Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

“I don’t know—”

“Oh, for the sake of all that’s holy!” He motioned to the forward scout, jerked hard on the reins, dug his heels into his horse’s sides, and began riding again. The small company followed him, pushing at Morgana’s horse as she realized that Garrick wasn’t going to heed her warning.

She wouldn’t give up. She kicked Luck hard and, catching up with Garrick, grabbed the reins to Warrior, stripping the wet leather straps from his hands. Both horses reared and whinnied.

“What the devil’s gotten into you, woman?” Garrick roared. He snatched the reins from her hands, his face a mask of fury.

“It’s Cadell. He’s — he’s with Strahan.”

“You’re talking nonsense. I’ll not be fooled by your silly visions. You wanted to return to Abergwynn, and we’re nearly there. By tomorrow nightfall, we’ll be at the castle. What else would you want?”

“Just listen to me!”

“No, Morgana! You listen to me! You forget who is lord here!” Furious, he leapt lithely to the ground. While his men watched, he reached up and yanked her from her saddle.

“What’re you doing?” she demanded, her face turning scarlet, her eyes worriedly darting from Garrick to his men. Lightning sizzled in jagged white streaks over the hills, and thunder rumbled ominously. Rain poured down on them.

“I’m teaching you a lesson you’ll not soon forget, witch,” he growled. “This is the last time you make a fool of me in front of my men!” He turned to the nearest knight, Sir Marsh. “Find a place to make camp. Lead the men there. We’ll catch up with you. The witch has had another vision, and I need to hear all about it.”

Marsh’s knowing gaze slid from Garrick to Morgana and back again. The hint of a smile showed beneath the stubble surrounding his mouth. “Aye, m’lord.”

To Morgana’s disbelief, the company moved on, leaving Garrick and her alone with their horses. Garrick waited until the last destrier had rounded a bend in the road. Then he grabbed her arm and dragged her through the puddles on the roadside and into a copse. “Garrick, please, I don’t understand—” she said, half running and stumbling to keep up with him.

“Nor do I!” he nearly shouted, his face twisted in anger, his nostrils flared. “You’re using your magic on me, Morgana—”

“I’m not!” she cried. “I’m not!”

“First you tell me to stay in the castle, then to leave, then to go back, then to turn around! My God, woman, you’ve made me a laughingstock. I follow your orders like a bull with a ring through his nose. All you have to do is pull and dream up some wild vision and I do what you command. Do you not see how this appears to my men? They think I’ve lost my mind — all because of you!” He threw up one hand in exasperation and swore loudly.

“Did I not see the ribbon in the water?” she asked, forcing him to stop.

The hand on her arm tightened a little. “You have not found my boy.”

Silence yawned between them. Raindrops peppered the ground, and the wind clutched them both in its icy fist. “You must listen to me, Garrick,” she pleaded, grasping his shirt in her fingers and twisting the woolen fabric until the fibers scraped her skin. “There is grave danger for all of us!”

“At Abergwynn.”

“Aye.”

“And here?”

“Everywhere!”

His gaze centered on her lips and then on the raindrops running from her forehead to her chin. Her eyes were round, dark and deep green, filled with fear and something else … something much more dangerous. He felt her fingers in the folds of his shirt, smelled the scent of rain in her hair. Swearing under his breath, he drew her into his arms, and his chilled lips met hers with a hunger so intense she nearly collapsed against him.

“You vex me, woman,” he growled between kisses as he licked the drops of rain from her face. She wound her arms around his neck and felt the coldness leave her body. His cool lips began to heat as his tongue slipped easily between her parted lips. Desire claimed him, and he lifted her tunic, touching her breasts with cold hands. Her warm skin seemed to seep into his palms, and her nipples became hard and ripe, succulent. He fell to his knees, unmindful of the mud, and dragged her down. Then he tore her tunic from her and stared at her bare torso, her proud breasts wet from the rain, her black hair coiling in damp waves to her waist. His hands were large as they surrounded her ribs, and he watched in wonder as he cupped both breasts. She sucked in her breath, her abdomen flattening, her flesh nearly blue with the cold.

The hardness between his legs screamed for release.

“I could take you right here,” he said, his hands beginning to massage that firm, supple flesh that held so much fascination for him. Her nipples puckered prettily, begging for the bittersweet torment of his tongue.

“Aye,” she said proudly, her chin still lifted, her breathing short and shallow.

“You would not stop me.”

She closed her eyes as he touched her nipples, and a shudder ripped through her. “Nay, m’lord,” she whispered.

“And what of Strahan?”