Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)
He crossed the ground between them quickly, and steely fingers surrounded her wrist. “Do you take me for such a fool, Morgana? Did you think I would believe your silly story, that I would not see through your ruse to lull me into mistrusting my own kin?”
“Blood has been spilled,” she said, her gaze clashing with his. She would not back down. In an instant she saw emotions surface in his eyes, emotions that seemed to echo her very own. Her throat grew tight, and she wished with all her heart that he would draw her into the safe circle of his arms and tell her that everything would be all right.
Instead, he stared down at her suspiciously, as if he could read the guilt in her upturned face. “Go on,” he urged.
“I heard screaming and cursing and saw blood discolor the stones of the great hall.”
“Whose blood?”
“I know not.”
“Logan’s?”
She stopped, trying to bring the vision back into sharp focus, but it was gone, and she could not retrieve more than the vague impression with which she’d been left. “The wind says he is safe, that I alone can find him.”
Garrick snorted. “Your wind serves you well, Morgana.”
She bit back a sharp response. If he wanted to be surly, so be it. She had only a message to give him. “The wind claims the boy is at home.”
“At Abergwynn?” he scoffed. “The castle was searched from the highest battlements to the deepest well—”
“He is in a dungeon with slick walls. Water drips from the ceiling. I … I have seen them!”
“You have seen my son?” Garrick roared, his handsome features twisting into a mask of suspicion. “Now, after all this time, you have finally seen him? How convenient.”
Morgana tossed her hair out of her eyes, determined to make him believe her. “His hair is light — a red-gold color that shines like the sun.”
Garrick’s mouth compressed into a hard line.
“He has freckles and his teeth are gapped, but his eyes are the color of the winter sky. He is small for his age but quick, and right now he is very, very scared!”
“You have heard him described by the soldiers and the servants. Habren knows not when to hold her tongue.”
“I swear to you on the lives of my family that I have seen your son. He is safe for now, but the wind says he is in danger and I am the one to save him.” The fingers around her wrist moved slowly, touching the pulse on the inside of her arm.
“Your wind seems to talk only when you want something from me, Morgana. I think you control everyone and everything you touch.” He yanked her hard against him and forced her chin upward so that she could stare into the cold depths of his eyes. “I think you cast your spells and turn men against their brothers, all for your own amusement.”
She attempted to ignore the warmth his fingers inspired. “I swear—”
“So you’ve said.”
Dear God, why wouldn’t he believe her? She yanked her hand free and stepped away from him. “If I am wrong, or if I have lied, you can punish me.”
His lips curled. “Punish you? Has not your own father already banished you from Wenlock?”
Her shoulders slumped a little at the horrid memory. Would that she could see her home again, but that was not to be.
“So how am I to punish you? By hurting your father — taking away his keep? By bending you over my knee?”
“You have already dealt out my punishment.”
“By forcing you to marry Strahan?” he asked, his lips without blood. “You would go willingly to be his bride?”
The thought was repulsive, but she had no choice. Not only Logan’s life but now Glyn’s and Cadell’s hung in the balance. “Aye,” she whispered, her insides growing as cold as the winter snow.
“You will be a true and loyal wife?” he asked flatly, his eyes showing no emotion.
In her mind’s eye she pictured Strahan, handsome but cruel, a wicked leer playing on his lips as he took Springan on the floor of Tower Wenlock. He lifted her skirts, lay with her, poured his seed into her, sired her child, and then cast her aside and treated her with as little respect as he gave the rest of the servants.