decided that when she could not accomplish her goals honestly, she was left with no choice but to stoop to deception.
Will Farmer was pleased. Things had been looking up ever since that fateful night when he’d taken a wrong turn and been attacked. The men had robbed and beaten him, but in the end he was better off than he had been before. Discovering that the lad he’d seen might be the son of the baron had propelled him to Abergwynn, and as he’d hoped, Maginnis had been more than generous with his reward.
He slapped the reins over the sleek haunches of the horse he’d been given at the castle — a prize, this one, a fine brown stallion sired by one of the lord’s prize war-horses. Luck, Will had decided to call him.
Luck clipped off at a fast pace, dragging the wagon and the old nag behind him. Will was counting the money he would make by hiring such a fine animal out to stud while being able to till twice as many acres each year as he had with the lazy gray beast.