Sorceress (3 page)

As he did, a dry leaf rustled and the horse flinched.

Gavyn didn’t dare breathe.

“Shh,” the lord hissed again.

And the air grew quiet, as still as a dead man’s heart.

And then the horses began to move, to circle. Gavyn knew that the Baron of Agendor had motioned to his men without a word, silently instructing them to entrap him.

He had to move. Even if it risked exposure.

Squinting into the darkness, he spied the large split trunk of an oak that stood at the head of the path.

On his feet in an instant, Gavyn threw himself toward the cliff and the treacherous path that zigzagged down to the canyon floor.

“There,” Badden shouted. “Over there!”

Phhhht.
An arrow zipped by his ear.

He dove.

Ssst.
Another deadly missile passed him in the gathering dark.

His feet found the end of the path, dirt crumbling beneath his boots.

“Traitor,”
his father roared.

A hissing sound . . . and suddenly he was propelled forward by a burning pain that struck his shoulder. He spun around just in time to see, in the shadows, the Lord of Agendor’s bow raised, evidence that it was he who had found his mark.

Was that a smile that curved across his lips?

It was too dark to tell. In a heartbeat, Gavyn fell into the yawning darkness of the ravine.

Isa’s death had been the beginning
, Bryanna thought as she rode beneath the portcullis of Castle Calon’s gate, leaving the keep that had become her home in the past few months. When she’d first traveled through these gates, Bryanna had never anticipated the odd turn of events that would take the life of the woman who’d nearly raised her . . . or the haunting strains of Isa’s voice thrumming through her head.

Bryanna had been born and raised in Penbrooke with four siblings: brothers Tadd and Kelan, and sisters Morwenna and Daylynn. Upon the death of their father, Alwynn, Kelan had ascended to the barony at Penbrooke, but Castle Calon, still in his holdings, became a keep without a lord. At first many had looked to Tadd, who was off fighting for the king. But young, reckless Tadd was hardly ready to rule a keep.

Then Bryanna’s older sister, Morwenna, had dared to defy convention. She’d insisted she was capable of running Calon, and their brother had grudgingly given her the chance. Bryanna had journeyed there to be with her older sister, a headstrong woman with ebony hair, so different from Bryanna. Through a recent spate of murders at Calon, Morwenna had proven to be a brave, insightful lady of the keep. That came as no surprise to Bryanna. However, no one had anticipated that Morwenna would find true love at Calon and marry. Now she and her husband shared the rule.

And now Isa was dead, one of the victims of the terror that had besieged Calon. Her violent end was the point when the madness had really begun. When she’d visited the nurse-maid—poor Isa, dead and cold, her eyes staring sightlessly toward the dark rafters—Bryanna had heard her nursemaid’s voice. As clear as rainwater rushing through the gutters, the old woman’s voice had flowed, instructing Bryanna, and she had listened.

I will be with you always
, Isa’s spirit had insisted.
You alone, of all your siblings, have the sight. Trust me and I will teach you. You, Bryanna of Penbrooke, will be called Sorceress.

Now, nary a fortnight later, Bryanna, upon her fleet mare, thought there was a good chance she was making the biggest mistake of her life. And that was not an idle musing. In her sixteen years she’d erred often and had just as often been caught up in her foolishness. But this—riding away from the warmth and safety of Castle Calon—seemed suddenly rash and foolish, and she had to wonder if she were truly going mad.

If the vision had not been so real, the images so strong, the voice inside her head so loud, she might have pushed thoughts of this journey aside, but she could not. And then there were the dreams that had been with her since childhood, dreams of gems raining from a night sky, dreams laced with that hauntingly familiar chant:

She’d never understood the words until now. . . .

“God help me,” she whispered under her breath as a cold winter wind bit at her nose and earlobes. Alabaster’s hooves dug into the hard-packed road, carrying her off on this truly mad journey.

Her sister’s voice caught up with her, chillingly echoing her own desperate prayer. “Bryanna, God be with you,” Morwenna called, her voice floating high on the brisk winter wind.

From astride her horse Bryanna forced a smile upon her cold lips and glanced over her shoulder to wave at Morwenna with one gloved hand, all the while holding the reins in a death grip. She spied her tall, dark-haired sister and the man she’d married. Bryanna’s heart tore a little at the sight of him, taller than his wife, his shoulders strong and wide, his near-black hair falling over a strong forehead and eyes as blue as a summer sky.
Dear God, do
not
let me want him. Please. Do
not. But it was already too late for prayer. She was half in love with him already.

After a quick look ahead, she glanced back again to spy the thick stone walls of Castle Calon rising behind Morwenna and her new husband. Although the heavy gates were clogged with the traffic of peasants, servants, and peddlers leaving and entering, Bryanna’s gaze was held by the sight of this man at her sister’s side.

So strong.

So masculine.

So disturbing.

He stood at his wife’s side, one strong arm wrapped protectively around Morwenna’s waist.

How had she let herself grow so close to him when he was so obviously in love with Morwenna? Why did she ache just at the thought of him, long for the feel of his hand in her hair, his lips brushing her cheek? Sweet Mother Mary, how could she be so vile, so despicable as to actually lust after her sister’s husband? Bryanna’s stomach turned at the thought and she silently vowed that no one would ever know her secret. She would take it with her to her grave.

“Godspeed, sister!” As he stood at the castle gates, his voice rose over the hills and sliced straight through Bryanna’s black heart.

Sister.
He thought of Bryanna as one of his wife’s siblings, nothing more.

Of course he does. He’s in love with his wife. His
wife
, Bryanna. You are a wicked woman to want it any other way. Maybe, just maybe, those voices in your head, the ones that insist you’re a witch, maybe they’re true. Maybe your heart is as black as obsidian.

Her throat was suddenly thick. Envy slid through her blood and Bryanna hated herself for her wayward thoughts.

Despite the warring emotions burning through her obviously damned soul, she pretended all was as it should be, that she was embarking upon a great adventure and would soon return safely. She gave a final wave and blinked back the tears of regret that burned her eyes.

Urging her jennet to a quicker pace, she felt the mare, Alabaster, a gift from her sister, respond by flattening out, ground-eating strides ever lengthening. Bryanna pushed all thoughts of Calon and Morwenna and
him
out of her head. With resolve, she turned in her saddle and faced forward, her eyes focused on the frozen road leading north, though she knew it would not be an easy path. The wind whistled in her ears and tugged at her hair as the sturdy stone walls of Calon faded behind her.

Away from her sister.

Away from Calon.

Away from
him.

And into the unknown.

For, according to a voice as clear as a night bell, the voice of a woman already in her grave, north was where her destiny lay.

If she could believe such rot.

Sixteen years
.

Cursed for sixteen long, unforgiving years since he’d stoned the witch to death and seen her spirit rise to mock him. Sixteen years spent enduring the bloody curse that had been a weight upon his back. ’Twas as if he’d been living in uffern, his own private hell.

And yet he’d survived.

Hallyd’s fingers curled into tight fists as he stood upon the battlements of Chwarel and stared into the thick night. He was alone, the guard for the east wall asleep at his post in the tower. A lazy one was Afal, with bad teeth and a penchant for ale. Yet, the man was loyal, and that trait, above all others, secured his job.

Frowning, Hallyd looked to the south, from whence she was riding. He felt his blood stir with a fever reminiscent of his youth. With the passing of years he was no longer young, no longer hotheaded or so easily enraged. With the passing of time came patience, strength, and stamina, honed by a conviction so deep it filled his soul.

And now, at last, the time had come.

His dreams of the dagger had not faded and his ambitions, as double-edged as the blade, would serve two purposes: to cast off the black spell and absorb the vast power of the Sacred Dagger.

She was approaching.

Daughter of the witch.

Squinting through the crenels of the thick curtain wall, he noticed the rising fog and heard the sound of distant hoofbeats, their steady rhythm echoing through his brain like a heartbeat.

She was drawing near, her horse galloping toward him.

Quicksilver warmth fired his blood and he licked his lips. His nostrils flared and he swore he smelled her scent on the slow-moving wind. Fresh and touched with lavender and musk, it rose to greet him, to cause a hardening of his cock, to burn erotic images deep into his brain.

The winter wind was harsh, an icy blast promising more snow as it chased away the fog. His lips were chapped as he licked them again and thought of her with her alabaster skin, eyes as clear and sharp as cut emeralds. She was the one.

He smiled to himself and dared to touch his thickening member. Oh, what he would do to her. He’d waited so long and now, soon . . . so very soon . . . he would have his way with her. He imagined first touching her firm, yielding flesh, then considered how it would feel to scrape his teeth and tongue down her back to her buttocks, where he would nip at her before turning her over and finding her breasts. She would buck up to him, wanting more, panting, snarling as he grazed her nipple with his teeth. Crying out, she would feel the first hint of his punishment when he drew a little blood before he spread her legs and forced himself into her.

Then there was the rutting. Hard. Fast. As animals. In his mind’s eye he envisioned her backside, moving beneath him, his thumbs nearly touching as his hands spanned her waist, his cock pummeling her hot wetness. And then, that one moment when the Fates crossed paths and he spilled his seed deep into her. He would toss back his head and scream in ecstasy with the effort, claiming her as his.

Rightfully his.

But that would not be the end of it. Oh no. He would take her again and again, until she was gasping and spent. And then, by God, he’d take her again. She would learn what it meant to be a slave to unholy desire. Just as he had.

He smiled a little, the wind cool against his heated flesh as he considered how much she would want him. Again and again she would beg him to mount her. She would hate herself for the wicked, heated need that was powerful enough to make her ache for more. He would do what he wanted to her and would not stop until he’d planted his seed deep within her.

“M’lord?”

Startled, he jumped and whirled on the soldier, who apparently had awoken and decided to come prying.

“ ’Tis sorry I am for bothering you,” Afal said carefully, “but I wondered if something was wrong. ’Tis not like you to be up here at night.”

“I’m not an old woman,” Hallyd snapped. The nerve of the mongrel!

“Nay, m’lord, I know, and yet, ’tis not your usual manner to brood in the middle of the night—”

“Brood?” he repeated, one hand fisting and a tic forming beneath his eye. “Bloody hell, Afal, is this not my keep? Can I not take a walk upon my battlements at my whim?” He should cuff the idiot here and now.

And the man was lying, for it was always at night when Hallyd was about. Ever since the curse had been cast upon him, daylight burned his eyes and drove him inside. Only on the darkest days of winter did he dare venture from the shadow of the tall walls of the keep before the sun set.

“Of course you may walk wherever you want, but—”

“But
what
?” Hallyd demanded, irritated that this pathetic excuse for a guard would have the nerve to approach him, even challenge him.

“Not a thing,” Afal said, realizing belatedly that he’d overstepped his station. He lowered his head and began backing up, like the whipped dog he should be. “I was just inquiring as to your health. And now, I’ll be off to my post.”

And good riddance,
Hallyd thought, eyes narrowing as the beefy soldier hustled back to the bastion and took up his post, ramrod stiff, as if he didn’t doze through the night watch. Hallyd was quite aware of that. He also knew Afal kept a small jug of ale tucked into a spot in the tower where the mortar had broken free and a rock had loosened.

Hallyd considered pummeling the guard and casting him headfirst over the wall, but he could ill afford to lose another soldier. He also didn’t want to explain the death to the visiting priest, a reverent man who was suspicious enough as it was.

Gritting his teeth, Hallyd turned in the opposite direction and strode to the south tower, where he hurried down the spiraling stairs amid dusky smoke from the rushlights burning low. His own shadow chased him and a rat scurried away, tiny claws scraping as he reached the ground level and walked into the darkened bailey. Beneath the few scattered stars in the misting heavens he surveyed the darkened huts and steep walls.