Sorceress (36 page)

“A strong one, he is,” the old lady observed. “Like my husband, long ago.” She sighed sadly. “So Brynn, where are ye and yer husband headin’?” She was staring at the flames while still stroking the pelt.

The word echoed in Bryanna’s brain.

Surprisingly not an uncomfortable thought.

And not one Bryanna hadn’t considered.

“You must be goin’ somewhere,” Rosie prodded, her friendly smile showing a broken front tooth.

“East. We’re really not sure,” Bryanna finally replied. “Cain, he has family over the hills. A brother. I’ve never met him and . . . and it’s been a long time since he traveled this road. I’m, um, not really certain where we’re going. I leave that up to Cain.” Oh, for the love of God, she sounded like an utter goose, the kind of woman she detested.

Rosie scowled, looking as if she’d just sucked on a tart crab apple. Using a walking stick, she poked at some charred bits of wood that had fallen near the edge of the fire. “Surely there is a name to this place.” With a well-placed push, she sent a bit of blackened wood back into the fire pit.

“I’m really not sure—”

“ ’Tis a village not far from the river,” Gavyn said as he walked through the door carrying an armload of wood and the woman’s ax. “This needs sharpening,” he said of the blade. “Duller than the village idiot, it is. I’ll sharpen it if you have a whetstone.”

“Let’s see.” She struggled to her feet. “My husband, God rest his soul, he took care of keepin’ the tools sharp.” She found a whetstone upon a shelf, then handed it to Gavyn before stirring the pot hanging over the fire pit. Bryanna’s stomach growled as Gavyn began sharpening the ax. Rosie set a few more knives beside him, then settled onto her stool again. “What is the name of the village?”

“’Tis called Allynwood, and not too far from Connah’s Quay.”

“Never heard of it. Allynwood.” She scratched at her cheek.

“A very small village,” Gavyn assured her as he spat upon the stone and worked on the ax. “Smaller than this one.”

She laughed at that, a quick cackling sound. “Hard to find one smaller than this one,” she joked. He winked at her and she blushed, then offered them ale. As the night wore on, she spoke of her dead husband and the fact that she had no children.

“So if I were going to Allynwood, which way would I travel?” Gavyn asked when the woman began to yawn. “I mean east, of course.”

“I know not where Allynwood is. You say it’s near the quay? Hmmm.” She was shaking her head, her brow furrowed.“My husband, he was a mason before the accident that crippled his arm. He traveled some. Spoke of towns he’d visited. But Allynwood? Nay, I don’t remember it.”

“I know it was near a larger town,” Gavyn said. Watching his exchange with Rosie, Bryanna realized anew what a skilled liar he was. “But I don’t recall the name. It had an abbey or cemetery or cathedral in it, I think.”

“Oh, my, let’s see.” She looked up at the ceiling and sighed. “He talked of . . . Wrexham, but that’s south and east, and Caer . . . oh, come now . . . Caerwys, it’s not far from Holywell.” She shook her head, graying strands of hair brushing her shoulders. “There’s St. Asaph, south of Rhuddlan, of course, but it’s not near Connah’s.” She rolled her lips over her teeth and cocked her head to one side. “Sorry, Cain. ’Tis all I remember.”

“Worry not. We’ll find our way,” Gavyn assured the woman, though Bryanna didn’t know how. Unless Isa, who had remained uselessly mute in the last month, decided to speak again, Bryanna wasn’t certain where they should head or where their destination might be.

When at last it was time to sleep, the peasant woman found a pallet hardly large enough for the two of them and offered up a tattered blanket, while she took her own bed in the back of the single room.

Keeping up the falsehood of their marriage, Bryanna lay beside Gavyn and didn’t protest when he flung his arm about her abdomen and pulled her close. Shutting her eyes, she attempted to ignore the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms, the way her back molded so perfectly to his chest and abdomen and legs. The front of his knees touched the backs of hers and the top of her head fit into the crook of his shoulder.

Oh, this was dangerous.

She sensed him in her nerves and her muscles. Though she tried to relax, she was highly disturbed by his warm breath ruffling her hair and sweeping over the back of her neck.

Images of making love with him again flashed through her oh so willing mind. It was all she could do to keep from turning, wrapping her arms around him, and kissing him wildly. Passionately. With all the abandon that she’d felt on that one night they’d spent together in the castle at Tarth.

She wiggled a little, trying to put the slightest distance between their bodies, but he only held her tighter and chuckled. “You’re not going anywhere, wife Brynn,” he whispered against her ear.

“I’m not your—”

“Uh, uh, uh,” he warned softly as one hand slipped upward from her waist to touch the underside of her breast. “Tonight, Brynn, I can touch you anywhere I please.”

She felt a tingle deep within her at his words. “We are not alone.”

“Matters not.” He flattened his hand over her breast and she gasped. His fingers splayed and her nipple hardened. Though there were layers of fabric separating his skin from hers, she reacted and bit down on her lip to keep from moaning in pleasure. He found that little bud and through the bodice of her gown he played with it, toyed with it, making her squeeze her eyes shut so hard they ached.

“You’re a miserable, insufferable cur,” she whispered. “You’re taking advantage of our circumstances and—oooh!”

His lips found the shell of her ear and his tongue rimmed that sensitive spot. All protests died on her lips. His breath fanned the place his tongue had moistened and she thought she would go wild with wanting.

Dear God, her blood was pounding through her veins, her skin hot and wanting. The desire deep within her was pulsing and hot, hungry, knowing that it would take but a few deep strokes of—

“Stop,” she hissed, trying to control herself. This was ridiculous!

“You want me to?”

“Yes!” she said breathlessly. Her words were a lie; she and Gavyn both knew that.

One of his hands splayed across her abdomen, the tip of his thumb tucked beneath her breast, his smallest finger reaching just above the juncture of her legs. Her world swam with sensation. As he shifted, she felt his hardness settle against her. ’Twould be so easy to turn over, let his hands push her skirt up over her thighs and hips, while she unlaced his breeches where so hard a bulge was now straining.

If they were quiet . . .

If he just slipped inside her slowly, in deep and out with painstaking deliberation . . .

She slammed the image from her mind, pushed the seductive thoughts far away, and kept her eyes closed. She did not turn over, did not wrap one leg around his, did not offer herself to him.

Not tonight.

This night, damn it, she would sleep on this tiny bed, pressed intimately against him. And not for a second would she acknowledge that her body ached to be loved.

Carrick was tired. He’d followed the woman he now knew was Bryanna to Tarth. The rumors there had been varied, and with each telling, he suspected, they’d been greatly embellished. According to gossip, sometimes she’d been with a man; other times riding alone. One woman had said she’d bought a tunic, but others had said she had several new dresses. Everyone had agreed that she’d come to visit the keep while Father Patrick was in charge, though now Lord Mabon had returned.

Father Patrick had been no help. He’d said that the woman, Bryanna of Calon, was trouble, and that he was glad she was gone. He even wondered aloud if she might be at least partly responsible for the deaths of poor Gleda and Liam, the beekeeper and her husband.

The woman Bryanna had been seen with, the beekeeper Gleda, had ended up dead in a creek soon after Bryanna’s arrival. Gossip and rumors regarding the beekeeper and her deaf husband ran rampant through the muddy streets and dark inn. Everyone for miles around Tarth seemed to agree that Gleda and her husband might well be alive today had it not been for the red-haired woman on her white mare.

Bryanna.

Traveling alone.

Her trail cold as winter.

Rubbing his bad shoulder, he glanced up at the surrounding hills. Since he’d left Tarth he’d been riding for thirty days now, thirty sunrises in which he’d head off looking for the coldest trail of her.

Where would she go? Father Patrick, tight-lipped and sanctimonious, had provided no help. The serving girl in the inn and her mother proved more helpful, the old woman claiming that Bryanna was “near identical” to another red-haired woman who had lived in Tarth years before. The beautiful young mother who’d been known as a sorceress had been killed some sixteen years ago. A stoning, some said. Her blood on the hands of a man who had once been a priest himself, Baron Hallyd of Chwarel.

Carrick climbed upon his horse, glanced once more around the empty yard, and clucked to his horse. Sixteen years was a long while, and truly, Bryanna had little more in common with this dead sorceress than her curly red locks.

It was little more than hearsay, words from idle tongues.

So Bryanna looked like the woman.

It meant nothing.

But he had no other ideas. His search of the countryside had turned up no sign of her, and he’d promised Morwenna he’d find her sister.

He’d look under Hallyd’s rock and see what he found.

Besides, Carrick decided, it might be interesting to find out what Hallyd, the rumored witch killer, had to say for himself.

She was awakened by the sounds of off-tune humming, the heavenly scent of baking bread, and the discomfort of a decidedly full bladder. Bryanna opened an eye and realized she was lying face-to-face with Gavyn, his nose touching hers, her arm flung carelessly over his shoulder, his gray eyes staring deeply into hers.

“God’s teeth!” she cried, her skin suddenly flushed and warm.

She rolled off the pallet and scrambled to her feet, only to find Rosie dutifully stooped over a cauldron of beans and onions set over the fire.

“Mornin’,” the old woman said, her dark wooden paddle moving the soup in the large pot. “I’m thinkin’ you might want some breakfast before you leave.”

Gavyn stretched, making an ungodly sound.

Bryanna felt her teeth clench, but Gavyn managed a grin for their hostess. “Aye, that would be good,” he said. “It smells like a castle cook has been baking.”

Rosie’s cheeks reddened, either from leaning too close to the fire as she tasted her soup or from Gavyn’s compliment. “Ye can freshen yourselves out back,” she said.

Bryanna took a few moments to relieve herself and wash in the pails behind the hut. She returned to find Gavyn already eating, engrossed in conversation with the woman.

“I’ll be hating to see you go,” Rosie said. “It gets a little lonely up here, though recently we’ve seen a few more visitors than usual.” She ladled the beans into a wooden bowl, then placed it upon the small table between her guests.

“Is that so?” Gavyn said, eating a slice of the grainy dark bread.

“Aye, just a few days ago three or four soldiers came through wearing the colors of Chwarel. Black and silver.”

“Chwarel?” Bryanna paused, a morsel of bread lifted halfway to her mouth. “Lord Hallyd’s keep?” It stole her breath away to say the name of the man, the so-called man of God, who had murdered her true mother all those years ago.

“Aye.” Rosie nodded, stirring again to make certain the beans didn’t stick and burn on the bottom of the old iron cauldron. “People say he doesn’t go out, except at night. That he’s been cursed for most of his life. Me, I’ve never seen him, but then, what is the chance of that? A peasant like me meetin’ a baron of his ilk.”

“Why were the soldiers in the town?” Gavyn asked, his silver eyes glimmering with danger like the blade of a sword.

“They were lookin’ for two travelers, a man and a woman,” Rosie said, sliding a glance toward Bryanna. “The woman, she was supposed to have wild red hair. Small of stature, she was. And the man, he was a warrior. He’d stolen himself a big black warhorse with one white stocking and a crooked, star-like blaze.” She stirred her pot. “The woman’s horse was white, with black mane and tail.” Rosie looked up from her pot. “Too bad I hadn’t seen the travelers, because there’s supposed to be a price upon the man’s head. Hallyd’s men claim that this man is a bastard son of Deverill of Agendor. That he not only stole the lord’s horse but killed the sheriff as well.”

Bryanna felt goose bumps rise on her arms. How could Hallyd’s men know this? Had the alarm spread that far across the countryside?

Gavyn’s smile had faded, his expression hardened. The cords at the back of his neck, above his tunic, were pronounced as he remarked, “Is that so?”

“Aye. Too bad for me that I hadn’t seen the two. A widow like me, I could use the money a reward would fetch. But, as I told the soldiers, I hadn’t seen any travelers fittin’ their description.”

“What did you tell them?” Bryanna asked, working to keep her voice steady.

Rosie lifted a heavy shoulder. “Nothing. There wasn’t anything much to tell, now, was there?”

“I guess not.”

“But, if I were you two, I’d be careful. Some people, they’d do anything to get a little coin in their pocket. And you two, travelin’ alone, the way ye look, the horses ye’re ridin’, you might attract notice.” Rosie lowered her gaze and went back to stirring the cauldron. “Just watch yer back. Lord Hallyd has a reputation in these parts. A bloody history, if ye know what I’m saying. When he wants something, he stops at nothing to get it.”

“As is the case with many a lord,” Gavyn said, pushing back his stool. “Thanks for the warning.” As he gathered his things, he tossed two more pelts to Rosie. “For the hospitality and advice,” he said.