Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“Then you said my son was in danger, which is a known fact. Now you can expect me to believe that I, too, am in some dark jeopardy?”

“Not only you, Garrick,” she said, using his given name freely. “But all of Abergwynn. I told you of the symbol of death in my dream.”

“Ah, yes, the sword and the triangle. Well, rest easy. Strahan and Ware are guarding Abergwynn,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “As for me, I have no fear for my own life.”

“Then, m’lord, you are a fool.”

He glared at her for a second. “Another fact that can’t be disputed. I came for you, didn’t I?”

He was about to leave, but Morgana, still shaken by her dream, grabbed hold of him. Before he pulled aside the veil of willow leaves, she murmured a quick spell for his safety. Her words stopped him short.

“You don’t have a whisper silly incantations.”

“’Tis not silly.”

“’Tis against the church,” he pointed out, starting to leave her again.

“Only a prayer to nature. I don’t think God would disapprove,” she replied sharply. “Can’t you see that I am trying to do as you asked?”

Garrick sighed, and the night was filled with his great sadness. He didn’t disguise his torment, and his broad shoulders sagged a bit. Over his shoulder he said, “I asked you to find my boy, and you’ve failed.”

“Not yet. There still may be time — Oooh!”

He had spun quickly and grabbed her, both hands digging into the soft flesh of her upper arms. “How long, witch? How long before we find my boy?”

“I know not.”

“That’s right. You know nothing! Nothing!” He spat out the words, his anger and frustration igniting as he glared down at her.

For a second Morgana knew fear — a cold, deep terror that nearly stopped her heart. But then he drew her to him and with the same punishing grip as that on her arms, he kissed her — hard and hot and savage, as if in pressing his mouth possessively to hers he could somehow drive away his desire, as if he could turn an act of love into an act of hate.

Morgana, blast her weakness, responded to him. Her body yielded even as her mind rebelled, and though she tried to push him away, to pry his hands off her arms, her own lips surrendered to his in a kiss that caused a shudder to rip through her body, creating an answering response in his.

“Why do you do this to me?” he rasped, his fierceness replaced by wonder. “This can’t be.”

Morgana knew it was true. Any silly hope that she and this powerful man could become more than a subject and her liege, died a quick and painful death. He was the baron, the man who still grieved openly for his dead wife, the mean who had vowed to harm all that she held dear if she didn’t obey him. Yet she had let herself feel something for him, some unnamed emotion that caused her to think irrationally, to risk her life, to do anything to be at his side. Oh, she was a goose! As silly as Glyn!

She didn’t hate him as she once had, though in truth he scared her more than a little. But she cared for him much more than she should have.

With a groan he took her into his arms again, and this time his kiss was gentle, his tongue probing, his hands splayed against the small of her back. Through her clothes she felt him trace her spine with the tip of one finger, moving lower and lower until he found the parting of her buttocks. She squirmed when he stopped, and the finger rested at the apex of that sensitive cleft. Deep inside, she pulsed, moisture beginning to heat between her legs. She shifted, hoping he would draw those intimate lines against her skin again. A delicious warmth crept through her, and she pressed her eager, hungry lips to his. Her breasts were crushed against the great solid wall of his chest, and her blood thundered in her brain.

“Sweet, sweet Morgana,” he whispered against her ear, and she knew that he was losing his control again, that all too soon they would be lying on the ground, their fingers clawing past clothing to find bare skin, their breathing as ragged and panting as that of mating beasts. “Stop me,” he begged in a voice torn with agony.

“I — I can’t.” She closed her eyes and her mind to all that could happen — to the past that divided them, to the present that had thrust them together, to the future that was as bleak as any of her visions.

He grunted, low and primal in his throat, and one hand cupped her breast, feeling its weight, massaging the firm mound through her tunic until her nipple stood erect and ready. He kissed her again, his famished lips eager and wanting.

Her breath was lost, as was all reason, and only when he drew back his head, holding her face between warm palms that trembled, did she find the strength to pull away.

“I’ve never wanted another woman — not since Astrid, not like this,” he said, his voice faltering over the name of his wife. “I thought and I hoped that I would live the rest of my life never feeling this way.”

“And now?”

His lips twisted into a sardonic smile. “And now you’re betrothed to my cousin, by my own choosing. It seems as if your fates have played a trick on both of us.” He started to turn back to his own pallet, but Morgana touched his arm.

“Listen to me, Garrick!” she commanded, her voice a rough whisper. “I wouldn’t lie to you. There is grave danger! I’ve seen it! Castle Abergwynn could be under siege at this very moment.”

He shook off her hand. “I think the only thing under siege, Morgana, is my mind.”