Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“I thought I could help, I … I had another vision, and I fear for you—”

“For me?” His voice had grown husky, and Morgana swallowed hard.

“Aye, m’lord.”

He leaned closer, his breath fanning her face, his eyes searching every shadow and crease in her skin. The stiff arm at her neck relaxed, and his hand moved slowly inward to touch the base of her throat and trace the circle of bones surrounding her pulse. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said softly, and her insides turned to jelly, for she knew that he was speaking not of her disobedience but of the fact that he and she were alone in the wilderness, nothing separating them but a few thin scraps of clothing and a quickly shredding code of honor.

“I couldn’t stay at Abergwynn when I knew that you were in danger.”

His dark gaze penetrated hers, and the callused finger that had been circling her skin moved lower, to the neckline of her tunic. “I thought you wished me dead.”

“Often,” she admitted, though she was having trouble thinking clearly as his hand worked wondrous magic on her skin, creating concentric circles of warmth that started at the apex of her legs and moved ever outward, radiating to her extremities, causing her flesh to tingle and her breasts to ache and strain against her tunic.

“Yet you think you can save me.”

“I hoped — oh!” Her breath swept inward as his fingers dipped beneath her collar to brush the top of her breasts. She knew she should stop him now, stay this madness before it went much further, but when his lips slanted swiftly over hers, she didn’t protest. Her lips parted willingly, accepting the gentle thrust of his tongue and the hard pressure of his mouth. Her resistance, scanty though it was, collapsed, and she wound her arms around his neck.

He kissed her with a possession that swept through her and turned her blood as hot as fire. His lips were demanding and hungry, as if he’d not tasted of a woman in a long, long time. She answered his plundering kisses eagerly, returning his fever, unaware that she was squirming beneath him, that the white-hot fire in her center was matched only by the burning in his loins.

His hands were everywhere — caught in the thick strands of her hair, stroking her rib cage, pressing hard against the small of her back, and dragging her hips even closer to his. She felt his swelling hardness pressed into her abdomen, and instinctively she rubbed herself against him, moaning softly as he kissed her again, his lips trailing along the curve of her neck and lower still as he shoved the tunic over her shoulder and exposed more of the white mound that was her breast.

“Damn you, Morgana of Wenlock,” he whispered between kisses. His hands surrounded her face for an instant, and she thought he might stop his fevered exploration of her, but he paused only to look into her eyes. Their gazes touched, his demanding, hers all too willing to yield. She watched as he hesitated, his hands on the hem of her tunic as if he intended to strip it from her.

Instinctively she arched upward, inviting his plundering hands to do more than tease.

He groaned and slammed his eyes shut, fighting the fires that consumed him, battling against the hunger that roared through his blood. He wanted her — oh, Holy Father, he wanted her in such a way as to make a decent man blush. “Christ’s blood!” he growled, her tunic bunching in his fingers. “Why do you torment me, woman?” Angrily he yanked the hem back into place and muttered oaths at himself as he rolled quickly off her. “Why couldn’t you stay put?”

So angry he was shaking, he forced himself to his feet, shoved his hands through his hair, and muttering an obscenity, kicked the ground. “This is no good, Morgana. You should have stayed at Abergwynn.”

“I could not.” Picking the twigs from her hair, she struggled to her feet, and when he faced her again he found her chin tilted defiantly, her shoulders braced for whatever cruel words he might hurl at her. Holy Mother Mary, if he had any sense at all, he’d tell her to stay out of his sight, that she was no better than a street wench, that he wouldn’t dishonor his cousin by lying with her. If he mortified her and wounded her harshly enough, she might have the good sense to stay away from him. Yet he couldn’t summon up the words. He’d hurt her enough already, and though she was betrothed to Strahan, it was Garrick’s responsibility to keep her away from him — not by vicious words but his own code of honor. So he gritted his teeth and, instead of demeaning her, took her hand and led her into the circle of light by the fire.

A few of his soldiers had awakened and were standing, swords drawn, as they approached.

“Oh, m’lord, thank the saints, ’tis you!” Calvert said, sheathing his weapons. A short man with a huge nose, he was obviously relieved at the sight of the baron. His gaze rested on Morgana for a minute, and the flicker of a smile teased his lips but was quickly hidden in the shifting light from the fire.

“We thought you might have seen the robbers,” Hunter added, casting Morgana a glance that said more than words. She felt a blush steal up her neck, but refused to lower her eyes.

“As you can see,” Garrick explained, his expression unreadable, “Lady Morgana has taken it upon herself to join our search, though I instructed her to stay at Abergwynn. I’m not pleased that she disobeyed me, and she will be punished when we return, but I shall let her stay on with us, on the condition that she not wander off and that she stay within our ranks. You are to give her every consideration and yet keep an eye on her.”

Morgana bristled but held her tongue. So far she was getting off with small punishment.

“Now let’s all get some sleep.”

“I’ll take the next watch,” Hunter offered, and Garrick motioned Morgana forward to his tent.

When she started to protest, he placed a finger to her lips. “Since you spent the last two days searching for me, I’ll trust you won’t disappear in the middle of the night. I’ll sleep with Calvert.” He added dryly, “He snores and smells of horses and ale, but at least I won’t be tempted to do anything dishonorable.”

Morgana blushed again, and Garrick’s jaw hardened, his amusement forgotten as he glared at her. “You’ve already made a fool of me by disobeying me, Morgana. Don’t make that mistake again. The next time my punishment will be swift and harsh.”

“What would you do, m’lord?” she demanded defiantly. “Betroth me to a man I detest?”

Before Garrick could respond, she slipped into his tent and threw herself down on his pallet. The man was horrible. And wonderful. And prideful. And handsome. And a bully. And … Oh, damn his black soul, she couldn’t help thinking about him and the wonder of his touch.

If she thought of him still, she could feel the sweet, hot vibrations that had seeped through his blood to hers when he kissed her. To force her thoughts away from his kisses, she bit her lip, nearly drawing blood, hoping that pain would chase away her willful fantasies.

They broke camp, and Morgana, astride the now captured stallion she’d “borrowed” from Will Farmer, rode behind the baron in the company of his soldiers. Garrick knew that the men were sniggering behind his back and that they expected him to punish this woman who had openly defied him. Punish her he would, elsewise there would be hell to pay, as his men would no longer respect him.

But he wasn’t going to bend her over his knee and humiliate her, nor would he strike her, nor was he about to banish her to a tower or any other nonsense just to appease his men. No, her punishment would have to seem harsh to the men, while not injuring Morgana in the least. God’s teeth but he felt as if he were standing in the middle of a river. On one side was a beach strewn with burning coals, on the other an icy bank so cold it would pull the skin from the soles of a man’s feet. Yet he had to choose, because the river was steadily rising and if he didn’t move, he would surely drown.