Magick by Moonrise Page 10

  “Just as thou art mine,” she whispered.

  Then she couldn’t speak because her mouth was under his, sweet and soft and melting. She knew nothing of kissing, that much was obvious, and the knowledge only made him crave more. He, who strictly confined his infrequent liaisons to experienced widows and worldly women, felt his heart hammer at the unmistakable proof of purity. She didn’t even know what to do except clutch his shoulders. But her lips were pliant and yielding against his, opening beneath him when he pressed her.

  Christ, she tasted like candied violets. He was never going to have enough of kissing her.

  Until a woman’s cold mocking laughter rippled in his ear, rising from the hedge beside them.

  * * *

  Rhiannon opened her eyes to a flat gray landscape—lead and steel and somber slate. The knot garden’s hoary hedges rose around her, tangled and ragged, dagger-sharp thorns protruding from waxen leaves. Beyond the hedges, skeletal orchards rattled in a sobbing wind, winter-white against a pewter sky. In a gap between the hedgerows, the manor house at Hatfield loomed gray as death—tiles tumbled from the roof, chimneys crumbling, shutters hanging from broken windows.

  It looked as though a hundred years had passed since she’d closed her eyes and surrendered to the swimming pleasure of Beltran’s kiss. Now she stood alone in that colorless garden, the world gripped in stillness like a fist, while bone-colored snowflakes swirled down and stung her unprotected skin.

  No doubt of it, this was witchery. She must keep her composure, untangle the enchantment and snip the thread. But Beltran knew nothing of witchcraft; he would require her aid.

  “My lord?” Rhiannon spun in a slow circle, or perhaps the garden revolved around her. “Where art thou?”

  There, a flash of color—a splash of blood-red in the winter landscape. Red roses blooming out of season, a tall lady gowned in black-and-red, rising gracefully on tiptoe to gather the brilliant blossoms. A cloud of ebony hair swirled around her shoulders. Fearless among the wicked thorns, she sliced the stems with a dagger and piled the blood-dark roses in the basket over her arm.

  Somehow Rhiannon was moving toward her, or the world was sliding backward around her, until she stood near the solitary figure. The wind moaned in the trees and lashed the tattered rags of her leaf-green sarcenet—moth-eaten and dusty with cobwebs.

  Morrigan turned toward her, glowing white skin, red-black eyes smoldering like embers, ruby lips curved in a cruel little smile. “Good morrow, my sister. How like you this future?”

  “This is no future of mine. ’Tis a mortal future—naught but illusion.” Rhiannon struggled to conceal her sinking dread, the barely leashed panic that fluttered in her heart. She’s found me, Lady save me.

  Brazening it out, she tilted her chin defiantly. “Why do you weave such lies?”

  “Illusion, is it?” Smiling, her sister caressed crimson petals with a scarlet-tipped nail. “Any spell must be woven with a thread of truth. You know that very well.”

  “A slender thread indeed! Am I to exclaim in dread and wonder, or applaud your spell-craft like a child? You’ve folded time forward in the mortal realm, nothing more—merely shown a glimpse of what will come. All things made by men must fade.”

  Rhiannon pretended to a boldness she was far from feeling. Morrigan’s power might be weakened in the mortal realm while the sun shone—at least until the Convergence, when the vengeful Fae and her shining legions would be unleashed. Still, the full-blooded princess was Queene Maeve’s heir, lethal and rancid with malice. The mortal Beltran would be powerless against her, unless that strange holy magick of his reared up to protect him, the dark angel he seemed unable either to summon or control.

  “Are you wondering what I’ve done with your mortal?” Unerringly, Morrigan followed her thoughts.

  Rhiannon clenched her fists within her ragged skirts. Her knees were weak with fear, her stomach turning to water, and not merely for her own sake. Beltran’s best hope of safety lay in pretending she cared nothing for his fate. Indeed, he was the Church inquisitor, bane of witches, God’s Vengeance. Why should she feel concern for him?

  But oh, she felt it.

  “I don’t care what lies you utter, Morrigan. You’ve no power here and can do nothing to me.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t threatening you.” The wind groaned in the branches, fluttering Rhiannon’s skirts and unraveling her hair behind her with icy fingers, yet Morrigan’s black hair and gown were untouched. “I’ve had a vision, and spoken a prophecy. Poor sweet sister, you’ll be the instrument of your own downfall. You and your Church enforcer.”

  Rhiannon fought to say nothing, show nothing, but a flicker of worry in her face must have betrayed her. Her sister looked so certain, gloating with secret knowledge. Surely Morrigan wouldn’t expend the substantial energy this enchantment required, folding time forward on itself, unless it served some purpose Rhiannon wouldn’t care for.

  Disdainful, Rhiannon flung back her head. “A blind man could see you’re longing to tell me. Very well then, what is it? How will I become the instrument of my own downfall?”

  “Truly, I’m amazed our doting mother never told you.” Idly, Morrigan strolled along the rosebushes, leaving Rhiannon to follow. “A cat would make a better mother. Still, no doubt she thought it would never be needed—if she thought of you at all. You’ve lived a thousand years and never had a lover. No man in Faerie would even look at you. Why should she believe you would acquire one on your valiant quest?”

  “What foolishness is this? I have no lover.” Nor ever thought to, until now.

  Until Lord Beltran Nemesto strode through carnage to save her life, until she’d looked into that piercing gaze burning with cobalt fire, felt the hard controlled strength of his hands spanning her waist, the hungry heat of his mouth on hers. Suddenly she understood the dizzying passion the bards sang of, the yearning to soar reckless into the sun’s consuming fire. She’d felt the molten warmth that melted her maiden womb and quickened her innocent heart.

  Morrigan watched with knowing eyes. “You ache for him, don’t you? That flat little girl’s body of yours has kindled at last. You’ll let him peel those stiff mortal garments from your tiny breasts, caress you and suckle you until you pulse for him, stroke and fondle your little pearl until he makes you whimper and beg him to slide that great throbbing man-root of his between your thighs, won’t you?”

  Breathless, her face burning, Rhiannon could say nothing that wouldn’t betray her utterly. As if the words conjured his hands and mouth upon her, her nipples hardened to pebbles beneath her thin gown. As the heated images flared in her mind, she felt the sudden dampness between her thighs.

  Embarrassed by these wayward sensations, she shook her head fiercely, gilded curls tumbling around her shoulders. “Nay!”

  “Not very convincing, are you?” Morrigan laughed.

  “Even if I did fancy him,” Rhiannon cried, “love is hardly a crime. Sharing the gift of life between man and woman honors the Mother. Goddess knows you’ve honored her often enough. Why should I have nothing and no one?”

  “Why, no reason at all, sister. Except that your situation and mine differ in one critical regard.” Morrigan plucked a red rose and twirled it between her fingers. “You’re half mortal, my dear. If you sacrifice your maidenhood to couple with a mortal man, you’ll become one of them forever.”

  “I—I don’t understand.” What new trickery is thi
s?

  “Lord and Lady, it’s hardly a great mystery. You’ll become fully mortal, live a brief mortal life, age and wither into a hunchbacked old crone no man will ever touch—and die a mortal death.” Cheerfully Morrigan swung her basket. “Steep price to pay for one night of pleasure in a man’s arms...although, for such a man, I’ll admit I understand why you’re tempted. Still, your Vengeance must inevitably repudiate you and loathe himself forever for his moment of weakness.”

  “I don’t believe you.” In a thousand years, her mother had never hinted at such a thing! Of course, they’d hardly spent enough time together for Queene Maeve to tell her anything, since Rhiannon avoided the Faerie court with its subtle slurs and intrigues so fervently. Surely Morrigan was lying to disconcert or distract her.

  Yet she felt a hollow sensation in the pit of her belly. She’d always known she was never fully Fae, that she lived among them on sufferance, barely tolerated for her mother’s sake. Always friendless and alone, except for the forest creatures who loved her—and now the Faerie Queene was sickening.

  And Rhiannon had learned enough spell-craft to know powerful magick could be worked when maiden blood was spilled. Lives could be saved or lost by it. Only human sacrifice invoked stronger magick, and she left those dark powers strictly alone.

  “Ask our mother, if you think I lie.” Her sister shrugged. “Forsooth, I hardly know why I’m doing you the favor of telling you. Seeing you stripped of your immortality and your place in Faerie would serve my purpose admirably well.”

  “You want him for yourself!” Rhiannon flashed, with a sudden fury that surprised her. “You’re a pathetic, spiteful old witch—you’ve ever wanted what others have. You can’t bear it when a man looks at any woman but you.”

  “I don’t deny I’d enjoy having your Vengeance in my bed for a moon or two.” Morrigan’s rich contralto deepened. Languorous as a cat with cream, she licked her lips and laughed as though she felt the jealous pang that twisted Rhiannon’s heart. “I’d make him burn for me, as a virginal child like yourself could never do. I can feel him already, that hard warrior’s body pinning me to the bed, thrusting into me until he floods me with his seed, cursing himself and his impotent God with every breath...”

  Clearly, her sister sought to provoke her as she’d always done. Yet the knowledge did nothing to combat the flare of white-hot fire of pain and envy that obliterated all reason. Perhaps no man had ever wanted her; certainly no man who’d ever had a chance with Morrigan had wasted a moment of his time with Rhiannon. No doubt Beltran would prefer her sister, like all the rest did, if Morrigan contrived to put herself before him. Rhiannon might be a woman grown among the mortals, but she was scarcely more than a child in Faerie.

  She would have liked to slap her sister’s face, but even in extremis, the healer in her shrank from violence. Instead, deliberate as a man hurling glass to the floor, she clenched her stomach muscles hard against the pain and cried the words she’d heard Beltran wield like a weapon in the wood. Her half-mortal blood allowed her—barely—to utter them.

  “Morrigan le Fay, be gone and banished, by the power of Christ!”

  The agony of the shattered spell tore at her like jagged glass, ripping a gasp from her lips and driving her to her knees. Beside her, Morrigan screamed and shattered the dream-world silence.

  Rhiannon grasped her sister’s heaping basket and wrenched it away. The basket tipped, spilling blood-hued roses in a shower of thorns and crimson. They tumbled down around her, petals fluttering free, the ghost-wind whirling them through the air in a frenzy.

  “Beltran Nemesto would never soil his hands with a harlot like you!” she flared.

  Although the illusion wavered around them, Morrigan was still gripping the rose she’d cut. As Rhiannon knelt before her, trembling and incandescent with rage, her sister stroked her flushed cheek with the silken petals.

  “Red is for heartbreak,” Morrigan said softly. “That is my gift to you, sister. I wish you much joy of it.”

  Then the gray world was swirling around her, tattered skirts and hair lashing her skin, snow stinging her cheeks like tears. As she tumbled endlessly into the void, Rhiannon realized she was weeping.

  * * *

  Beltran opened his eyes to find Rhiannon had vanished. Blinking, he stepped back, turning swiftly to find her. His blood still simmered from the sweet warmth of her kiss, his cock aching in his codpiece. God’s fury, he must find her...

  He stopped short. In place of the verdant spring, the knot garden around him blazed gold and bronze and crimson with the full glory of autumn. Against the shattering blue sky, gray stone turrets rose where the manor had stood—a fairy-tale castle of high walls and crenellations and green-capped towers, ivy twining over the crumbling stone. A crisp wind, scented with the tang of apples, snapped and fluttered the cape around his shoulders.

  Christ’s Blood, was he dreaming?

  “What the Devil?” He started to sign himself with the Cross against enchantment—but there! Among the copper-leaved hedges, a woman was running, slender and light-footed as a child, leaf-green skirts trailing behind her, silver-gilt curls swinging free down her back.

  “Rhiannon?”

  As she fled, she glanced over one shoulder. The silver chime of her laughter floated back to him.

  “Rhiannon!” Cursing, Beltran broke into a run. Pursuing her, of course, and she had to know he wouldn’t stop until he caught her. “Wait, damn it!”

  As he closed the distance between himself and her fleeing figure, details niggled at his brain—the eerie stillness of autumn splendor around them, the castle’s abandoned air. And surely Rhiannon’s leaf-green gown seemed subtly different. In place of a farthingale and English hood, he thought he saw long trailing sleeves and a kirtle, fashioned in a style he’d seen on ancient tapestries and carved on the tombs of queens.

  When she glanced back at him, laughing, he’d drawn close enough to glimpse the silver circlet that banded her brow like a coronet.

  As her running form flashed from sunlight into shadow, passing from hedgerows to the ordered ranks of an apple orchard, the green gown seemed to flicker black for an instant, her pale curls to ebony, as though the world reversed itself.

  A nameless dread tightened his chest, and he launched into a fresh burst of speed. The whole damn world had gone topsy-turvy. Though his thoughts seemed oddly muddied, he knew he needed to reach her, pull her into his arms and claim her for himself, more than he’d ever needed anything.

  He brought her to bay beneath an apple tree laden with gleaming crimson fruit. Laughing and breathless, she spun to face him, her elfin face alight with mischief.

  “Damn it, Rhiannon.” Breathing heavily, heart thumping hard in his chest, he imprisoned her against the tree’s broad trunk. When she darted playfully to one side, he braced his arms against the wood on either side. “Why do you run from me? I’d never force you—never harm you.”

  “But what of thy Inquisition?” she murmured, a fringe of black silk lashes falling to veil her gaze.

  Aye, he’d vowed to turn her over to the Inquisition’s tender mercies readily enough. The heretical documents he’d found among her possessions, paired with her own rash admissions, would sign her death sentence. His chest knotted hard at the thought.

  Jewel-bright apples swung from the branches above them. Rhiannon rose on tiptoe to pluck one, her breasts brushing his chest—fuller than he recalled somehow, her curves voluptuous and womanly beneath the antiq
ue gown. The cloying sweetness of apple-blossoms rose from her hair. Her dark brows winged upward as she laughed up at him, daring him without words to do what she knew he wanted.

  “Never run from me,” he muttered, catching her raised chin gently in his sword-hardened palm. Her skin was soft damask against his calloused fingers, stretched over a delicate curve of bone.

  Careful with her, man. She’s fragile. She could shatter like glass under your careless touch. Still, she’d demonstrated reserves of inner strength and resilience and courage in captivity that won his reluctant admiration. She was far less delicate than she appeared, but the world in these dark days was a dangerous place.

  “Promise me you’ll never run, Rhiannon.” Fired by a strange urgency, he gripped her shoulders.

  Her little teeth nipped daintily into the apple, blood-red skin and white flesh, tart aroma filling the air. In a daze, he watched her tongue sweep across the tender pink curve of her upper lip where droplets of juice glistened. Again, that sense of wrongness tugged at him. Where had she acquired this blatant carnality, so unlike the innocent freshness of the girl he’d begun to know?

  “Kiss me, Vengeance,” she whispered, her sweet voice husky with a note of passion he’d never heard there. As if she’d spoken a spell, his cock stirred and tightened.

  Growling, he lowered his head and claimed her mouth with his.

  Instead of the candied-violet sweetness he expected, she tasted sharp and spicy as apple cider. Instead of winding her arms around his neck and yielding sweetly to his strength as she’d done before, her little hands slid boldly down his back and snaked around his buttocks—the knowing touch of a practiced seductress. Heated thoughts darted through his mind—what she’d let him do to her, forbidden deeds he’d never dreamed of doing with a Christian woman, perversions she seemed more than willing to encourage. His manhood throbbed as the blood surged through him.