Touch of Passion (14 page)

“I won't be able to sleep,” she said, smiling a little as well. “And if I do, you'll leave me.”

“I'll stay a little while longer, my love. I'm going to miss you while you're away. All of the men in London who see you will fall in love with you, and I shall be so far away that you'll forget me.”

“No, Liw. I'll think of you every moment. And long for you to come each night.”

She began to close her eyes and yawned, cuddling closer to his warmth.

“I'm glad,” he murmured, watching closely as she slid more deeply into slumber. “Because when you leave Tylluan, Loris, you'll be taking my heart with you, and all my happiness. I'm going to rid Tylluan of the evil that's come to us, I vow, and missing you is what will drive me to do it as quickly as I possibly can.”

“Where did all this water come from?”

Dyfed's booted feet sank into the mud as he measured the length of ground that was still partly covered in large puddles. It was as if a giant wave had somehow formed in the midst of the lake and rolled inland for half a mile before retreating.

“It's very odd, sir,” one of the men said. “Is it the beast again, are you thinking?”

“We don't know that it's a beast yet,” Dyfed replied, though privately he believed that everyone in Tylluan knew it must be. But Kian didn't want anyone to make any absolute determinations—not yet, leastwise—and Dyfed would do his brother's bidding. He shook his head at what little he could see in the dense fog. There was so much destruction. Every plant had been pulled out by the roots and left to the on the muddy ground, and every rock had been dragged out of place.

What could it possibly be, except a great beast?
he wondered. Possibly some type of giant mortal, but there were no footprints to indicate such a being. Indeed, the most frustrating thing about the troubles that had befallen Tylluan was the lack of any clues to lead them in one direction or another.

“Will you call for His Lordship, Master Dyfed?”

“No, not yet. I want to see how far this goes first, and whether there's any sign of what caused this flooding. We'll discover what we can and tell Horas once he's returned from the last lookout and see what he advises. Bened,” he said, nodding at one of his companions, “you ride to the south, and Lud, you go north. I'll head up into the tree line and find out whether the water managed to go up as far as the top of the hill. We'll meet back here in half an hour's time. Call out if you discover anything before then.”

Mounting their horses, the men rode away into the fog.

With the exception of the faint wind ruffling the early spring leaves, Dyfed was aware of a strange silence as he entered the trees. There were none of the usual night sounds; the creatures who generally made them either had departed for a safer place or were simply too afraid to make a sound.

It grew darker, and the trees thicker, as he ascended the hill, but his horse, excellent animal that he was, readily picked his way through the foggy maze. Dyfed reached out a hand and felt of any trunk they passed near enough to, hoping to discover how damp they were. Instead, he felt something that had him bringing his mount to a sudden halt.

“What is this?” Dyfed murmured. He looped the horse's reins over a nearby branch and moved to more closely examine the tree that had brought them to a stop. Running his hands over the trunk, he felt what the darkness and fog made difficult to see. The tree had been struck by something large and tremendously powerful, for it was bent to one side, half out of the ground, some of the bark and a few low branches stripped away. He moved to the tree beyond it and felt the same, and then to the next with the same discovery. Kneeling, he set his hand to the earth and felt how wet it was. Not as soaked as the ground nearer to the lake, but far wetter than mere fog would make it.

The horse, which he could no longer see for the fog, whinnied nervously from where he was still tied, and Dyfed said reassuringly, “It's all right, Bachgen. Be easy. I only wan to know how big this thing is, and then we'll go.”

He felt a little foolish walking with his hands stretched out before him like a blind man, but he was a lesser wizard, possessed only of a single gift, and the fog made it necessary.

Each step he took without coming to the trees that should have been there, stumbling over broken branches strewn across the damp ground and tripping over ragged stumps, made his heart beat a little faster. The path that the beast, or whatever it was, had made was far wider than he'd expected.

It was definitely time to call for Kian.

Bachgen whinnied again, louder, more frantically. Dyfed heard the horse pulling at the branch he was tied to, rearing up and coming back down to the ground with a loud thud, and was suddenly seized by a stark premonition of grave danger.

Kian
. Dyfed sent the thought across the distance that separated his brother and himself.
Come quickly. It's here
.

Bachgen's terror heightened. The beast emitted a terrifying sound that echoed across the valley, and Dyfed heard him struggling wildly to be free. A tree crashed to the ground and the earth shook. Dyfed shouted out and began running in the horse's direction, blinded by the fog, until the violent uproar ended with Bachgen's broken body being flung down nearly on top of him. Dyfed couldn't stop his forward motion; his legs struck the horse's twisted form, sending him tumbling forward, over still-warm blood and spiky bones. He landed on his back, the wind knocked out of him, and scrambled in a vain attempt to gain his feet.

There was a flash of brilliant light, revealing a blur of motion. For one brief moment he thought he saw the shape of a woman, and then, slipping in the wet mud, he lost his precarious balance and fell again. His head hit the ground and exploded with pain, and that was the last that he knew.

“Stop.” Desdemona lifted a hand to keep the beast from crushing the man who lay upon the ground. Despite what Cadmaran believed, she was loath to take part in the killing of any mortal, magic or otherwise. She had no wish to have a
curse laid upon her by the Guardians. Killing the animals and destroying the crops had brought her close enough to punishment; she had to take every care not to cross any unforgivable boundaries.

She had made the man insensible a moment too late; he had clearly seen her, though she wasn't certain of whether he'd seen the beast. But she would take no chances. Distant shouts warned her that his companions, who'd surely heard the violence that had occurred, were coming.

“Go,” she told the beast. “Return to the lake and rest until I call you again. You must be quiet.”

The scaly dragonlike beast obeyed at once, almost relieved to be let go. It shrank from its great height, thinning and spreading into a large puddle on the ground, and when it had finished transforming, it seeped into the earth, seeking an underground passage back to the safety of the lake.

The man's friends were coming closer, but the fog, thankfully, made their task more difficult. She might have disappeared as easily as the beast had done, but there had been something in the man's face when he'd seen her, something intriguing, that made Desdemona stay.

She whispered aloud into the cold, damp air and soon heard a great tumble of noises some quarter mile away. There was nothing particularly distinct about the sounds—they might have heralded an earthquake or an avalanche, both highly unlikely in this particular area—but they were more than enough to send the man's frantic companions in the wrong direction.

“Now,” she murmured as their voices died away, “who are you?”

She knelt beside him and lifted one hand, palm up. A small flame appeared, illuminating a face that she found almost more beautiful than handsome. Not that he appeared to be in any way soft or feminine, but his features were so elegant and striking that they might have been crafted by a tremendously skilled artist. Desdemona recognized at once that he had been blessed with elvish blood. Even a very small
and distant amount could do wondrous things to the forms and faces of magic beings. It had certainly done wonderful things to him.

He was a wizard. She had felt the presence of her own kind at once, but his powers, she sensed, were limited. Which meant that he couldn't possibly be the great Kian Seymour, the Baron of Tylluan, of whom Cadmaran had so often spoken. Perhaps he was the twin brother? Cadmaran had mentioned with intense hatred the physical beauty of certain Seymours, their
Dewin Mawr
and his heir, Lord Tylluan, among them. Seeing this man, Desdemona understood full well why Cadmaran's words had always held a tinge of jealousy.

She touched his pale cheek with her other hand, gently stroking along the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble growing there, then slid her fingers into the long, silky blond hair that had come undone at some point during the night. It was so fair as to almost be white—something else his faint elvish blood had gifted him with.

There was power in this man . . . not magical power, but something quite different. She could feel it beneath her touch. Bravery. Honor. She understood all those things at once, and more. He was a quiet man, but in his heart . . . there was much left unsaid.

Her hand slid down to his neck, paused to feel the strong pulse beating there, and then lower to test the muscles of his shoulder and chest and arm. Then lower still, across his taut stomach, where she lingered.

He was young and healthy and beautiful, and Desdemona wanted him. She'd not had a man since coming to this foreign place, had not particularly felt the need for one. Certainly not for Cadmaran, despite his handsomeness and obvious experience with women. She couldn't fault Lord Llew for making the attempt, nor for leaving her in peace when she expressed no similar interest. But not until this moment, with so enticing a lover before her, helpless to do anything save her bidding, had she felt that powerful surge of
desire that sometimes drove her to be incautious. Desdemona wanted him, needed him, and she would have him. Her hand began to move once more, her long fingers sliding over the flap of his breeches, exploring, caressing . . .

It had not been Desdemona's experience in life to be very often surprised. Her father had managed to do it a number of times, but he was the greatest sorcerer known to their kind in the States. Cadmaran had tried, probably to see if he could do it, but to no avail.

But this man surprised her. His arm shot up from its formerly motionless position upon the ground and his fingers closed over her wrist, yanking her hand firmly from his body.

Desdemona's gaze slid calmly back to his face, discovering that his eyes—intensely blue, even in the darkness—were open and perfectly aware. And extremely angry.

What do you think you're doing?

She heard his chilly voice in her head and realized at once that he possessed the gift of silent speech.

As disconcerting as being surprised was, Desdemona didn't panic or even experience a rise in her heartbeat. He was a lesser wizard, after all, and she his superior by far. He could wield no power over her, nor could he resist whatever commands she gave. She would make a pet of him. A slave, as she had done with other men she had taken as lovers. He would be deeply in love with her in but moments, suffering for want of her. And then he would do her bidding, all that Desdemona wished, and would come to her, day or night, whenever she desired him to do so.

“Release me,” she said softly, tugging lightly at her hand in expectation of instant freedom.

But then something inexplicable happened. He didn't do what she'd told him to do. And not only did he not release her, but his grip on her wrist actually tightened.

“Release you?” He had found his physical voice at last, and it was filled with fury. “You'll be fortunate to come away from our meeting intact. Who the devil are you, and where have you come from?”

Desdemona frowned and stared at her captive wrist, which was beginning to ache from the tight grasp he held on it.

“Release me,” she said again, more firmly. “
Now
.”

“Not until I have some answers.” Wincing, he rose to his feet, dragging her up with him. He was a good deal taller than Desdemona, and she was obliged to look up to see his face. “First,” he said, “I want your name.”

Panic, like surprise, was a rare experience for her, but Desdemona distinctly felt it welling up inside of her. Something was amiss, and she had to gain control of this situation. Quickly.

It was time to make a display of her powers, in order to give her captor a better understanding of who she was and why he should be far more afraid than angry.

Lifting her free hand, she sent the flame that was still on her palm flying into the haze above their heads. It took but a thought to cause the flame to multiply until there were dozens, then a hundred, circling overhead, filling the place where they stood with light. With another wave of her hand Desdemona made the fog fade in the area immediately surrounding them, so that they could see not only each other, but the fallen trees and Bachgen's mutilated body as well. A couple of trees hadn't yet completely fallen, but with a mere pushing motion Desdemona sent them slamming to the still-muddy ground.

The sound was loud enough to draw her captor's companions back in their direction. She heard their shouts and saw him lift his head slightly, communicating with them through his silent speech. Looking at him, seeing even more clearly just how striking he was, Desdemona felt a renewed surge of desire. Somehow, his foolish determination to overpower her only made the thought of possessing him more desirable.

“Release me,” she said once more, “and I won't hold this against you once we've come together. If you do not, I shall have to punish you.”

He looked at her as if she was mad and said, “Let's try this again. I'm Dyfed Seymour. My brother is Lord Tylluan,
and these are his lands upon which you're trespassing. You don't have to tell me who you are, if you don't wish to, but I can promise that you'll tell him. He'll be here very shortly.”