CHAPTER Seven
The old man was an idiot, Gareth thought, standing on his tiptoes on an overturned barrel as he peered through the slats of the taverns window. Not a magician, not a sorcerer, not a wizard of any kind. Just a plain old fool of a drunk who rambled on and on about “the circle” with its broken links and bloodstains. ‘Twas naught but a foolish man’s chants and no amount of amulets or eyeing the horizon or pointing his stupid cane toward the heavens would change the fact that Muir was naught but a lowly thief.
As Gareth waited in the shadows, his teeth chattered and goose bumps rose on his flesh. The moon rose even higher in the sky. The interior of the shabby inn was dark, the only light from a meager grouping of candles and the embers of a dying fire. Men clustered around tables, laughing and joking and Muir, curse his hide, buried his nose in the bottom of a cup.
‘Twas certain Muir practiced the dark arts frowned upon by the church, though Gareth had seen no indication that the withered one was truly a magician. The only spirits he seemed to raise were those that passed over his lips from a cup, and the spells he tried to conjure were always a little mixed up and never seemed to work.
As for the prophecies, they were enough to scare Gareth, though he would never admit as such. All that mumbling about a dark circle and links of a chain. Father to son and son to father, or some such blither-blather. The old man was daft, pure and simple, though his mutterings spooked Gareth just the same. All the gibberish of replaying history, of sons killing fathers made his blood run cold.
“Some magician,” Gareth mumbled to Boon who paced at his feet, sniffing the ground and whining as if in full agreement. “If he’s so clever, why can’t he conjure up a cup of ale or wine instead of having to come here?”
Boon sniffed at a stack of crates near the back door. The stench of garbage hung heavy in the air and voices from the inn filtered onto the street where shops and inns lined the heavily traveled road. Horses snorted, cattle lowed, and even an occasional rooster crowed, though ‘twas after dusk and the temperature was low enough to cause Gareth’s breath to fog. “Come on, come on,” he muttered as he witnessed the old man rub his head and hold up his cup for another fill.
“’Tis doomed we be, dog,” Gareth muttered and considered leaving Muir to his own devices. So what if the thief-baron wanted him to stay with the ancient one? With a limp and only one good eye, Muir was more hindrance than help. Asides which, Gareth was worried about his mother. If he had any brains or guts at all, he’d leave the drunk here, ride back to Rhydd on the horse, and run old Ian through. But the thought of actually killing a man—any man—caused ice to settle in his innards. The taking of a life wasn’t as courageous and noble as he’d once thought and the memory of shoving his sword into a man’s flesh, only to see the lifeblood seep out of him, caused Gareth’s stomach to turn sour.
Coward. Would you rather your mother gave her life to old Ian? He shuddered and wished Muir would give up his lust for drink and get on with their journey. “We cast our lots with a simpleton, I fear, Boon.” However, angry as he was with the sorcerer, he felt a bit of fondness for the old man. Hadn’t Muir fed him, found him shelter, and although nagging him all the way, assured him that there would be safety soon? Mayhap the old man wasn’t so bad after all.
Boon whimpered. The pup was standing on his back two legs, his front paws stretched against the barrel. He yipped for attention, his tail whipping frantically in the air. “’Tis a good dog you be, Boon.” Gareth reached down and patted his dogs head. “But keep quiet. Muir will be along soon.” He blew on his thumbs to shake off the chill and hoped he wasn’t lying.
The thud of hooves caused him to lift his head and climb off the barrel. He sneaked through the alley to the front of the inn where he saw the band of soldiers approach. Riding double file and wearing the green and gold colors of Rhydd, they entered the town at a fast trot.
Sir Webb, his countenance grim as death, his mouth a seam of undeterred purpose, rode in the lead.
All the spit in Gareth’s mouth dried. He hid behind a cistern and prayed that the pup, distracted by a rat scurrying along the fence, wouldn’t show himself.
“Here.” Sir Webb’s voice boomed through the night and ricocheted through Gareth’s head. “We’ll take sustenance and rest, then make camp on the far end of town.”
Christ the Savior! Gareth slunk in the shadows, his feet moving swiftly as he made his way to the back door and slipped into the warm kitchen where a large woman, sweat dripping from her red face, plump fingers curled around the crank of a butter churn was seated on a stool. The paddles within the churn clicked steadily in time with the movement of her arms. “By the gods, lad, ye scared the devil from me, ye did!” she cried. “Who be ye to be slithering around the shadows like a snake off a cold rock?”
Gareth had no time for pleasantries but he hoped he didn’t appear as frightened as he felt. “Please, good woman, would you be so kind as to send the old man with the bad eye back here?” he said anxiously. Suspended on a hook over the fire, a black kettle of stew was simmering and giving off the heady scent of cooked mutton. Gareth’s stomach rumbled.
“What?” She shook her head as she continued to churn. “Go get ‘im yerself, boy. Can’t ye see, I’m churnin’ here? I’ll not ‘ave me butter go soft or sour.”
“’Twill not. Now, please,” Gareth said, then jumped at the sound of snoring. He spun and found a scrawny man sleeping with his head propped against a stack of firewood.
“Ye’re not hidin’ from someone, are ye?” the woman asked, her bushy eyebrows slamming together as she rubbed the side of her face on her shoulder to wipe away her sweat.
Gareth shook his head. “Nay, but—”
“The sheriff, is he lookin’ fer ye?”
There was no arguing with her. “No.” Gareth walked to the doorway separating the back room from the rest of the tavern and opened it a crack just as Sir Webb, his mail chinking loudly, entered the room. Conversation stopped as the customers sipping ale looked over their shoulders to view the new patrons.
Gareth’s heart dropped to his feet. He couldn’t show himself as the dark knight would certainly recognize him. He swallowed hard as Muir lifted his good eye and stared at the soldiers filing into the establishment and calling for ale.
“Oh, wouldn’t ye know it?” the fat woman grumbled at the sound of so many new voices. “Nary a soul all night and now an entire army barges in.” She turned her head. “Will. Will, wake up, would ye? Get another cask and help Bess out front, we’ve thirsty men—in armor—from the sounds of it.”
With a sharp snort, the snoring stopped for a second before continuing evenly.
“Will!” she said sharply, and with a cough the scrawny man awakened and hopped to his feet.
He took one look at Gareth and ran a hand over his eyes. “Who the devil are ye, lad?” His front teeth were missing and his skin was splotched.
“’E’s not sayin’, so don’t bother askin’, jest git the damned cask and help Bess out front, would ye? Oh, fer the love of Zeus.” She sighed and stopped churning, her paddle slowing. “I’ll do it.”
Frowning, she mopped her brow with the back of her hand, then wiped the sweat away on her apron.
Gareth’s heart was knocking wildly in his chest as she pulled the door open further and stepped into the front of the tavern. “What can I get fer ye, my good men?”
“Ale. Fer all who wear the colors of Rhydd.” Webb’s voice boomed.
“Good. Good. ‘Till be but a minute while me husband opens another cask.”
With shuffling feet and a few words, the soldiers climbed upon the benches near the fire. Elbow to elbow, they sat, leaning on the heavy table and stretching the crooks or their necks of joking among themselves. Gareth watched through the slit in the door and was relieved to see that Muir had the good sense to keep his face averted, as if he’d found the fire suddenly fascinating.
As the fat woman poured ale into cups, Webb rubbed his shoulder and scanned the room. “We be lookin’ for Trevin of Black Oak,” he said, wincing slightly.
Gareth took little pleasure in the fact that he’d wounded the dark knight. All he’d accomplished was angering Sir Webb and making him determined to hunt him down.
“Ye seek the baron?” She carried a tray of cups to the table and began setting them before the men.
“Aye, he’s a murdering thief, that one. Have you not heard that he killed Lord Roderick and stole his wife?”
So Muir was right. His mother was with the outlaw. Gareth didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried.
“What say ye?” The woman slopped ale onto the table and was quick to wipe it up with discolored hem of her apron.
“’Tis said he cheated Lord Dryw out of his castle, then killed the old man when he protested. Threw him off the tower.”
“That much, I already heard,” the woman said as her husband, grumbling under his breath and laboring with the weight of another barrel brushed past Gareth. For a moment his view was blocked and when Will and the cask moved out of his line of vision, Muir was no longer near the fire, as if he had truly disappeared. Slowly Gareth inched away from the door, ready to sprint into the alley.
A horrifying yowl screamed through the night.
Feet and fur flying, a gray cat dashed into the kitchen and sped through the crack in the door. Boon, yipping wildly, streaked by, fast on the tabby’s heels.
“Nay!” Gareth whispered, lunging for the pup, but the dog galloped into the tavern.
“Say, wha—?” Will sputtered as the cat ran between his legs.
Men laughed, a serving girl screamed, and the dog, still barking madly, chased the terrified cat until it climbed up the alewife’s voluminous skirts. “Ouch, Sweet Mary! Puss, stop it! Get yer damned claws off me!” Ale sloshed, men laughed, Boon leaped up at the cat, his paws clawing at the ever-moving skirt. “You, mutt! Out with ye,” the woman ordered, kicking at the noisy, jumping dog while the cat pounced from the woman’s broad hips to a post. Puss scrambled upward to the exposed beams of the ceiling.
Boon, barking his fool head off, circled the post and jumped up and down.
“Cursed mutts. Always comin’ in.” The woman reached for a broom near the hearth and began swiping at the pup.
“Hey, ain’t that the pup—?” Webb asked.
Gareth nearly died.
“Aye, from Rhydd. The lad’s—”
Gareth gave out a sharp whistle and the dog stopped, turned, and ears cocked, fixed his puzzled gaze on the back room. “Come!” Gareth ordered from his hiding spot.
“Who goes there?” Webb’s voice reverberated through the inn.
He wasn’t about to leave his dog. “Boon!” Gareth held the door open but stayed in the shadows.
“It’s the lad” another voice said. “He called that mutt of his Boon.”
“Fer the bloody love of Christ, get him!” Webb ordered and Gareth scrambled backward, knocking over a sack of flour and spilling white powder on the floor. He nearly fell, stumbled against the hearth where the stew was boiling, and burned the back of his arm against the blackened pot as he unsheathed his dagger. How small the knife seemed when he thought of Webb’s men, all of them with swords or maces and armor.
The dog barreled through the door. Gareth wasted no time. He was down the steps and running through the backyard. Behind him, he heard the sound of soldier’s boots and rattling swords as Ian’s men swarmed through the kitchen.
“Wait!” A voice, soft as the wind and vast as the sea commanded. “’Tis not the lad ye want.”
No, Muir! No! Don’t do this!
Muir! Gareth’s footsteps faltered.
“Take me to Ian of Rhydd and we’ll barter.”
“What? You, old man?” a strong voice hooted.
“I am a magician.”
“Bah! And I’m King Edward.”
Laughter roared through the inn as the men hesitated.
“Lord Ian will speak with me,” Muir insisted. “Or I shall call upon the Morrigu, the Great Mother—”
“Get out of me way, ye one-eyed pagan fool. We’ll hear no talk of the warrior goddess ‘ere.”
Gareth spun and ran through the yard, along a pebbled street to a small opening in a fence. With the dog racing behind him, he slipped through the crack, scraping his leg, sprinting in the darkness, away from the main part of the town. Behind shops, under dark stairways, past closed doors, he ran. Chickens flapped their wings and clucked from their coops, other dogs barked, and Gareth stumbled over stacks of firewood and kettles used for washing.
His lungs burned. His head throbbed. His legs ached.
But he couldn’t stop.
He heard the men behind him, boots pounding in the mud, curses ringing out, voices fading as he zigged and zagged through the town and into the surrounding forest. His breath seared his lungs, his legs ached, but still he kept going. He didn’t know which direction he ran, but found solace in the woods, for there were trees to climb, bushes for cover, trails that wound in differing directions. He stumbled over roots and low branches, but kept on through the darkness, knowing he was losing his pursuers as their voices and footsteps became more distant.
Cramps tightened the muscles of his calves and he had to stop, his stomach gurgling. Gasping for breath, he suddenly retched and hung his head.
Please God, save me. Save Muir. Save Mother.
His head swam. He couldn’t think.
Please, help me. Please.
He fell into a wet pile of leaves and waited. What could he do? Muir was certainly caught, for the old man had no spells to make him vanish, and now Gareth was alone in the gloomy forest with only a hungry dog and a bad sense of direction for companions.
“Great,” he muttered, sick at heart. “Just bloody great.” He had several choices, none of them worth the time of day. He could try to free Muir by chasing after the soldiers, but then he would put himself at risk, or he could try and find the bastard who, according to the wizard, had kidnapped his mother—the murdering thief.
And where would the man be going? Most likely back to his ill-gotten castle. As would the soldiers. ‘Twas a mess to be sure. He closed his eyes and envisioned his mother’s face. Never had the thought he would miss her. Never would he admit to caring so deeply for her. He was, after all, nearly a man.
But he had to save her. As she had saved him.
And what about Muir? Do you not owe him your life as well?
He covered his face in his hands and tried to think. He would save the old man, of course he would, but first he would find his mother, and if that meant facing the outlaw, so be it. If, as Muir implied, Trevin was returning to Black Oak, then by a pig and a portal, Gareth would be waiting for him.
“’Twas like a bad dream, I tell ye,” Bess insisted as she spoke to Trevin in the shadows behind the inn. “And the soldier’s they be lookin’ fer ye and that wife ye stole.” Bess, who worked at the inn, was a sweet thing with a small waist, large breasts, and hips soft enough to comfort an ailing and needy man, but Trevin wasn’t interested. Nor had he ever been, though he’d known her for years. “I pretended not to recognize yer name,” she said, “and most of the louts, when Sir Webb’s back was turned, they were only interested in gettin’ their ‘ands up me skirts.”
“Some things never change, Bess,” Trevin said.
“Now, fer you, m’lord—” She smiled coyly and Trevin sighed.
“Tell me of the lad.”
“I saw no boy—only the one-eyed man who started talking as if ‘e were daft, I tell ye. Babbling on and on about the chain, father to son, son to father, blood to blood, or some such nonsense. Now, Lizzie, she’s the cook, she seen a youth in the kitchen, but ‘e and ‘is bloomin’ ‘ound got away. Tore off down the back alley, like ‘e’d seen a ghost, Lizzie says.”
“He got away?” Trevin felt a ray of hope.
“As far as I know, but the old man, the magician, he wasn’t so lucky. Sir Webb, he ‘auled ‘im away, tied and bound like a roebuck on a huntsman’s staff.”
Trevin’s back teeth ground together. Muir and his cursed lust for ale. Now he was captured and the boy… oh, for the love of St. Peter, the boy was God-only-knew-where and wandering around the forest. At least he was alive. “Thanks, Bessie,” he said as the voluptuous miss leaned forward, offering him a moonlit view of plump breasts rising invitingly above a square neckline.
“’Tis many a favor I’d do fer ye, m’lord,” she intoned.
“You’ve done enough.” He handed her a coin and her lower lip stuck out fetchingly.
“I’ll ‘ave none of yer money, Trevin of Black Oak. I knew ye when ye were a whelp of a lad, a thief and no better than the lot of us.”
“Who says I’ve changed?” He dropped the coin between her breasts and she giggled as he climbed astride Webb’s destrier. “This goes no further, Bess.”
“Aye, I’ve never seen ye, ye black-’earted bastard, and ‘ere—ye asked fer food, did ya not?” She handed him a cloth sack that smelled of baked bread.
“You’re an angel.”
“Oh, go on!” She blushed in the moonlight.
With a mirthless laugh Trevin yanked on the reins and his horse wheeled. “Hiya!” The game horse broke into a gallop. Trevin rode east through the town, hoping Bess caught sight of his leaving. Though he trusted her, he wasn’t going to let her witness anything that might lead her to guess where he and Gwynn were hiding. Who knew what hidden eyes had observed his tryst with her? Only God could guess how much she’d say if offered the right price or if she were threatened by Ian of Rhydd’s blade. No, neither she nor anyone else lurking about this village would guess his destination by his direction.
With the moon as his guide, he rode past several farmers’ fields before doubling back and skirting the town.
So Gareth was free, but where? And Muir, curse him, what had he been thinking, pausing for refreshment before making his way to the castle?
Eyes narrowed against the blast of icy wind that tore across the land, he spurred his mount onward. To Gwynn. At the thought of her and their last stolen kiss, his chest tightened. God in heaven, he’d never been able to get that woman out of his blood, not even while he was married to Faith. Guilt pricked deep into his brain like a thorn into flesh. His dead wife deserved a far better husband than he’d ever been. Faith had loved him and he had never returned the fervor of her passion. Because of Gwynn.
A woman who would sell her body to save her son.
God help them all.
The road forked and he headed west toward the cave. The stallion’s strides never faltered though lather sprinkled his coat and mixed with the mud splashing onto his chest and legs as he ran.
“’Tis a fine beast ye be, Dark One,” Trevin said urging the steed ever onward. Harsh thoughts tangled in his mind. He could do nothing for Faith; she was lost to him and to this world, but Muir, the man who had raised him, was another story.
Webb would return Muir to Ian who would probably try to torture the truth from the old man. But Muir was nothing if not clever and when the spirits of the cup did not cloud his mind, he was a match for any man, even the new ruler of Rhydd. The aging sorcerer’s magic did exist, but, Trevin had decided, it came with quite a bit of luck and sometimes, in the worst situations, had forsaken him completely.
There was no time to waste. Trevin would have to fetch Gwynn, take her to safety of Black Oak, then with his company of men, return to Rhydd to free the wizard.
Which was exactly what Ian would be expecting.
Surprise would not be on his side. He would have to be crafty. He smiled as the horse labored on. Somehow he would best his old enemy.
One way or another.
Gwynn stepped into the stream and sucked in her breath. ‘Twas near freezing and she felt her skin turn blue, but she only shivered for a second before walking into the deepening pool. She was determined to scrub some of the filth from her body. She’d spent days on the road, time in the cave, and the final hours before nightfall she’d been on her hands and knees, collecting herbs, berries, and roots. Though skilled with dagger, bow, and sword, her true strength came in the castle of spells and healing.
She had once laughed at Idelle and her pagan ways, but over the past thirteen years, she had learned the power of yew, ash, foxglove, thistle, and the like. She was a Christian woman, aye, and prayed to the Holy Father, but she, too, trusted the old ways and believed in Morrigu, the Great Mother and her gifts of the earth. In her struggle to find and save Gareth, Gwynn vowed to use any skill, spell, or weapon that might help.
All that mattered was her son.
Slowly she sank onto her knees. She bit her lower lip and closed her eyes as the icy water splashed the sensitive spot at the juncture of her legs. She sucked in her breath in a hiss and as her body numbed to the cold, she scrubbed, using the brook’s current and a handful of moss to wash away the dirt beneath her fingernails, between her toes, and in her hair. The water was fresh, cleansing, and gave her clarity of mind.
What if Trevin didn’t return? What if he had no word of Gareth? What, oh dear Lord in heaven, what if her son was already dead! Do not think such, she told herself as she tossed water onto her face and blinked against the drops that lingered on her eyelashes. Surely he was safe and well, ensconced in Black Oak where Trevin’s servants would provide for him and his soldiers would protect the boy. Trevin would see that each sword and shield at Black Oak would be raised to safeguard his only son.
Though she did not yet completely trust the thief-turned-baron, she believed that he cared for Gareth. Why else risk Roderick, and now Ian’s, wrath? Why ride in the darkness, stealing uniforms and horses and seeming to be concerned for her? She was not foolish enough to think that the thief cared a whit for her, nay, she was Gareth’s mother, nothing more. He still considered her the self-centered bride of Roderick who had done anything, even cast aside her virginity, to dupe the old man into thinking he’d spawned a son.
‘Twas a long time ago.
Before she’d been a mother.
Before she’d known the fear for a child.
Before she’d fallen in love with a rogue.
Her eyes flew open. Love? In love? Nay, her thinking was addled, her worriers over Gareth clouding her mind. She loved Trevin not. He was but a means for her to save her son. Nothing more. She wasn’t a silly ninny of a woman who would confuse love with lust.
Still the thought disturbed her.
She lay in the stream and let the water float her body in slow circles where the current played in a lazy whirlpool.
Trevin.
The outlaw.
She’d known him a short time and yet, she feared, she was beginning to trust him. Oh, foolish, foolish heart. He was a thief and mayhap a murderer.
And the father of your son.
Trevin of Black Oak was not a man to whom any sane woman would lose her heart. He was too gruff and grim, too brooding, and too self-important, always giving her orders. But only for a while. As soon as she and Gareth were reunited, they would leave the robber-baron in their dust. His thoughts of her and his son would be but a memory.
There was no other way.
She wasn’t in the cave. Trevin held his torch aloft and searched the blackened interior, but aside from coals still glowing in the fire, there was no sign of her. “Damned fool woman,” he muttered, disturbing the few bats that still hung from the ceiling and feeling a deepening ache in his heart, an ache he quickly ignored. He had no feelings for the woman. None.
Angry, he walked outside. Why did she leave? Had she not promised to wait? From the corner of his eye, he caught a movement near the trees.
He extinguished his torch in the mud. No reason to have an enemy spy him. Stealthily he unsheathed his dagger and readied himself for a fight. If Webb had found the cave and Gwynn… rage, as dark and wild as a devil’s heart, pounded through his veins. He would kill anyone who—
He came upon her horse still attempting to pluck a few blades of glass that glistened silver in the moonlight.
Could she have been taken? Had Sir Webb and his band of cutthroat soldiers from Rhydd stumbled upon her? The thought hit him hard and for an instant terror seized his heart in an iron-fisted grip. Surely the men wouldn’t have stolen her and left her horse.
Silent as death, he stole through the underbush, searching the area until he heard the splashing of the stream and saw her body, white and pale, as she floated completely nude in the river.
His gut tightened.
A fire started to burn in his loins.
Quietly, he sheathed his knife.
Her white breasts rose above the waterline, their dark nipples pointing toward the starry heavens. Lower, the patch of dark hair was stark against her fair skin and caused a living, breathing lust to flow in his veins.
She was as beautiful as he remembered and he considered lying with her. ‘Twould be sweet torture. But she was another man’s wife, whether by choice or force, ‘twas no matter.
As she was Roderick’s wife when you last made love to her.
How easily she had bartered away her virtue, but he did not blame her. Surely she gave up her virginity in an attempt to save her life. Would not he have done the same?
He wanted her. Damn it, he wanted her more than ‘twas sane. Remember Faith and your vow to her. Guilt took a stranglehold on his soul. He’d never loved his wife and felt a deep remorse. She’d died only days after their daughter and she, with pain-racked eyes and weak fingers had begged him not to give his heart to another. She knew he would find solace in another woman, she only had asked him never to give his heart.
Now, he cleared his throat and Gwynn jumped, water splashing, her hair falling into her eyes as she attempted and failed to hide her breast and legs with her hands. “Wh-who goes there?”
“Cover up,” he said, catching sight of her tunic, chemise, and cloak dangling from the branch of a nearby tree. Swiftly he retrieved them all. He was about to toss the garments her way so that she could dress, but she held up a hand.
“Wait. Just… just hold them and turn your back. I do not wish them to fall into the stream and get wet.”
If he hadn’t been so worried about Gareth and Muir, he would have refused to do her bidding and enjoyed her vexation as he watched her walk proudly and naked as the day she was born from the stream. But there was no time.
“As you wish, m’lady,” he agreed, for he understood the reasoning in her command. Slowly he turned, holding the clothes outstretched as she splashed out of the stream and snagged each piece from his hand. Hazarding a glance over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of her struggling into her chemise as it clung to her wet body. Her navel was an inviting slit, her ribs, as she reached upward, visible slightly beneath full breasts that would easily fill a man’s hand or mouth.
His cock tightened as moonlight washed over her and the dark nest of curls above her thighs shimmered. She caught his glance and frowned as she tugged on her clothes. “Where is Gareth?” she asked.
“He escaped.”
“I know that much. Where is he?”
“Not with Muir.”
“What?”
He turned as she was cinching a belt around her small waist. “Muir was captured.”
“Oh, merciful Jesus.” She paled even more.
“But Gareth was not caught.” He explained all that he knew quickly while she interrupted, peppering him with questions, worrying aloud, and generally becoming more and more anxious as the seconds ticked by.
“We must find him. Do you think he went back to Rhydd? To Black Oak or mayhap to Castle Heath and Luella?”
“Do not worry. Wherever he is, I will find him.”
“But where? Oh, poor boy.” She wrung out her hair with her hands and paced at the side of the creek. “We must—”
“I said ‘I’ll find him’.” His voice was firm, his anger rising.
“Aye. As you said I was to ‘trust you’? Was that not the last order you gave me?” She threw her hands toward the black sky.
“Calm yourself.”
“Tell me not what to do, Outlaw,” she shot back.
“Then hear me out.”
“Why?” She demanded. “So you can lie to me again? So you can tell me to ‘trust you’?”
“So that we can find our son.”
“Ha! Is that not what we have been attempting? I have listened to you, followed you, waited for you,” she said, her face a mask of rage, his own temper wearing thin. “And to what end? You know not where Gareth is, if they’ve captured him, hurt him, or what’s become of—ooh!”
“Hush, woman!” He grabbed her roughly and intended to shake some sense into her. But as his hands spanned her rib cage, his fury gave way to the sweet seduction in her eyes. “Curse you, woman,” he growled, then kissed her. Long and hard and with all the pent-up desire that had been tormenting him for the days, he covered her open mouth with his. Her lips were chilled, her flesh beneath her clothes trembled, and for a second he thought she might slap him. Instead she yielded, her body sagging against his, her lips returning the fever of his kiss as if she, too, had waited for just this moment to lose herself in him.
Though there was little time to spare, though the moonlight would soon give way to dawn, though she was the last woman on earth he should desire, he couldn’t resist the sweet temptation of her lips, the pliant softness of her body, the urge to conquer this woman with her blistering tongue and gorgeous face.
She sighed into his open mouth and his tongue pressed ever forward, touching hers, rimming her lips, exploring the slick moistness of her mouth.
Heat invaded his blood and his cock stiffened in anticipation as he dragged them both to the ground with his weight. A dozen reasons to stop this madness seared through his brain only to be chased away by the hot, lust that burned through his body and seared his soul.
Trembling, his fingers fumbled with the laces of her cloak. Anxiously he drew the unwanted garment over her head. His lips brushed a kiss over her neck and his blood thundered in his ears. He wanted her. More than he’d ever wanted a woman. More than was right.
Remember Faith. That you loved her not. Because of Gwynn. Did you not vow on her grave that you would never…
She shuddered and whispered his name against his ear. His lips moved downward and discovered the enticing circle of bones at the base of her throat. She tasted of water, smelled of the forest, and felt warm and safe on this cold, dangerous night.
God help me.
One hand untied her belt. The other reached beneath the hem of her tunic.
“Trevin,” she whispered. “Do not… oh, please—”
She arched against him as he slipped the tunic over her head, the damp chemise clinging to her skin. He saw two dark circles where her nipples pressed against the frail fabric and he lowered his mouth over one inviting breast, kissing and sucking, closing his eyes as desire overcame reason.
He needed Gwynn. He needed her now and the devil could hang any reason for not having her—even his own faithless promise to a dead wife.
Lying above her, he kissed her lips. One hand tangled in the wet strands of her hair, the other surrounded a breast. He felt a need as strong as life itself. To bury himself in her, to dance in the sensual rhythm of lovemaking as she writhed beneath him and called his name to the heavens, to spill his seed within the warm haven of her womb was all he wanted.
“Trevin,” she said again and he lifted his head to kiss her once more. Her hands found the ties of his mantle and tunic and helped him toss the unwanted clothes aside. He shivered, but not from the cool night air, nay, from the heat that ran beneath his skin. Her fingers traced the cords of his muscles and the scars that marred his body. She quivered with need. He held back, for he didn’t trust himself. When she reached for the laces of his breeches, he grabbed her hand. He could not. He would not.
This was madness.
“Nay, little one,” he whispered and with all the strength he could muster fought the urge to take her. He strained against the fire in his loins. Slowly, he pushed up the hem of her chemise and lifted her legs over his shoulders. “Tonight is yours, love. So that you may forget.”
“But—”
“Shh,” he breathed against her and Gwynn no longer protested. She closed her eyes and sighed as he touched her, his lips creating a special magic, his tongue probing and lapping as she seemed to melt into a sea of sensation.
He smiled to himself for he sensed that for the moment he’d chased away her fears for their son.
In the inky black forest all that mattered was the heat between them, the desire that held them fast.
He did not think about the morning.
Tonight would be hers.