Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

But drown in what? His love for Morgana — for that was what it felt like, as if he were falling in love with this witch-woman with her beguiling green eyes, her cutting tongue, and a stubborn streak that would break the patience of any man.

But love? The word caused him to scowl. He’d loved once, and he’d vowed never to love again. Astrid had been the love of his life. But Astrid was gone, and since he’d met Morgana, G

arrick had thought less and less of his wife. It seemed that Astrid was finally and truly buried.

Chapter Seventeen

The next two days brought nothing. Will Farmer’s robber band, if it had ever really existed, seemed to have vanished into thin air. Morgana was beginning to wonder if the man had lied or dreamed up the whole chain of events.

Garrick, too, seemed to doubt the farmer. With each passing uneventful hour, the baron grew more grim. His jaw became set and uncompromising, his neck and shoulders more rigid. He barked orders at his men, and he was impatient with anyone who dared to cross his path.

The knights rode for endless hours, from dawn until dusk. They stopped often, and each time the company paused, one of Garrick’s best men, the knight called Hunter, searched the ground for tracks. Once they passed a fire pit with ashes that were still warm to the touch, but they found no evidence that the people who had recently camped in the glen were part of the band of thugs who had attacked Will Farmer.

Whenever the search party stopped, Morgana climbed off Luck’s broad back and touched the soil, feeling the texture of the moist earth, rubbing it between her fingers while she tried to conjure up a vision of the men who had traveled this road before. She drew runes for safe passage on the ground and caught Randolph watching her, smirking at her foolishness. But she wasn’t about to be stopped by his silly grin. Often she tried to speak to the wind, but the breeze was silent, and she was soon as frustrated as Garrick.

Most of the knights gave her wide berth. She didn’t blame them. Obviously they thought she was either mad or possessed or both. Not that it mattered. She’d rather have them leave her alone and laugh at her behind her back than have to deal with their bawdy jokes and lust-filled stares.

Near twilight Garrick ordered the tired soldiers to make camp near a stream. Morgana watched as he dismounted with a creak of saddle leather. He tended to his horse, as she did hers, and then while the knights built a fire, he disappeared through the trees, presumably to relieve himself.

Morgana, too, left the growing light of the fire and found a path through the thicket of saplings guarding a creek. Ferns and vines grew along the bank, and the air smelled dank in the coming darkness. She washed the dirt from her face and hands and was still kneeling near the shore when she felt the first tickle of the wind against the back of her neck. Like an icy finger the breeze stirred the leaves overhead and touched her skin, causing gooseflesh to rise on her arms.

“Please,” she whispered desperately, squeezing her eyes shut as she instinctively turned to face the current of air. Water dripped from her hands. “Tell me of Logan.”

She strained to listen, but heard only the rustle of leaves, the flapping wings of an early-rising bat, and the soft, steady gurgle of water splashing over stone.

“Help me!” she whispered again, her wet fists clenching in frustration. “Give me a sign.”

A low moan of air streaming through the undergrowth was the only sound that reached her ears. The voice, stubborn old thing, had decided to fall silent again. Morgana ground her teeth in frustration. What was she supposed to do? Garrick wanted her to help him by using her powers, but so far her gift seemed able only to play games with her and tie her insides into knots.

With a sigh she opened her eyes. “Stupid voice,” she grumbled, kicking at a stone. “Go ahead, be obstinate, but I don’t know how I am to find the fierce one’s son without your help” When the wind didn’t answer, she added, “You started this, you know. Telling me of some danger to the north! Ha!”

She sank to her knees again and finished washing, unaware that Garrick was standing in the undergrowth not ten feet from her, observing her with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. Morgana rose and walked to a wet spot of earth, where she knelt down, and with the sharp blade of her dagger began one of her nonsensical drawings, taking painstaking care as she worked.

“What is that?” Garrick asked. She started in surprise, raising her large eyes until their gazes touched. Staring into her night-darkened eyes, Garrick felt his abdomen shove hard against his lungs. She was beautiful. Even in the dusk, her eyes shone a verdant green, her hair fell around her face in tousled disarray, and her mouth, pinched at the corners, was a succulent pink blossom.

Without answering, she turned her attention back to her scratches in the dirt, completing the sketch. “This is a rune for safety — ours as well as Logan’s.” He snorted and stepped forward. The toe of his boot nearly touched her work. Craning her neck, she stared up at him again, and this time her tunic gaped open, allowing him a quick glance at her breasts, round and full. “You asked for my help, remember?”

He forced his gaze away from the view of her flesh. “And you think some lines in the mud will ward off our enemies?”

“I don’t think they will hurt.” She tossed her head, and once again, his gaze shifted and he was captivated by the fullness of her breasts. Firm, white, and supple, they swung free. Beneath his breeches he grew hard, and it was all he could do to pretend that nothing was amiss, that the ache in his loins wasn’t so hot and straining that he wanted nothing more than to throw her onto her back, rip off her clothes, and plunge into that magic between her legs. The mossy bank would do for a bed, and their bodies would mesh intimately together. Over the thunder of his heartbeat and the hiss of her breath, he would listen to the cool trickle of water and the hoot of owls while he was joining with her, feeling her velvet warmth surround him, pushing deep inside her, hearing her pant and moan while he tasted those sweet and perfect breasts.

He swallowed hard, using all his willpower to stave off the fire running rampant through his bloodstream. She was promised to Strahan — promised by his own traitorous tongue.

Morgana seemed to notice the change in him. As the night deepened around them, lengthening the purple shadows and closing about them like a private cloak, she stood still. The glow from a half-moon pierced the canopy of leaves overheard and shone in her eyes. She glanced down to the bulge at his crotch, looked away.

He swallowed hard, hearing the muted sounds of insects. He and Morgana were not touching, but they were standing so close they could have embraced each other if either had reached out. The air seemed to crackle with unspoken emotions. Garrick burned for her. She inhaled unsteadily, and he stifled a groan, yet neither he nor she was able to take the first step.

“We — we should get back,” she said, but made no move away from the creek.

“Not yet.”

“But I…” She let out a whispering breath, and her eyes begged for the truth. “What is it you want from me?”

He wanted to lie, to say that she held no fascination for him, but he wasn’t a man who dealt in untruths. “I want you,” he said simply, and it seemed as if all the sounds of the night disappeared. He heard her quick intake of breath, noticed the widening of her eyes, watched her glorious breasts rise as she gasped in surprise at the boldness of his words. Oh, if he could touch her.

“You’ve betrothed me to your cousin.”

“Aye, and I was a fool to do it,” he said, cursing loudly as he threw back his head and stared up at the pale moon. “Have you bewitched me, Morgana? Is one of those drawings in the ground a plea to God to torment me? Because that’s what you’ve done. I tried to get away from you, to come on this journey alone, because I knew I couldn’t … wouldn’t be able to restrain myself.”