Sorceress (28 page)

Her back was arched, her mouth open as she gasped.

Her ardor fueled the flames in his blood. His mind swam in exquisite sensation, and it was all he could do not to spill himself inside her. Instead he clenched his teeth and drove harder and faster.

Just as she cried out, her body jerking in a violent spasm, he thrust as far as he could, lifted his shoulders and grasped her tight in his arms. He kissed her breast again, filling his mouth with her. The pressure started deep within, building, faster, hotter, his mind splintering as his entire body jerked.

His release was complete.

As was his guilt.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Bryanna’s words seemed to echo in the dark chamber and clatter through his damned heart. Although she was sleeping now, during the night she had begged him not to leave, and he had succumbed. Now Gavyn kicked himself for staying as long as he had, making love to her into the early-morning hours while the fire had burned out completely and the rain had increased, pounding on the roof above.

Much as he wanted to stay with her, it would be dawn soon enough. The castle would begin to stir as men and women went about their tasks, and Gavyn could not risk being discovered.

He was still a wanted man, and there was a chance that word of his crime had traveled here to Tarth, where some villagers might recognize him. He had to be careful, at least until he’d spoken with former acquaintances, people who’d been friends with his mother.

He’d spent enough time in Bryanna’s bed as it was. He’d dozed after making love to her the first time, and then, upon waking, had drawn her sleeping body to his and made love to her again, discovering anew the wonder and magick of her body.

Sorceress? Nay. He didn’t believe she had any magic, other than to bewitch and beguile him.

Woman? Aye. Like no other.

Temptress? No bloody doubt.

As she’d slept, he’d extricated himself from her arms, slipped out of the bed, and gotten dressed in the dark.

The last thing he wanted to do was leave.

But staying would be just plain foolish.

When she let out a soft sigh and turned her cheek on the pillow, it was nearly his undoing. Why not slide back between the covers for a little longer? Could he not hide out here in this chamber? He imagined what it would be like to watch her awaken and find him in her bed. He considered her reaction, the surprise, then the pleasure in her turquoise eyes. How he would love to kiss her and make love to her in broad daylight. ’Twould be exquisite to stare into her eyes, watch her body move, witness her wonder and delight and pure pleasure as he made love to her. He thought of kissing her, seeing her lips, and then later, during the act, observing her kissing him, trailing her lips down his abdomen and lower. He grew hard as he thought of what she would do, how her eyes would look up at him in naughty amusement, how her tongue would flicker and taste him, how her mouth, oh, God, that wonderful, sensual, full-lipped mouth would work its magick upon him.

He nearly slid back into the bed but he heard a noise—the scrape of leather against stone—a boot or shoe in the hall outside the door.

He tensed. His fantasy shriveled along with the thickening of his cock.

His heart flew to his throat.

He strained to hear, but only the sounds of the rain on the roof and wind whipping around the keep met his ears.

For the love of God, he couldn’t forget they were not alone. Nor could he take the chance of being discovered, worse yet caught in the lady’s room and trapped here. He had much to discover about Tarth—how safe it was for him and for her—before he showed his face.

He unsheathed his knife and, after listening at the door, eased himself into the hallway. Bootheels ringing on the stairs told him it was time for the changing of the guard, so he headed in the opposite direction, away from the main stairs.

Before starting down and possibly running into another sentry, he ducked into the windowed alcove where he’d hidden before and listened. Whoever had been climbing the main stairs had not followed. He let out his breath and stepped toward the staircase.

“Hey, you there!” a deep-voiced guard yelled from the bailey far below.

Gavyn didn’t move a muscle.

Someone had seen him in the window!

Damn!
Blast his luck! What were the chances that a guard outside the great hall would see him? Gavyn’s fingers tightened over the hilt of his knife.

“Boy!” The sentry’s deep voice shouted again.

“John, is it? The tanner’s son? What the bloody hell are ye doin’ out tonight in this blasted rain? Get along now, away from the kennels and back to yer father’s hut. If he knows ye sneaked out, he’ll be tannin’ yer own hide rather than that of the huntsmen’s stags, now, won’t he? Now, git, before I flay ye meself.”

Gavyn let out his breath and looked through the window, but the rain was too thick to see much. After he was certain the altercation between the boy and soldier had been resolved, Gavyn hurried down the staircase and stepped outside and into the last remaining hours of night. Rain peppered the ground and splashed the surface of puddles. Gavyn slipped along the darkest part of the bailey, cutting past the armorer and thatcher’s huts and nearly tripping over a wet surprised cat that hissed and shot out from beneath a hayrick to slink behind a pile of wood.

Flattening his body along the side of the curtain wall, he moved stealthily to the stables, with which he was most familiar. He knew a spot in the hayloft where, as a lad, he’d taken many a nap undetected.

With one last glance upward to the window on the third floor of the keep—Bryanna’s chamber—he stole through the doorway and entered a familiar realm smelling of leather, oil, manure, hay, and urine. Easing through the stalls, he hit his knee on a bench that stuck out and bit back a curse.

Horses neighed and snorted and he held his breath, hoping not to disturb any of the grooms sleeping nearby.

“Shh,” one man muttered, then immediately began snoring again.

Stealthily as a cat, Gavyn slipped through the shadows and up an ancient ladder to the hayloft. He hoped to high heaven no one else had taken over his spot, his small nook below the rafters. But no one had; the nook was empty. He curled up and pulled loose hay over him. Come the morning, if Neddym was still the stable master, he’d take the older man into his confidence.

If not? If Neddym had passed on?

Hell, he was just too bloody tired to think of it.

With the cock’s crow, he would come up with a plan.

“Gavyn?” Bryanna whispered, reaching across the cold bed. . . . Wait a minute. He’d been with her, right? Her head thundered, pain pounding behind her eyes. When she sat up, the world still spun a bit.

She lay back on the pillows and thought.

Had she really made love to Gavyn? Had she spent hours in his arms, moving in and out of ecstasy in the dancing light of the fire?

She stretched in bed as the memories, thin and gauzy as spiderwebs, breezed in, then out of, her mind. The sweet wine of last night had soured on her tongue. Perhaps it was spoiled. Tainted?

Had she been dreaming?

Closing her eyes, she tried to concentrate, to remember, but it was all so dreamlike, her mind so detached. “Oh, Holy Mother of God.”

Where in the world was Isa?

Why had her voice suddenly stilled?

Bryanna remembered bits of the night before. The way she’d been so wanton and voracious, so unlike her. Granted, she’d been so tired, drunk far too much, and part of the night was a blur. . . .

She opened a cautious eye and her head pounded with pain.

The fire had died, and though the room was cold, Bryanna’s body was drenched in sweat. No doubt because of the dream, part nightmare, part fantasy. Sweet Rhiannon, it had seemed so real!

As her flushed skin cooled, Bryanna pulled the covers to her neck. The gray light of dawn was filtering through the shutters and the rain, finally, had stopped.

She heard people stirring within the keep. Boots clomped by her doorway and muted voices filtered through the oak door. She was still exhausted; her slumber, though deep, had been restless. Her bones and muscles were not relaxed, nor refreshed, and she wondered if she were ailing.

She forced herself from the bed.

And winced in pain from the tender area between her legs. Of course, he’d taken her virginity.

Images from the night before flashed behind her eyes. Flesh, sweat, and pain. Desire so intense she’d begged him to take her. Then passion and pleasure. She flung open the sheets and saw the small stain: blood, dark red turning to brown. ’Twas not her time of the month, so . . . it must be because . . . because the dream was real. . . .

Aye, he had loved her so completely that she felt a thrill at the thought of it.

Thoughts running amok, she tossed on the chemise she didn’t remember taking off . . . or did she? “Oh, for the love of God,” she whispered, remembering how wantonly she’d bared herself to him, how she’d been atop him, his member hard and stiff inside her.

Could it have been?

Had she made wild love to him nearly all of the night?

Did she remember him leaving in the predawn hours?

Everything was such a blur, a blending of truth and fantasies.

Her head throbbing, she walked to the basin on a small table and tossed cold water onto her face. Another splash of cold water dampened not only her face but a few strands of her hair. She grabbed the linen towel left at the basin and looked at the piece of polished metal that had been hung on the wall. In the reflection she saw her face, white as death, and near her throat the ring of tiny bruises.

From another dream. Physical evidence of a nightmare that had torn through her brain while she slept. Could not the blood on the sheets, the burning between her legs, be the same? If so, could she not be already with child? A babe conceived of a dream lover? Though it seemed unthinkable, she was not so naive as to believe pregnancy was impossible.

Anything, it seemed, was possible.

Biting her lip, trying to deny the turn of her thoughts, she looked into the mirror again. Haunted blue-green eyes stared back at her. “Oh, Morrigu, no,” she whispered, ashamed to the depths of her soul. It could not be. It had to be a dream . . . but as she glanced down at herself, she remembered the weight of the man who had stolen into her room. She glanced at her image again and there, over one shoulder, lurking in the shadows behind her and staring at her reflection, was the image of a man, a dark warrior whose features were blurred by the metal.

Someone insidious and evil.

Her heart stopped.

She remembered that first spate of rutting, for to call it lovemaking would have been a falsehood. She’d not seen her lover’s face, only felt his hot body against hers, his steamy breath and sharp teeth scraping against the nape of her neck.

And what had he said?
“I’m not Gavyn.”

Hugging herself, she stared into the looking-glass as if it could surrender the secret. “Who was that man?” she whispered aloud.

In the mirror was a glimpse of his face, eyes that were almostblack, the tiniest bit of color around huge pupils. One brown, the other blue. Both shining intently. Malevolently.

She twirled, ready to lunge at the demon, to claw out his eyes, but the room was empty.

Still.

She found herself alone in the cold dim chamber, her breasts rising and falling with each breath, her heart hammering, vengeance firing her blood.

Her skin prickled in apprehension just before a deep voice filled her head:

The voice faded and she stood, stunned, her eyes wide, her mind screaming disbelief. “What realm?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. This was the voice she’d heard last night, the voice of the man who had taken her by force. By the gods, was she going mad?

“Show yourself, demon,” she insisted, walking barefoot to the spot where she’d thought the image had stood. She felt a disturbance, a chill in the air, a bitter fury. Her skin prickled, the marrow of her bones turning to ice. “Coward, appear to me!” Her breath fogged in the air. “By all that is holy, show yourself!”

She thought of all the spells she knew, the runes and chants for protection that had failed her. Even this castle with its barricaded gates, guarded towers, and thick curtain walls had not saved her. Gleda had insisted she seek shelter here, for her protection.

Or had Gleda harbored another motive?

Mayhap the woman who claimed to be Isa’s sister was just another liar, an enemy hidden in the guise of a beekeeper. And what of Gavyn? Had he really come to her last night, or was he, too, just an image imbedded in her mind, nothing more than a manifestation of her wishes?

Oh, she’d been such a fool.

So trusting.

Of some vexing voice only she could hear.

The bitterly cold air of the room faded in an instant.

“Isa, where are you?” she demanded, needing to know that her mind was not addled completely. Voices without bodies, strangers in mirrors, bold, unwanted warriors appearing in her bed. Why? Because of some old prophecy? A curse? A stupid doeskin map and useless dagger? Not just any dagger, mind you, but a Sacred Dagger.

She should have stayed with Gavyn in the forest instead of wishing him into her bed and dreaming so intimately of him.