Witch Hunter Page 4

  She looked up at him and gasped.

  Her face was clear and smooth, her sapphire eyes wide and glassy. A quiver touched her pink, marble-like lips.

  What would she do if he touched her cheek? Would it feel like warm silk?

  He reached up to her face, but she pulled away and backed against the wall. She was afraid. It distressed him to think she viewed him as a monster. What else would she think? After all, he was here to prove she was a witch.

  He cleared his voice and straightened, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword. “I apologize if I frightened you.”

  “Stay away from me,” she hissed and edged around him to run down the hallway. The fresh scent of heather lingered in her wake.

  Lachlan breathed deeply and shook his head. He was acting like a lad smitten by a bonny lass for the first time. He should respect her wishes and keep his distance—at least until he had a chance to question her. Somehow, he did not think that was going to be likely.

  Walking down the wide stone steps, he heard his name float up the stairway. He pressed against the wall and listened to the gathering in the great hall.

  The sound of Gavenia’s lilting brogue reached his straining ears. “He cannot be the one.”

  “Aye, he is her chosen one,” Adela announced. “Remember what the wizard said: ‘When darkness calls this young lass and she has lost the light. A man worthy of a knight’s honor, an able hunter pledged to fight. He will find her, the only one who can. Bring her back home, return her to the clan.’”

  Laird Tremayne’s deep voice added, “The wizard also said this hunter would have a cross on his chest.”

  Gavenia said, “We need to tell her about the hex.”

  “She would only panic,” Adela replied. “There is nothing anyone can do.”

  “Rhiannon hasn’t much time,” Tremayne said. “The day of her twentieth is almost upon us.”

  “If we—”

  “Shh.”

  Lachlan leaned closer without showing himself, but all he could hear were muffled tones. Wooden chairs scraped against the floor. He quickly turned, taking the stairs two at a time. After safely arriving in his chamber, he paced the floor near the crackling hearth.

  He wished he had come down earlier to understand what they reverently discussed. Just the fact they were conversing with a wizard was enough proof Grigor needed to arrest the whole family. Nevertheless, Lachlan required more than mere words. He wanted to be certain Rhiannon was a witch.

  Pulling a silver dagger from his boot, he tossed it in the air and caught the handle, then spun it again.

  Things did not make sense.

  A primitive warning settled in his stomach.

  Rhiannon carried a mysterious hex she did not know about. Whether she was a witch or not, something sinister was happening in this keep.

  Absently, he tossed the dagger again and then returned it to his boot.

  There was only one way to find the answers.

  The hallway outside was quiet when he stepped out and gently closed the door behind him.

  “Eager to find the witch, are we?”

  Lachlan stopped when a high-pitched voice called from behind. He turned to find Grigor strolling toward him. Unlike Lachlan, the man had changed clothes…again. A red tartan kilt showed Grigor’s pale knobby knees, making a long sword look awkward against his bony hip. His tunic looked to be two sizes too big. He replaced his hat with another of equal absurdity.

  Lachlan rested a hand on the hilt of his sword. “Actually, if you must inquire, I was on my way to the kitchens.”

  Grigor stood in front of him, his beady brown eyes studying him. “I seek food myself. I will accompany you.”

  The stench of stale rushes emanated from his clothes.

  Lachlan tilted his head. “As you wish.”

  With a twinge of disappointment, he walked beside Grigor, cursing the man’s rotten timing. He would have to wait until the morn to seek his answers.

  By the Lord, he would not leave until he had them.

  Chapter Five

  “Grab my hair, Cookie. Pull it hard,” Mary demanded, bent over a wide kitchen table, her skirts hiked up around her waist.

  The awkward kitchen lad rammed her from behind.

  “I asked you not to call me that,” John breathlessly whined, then twisted her hair around his fist and pulled.

  Her head tugged backward; the painful sensation shot through her scalp, increasing her arousal. Cookie’s thick member filled her moist center in fast rhythm. By Jupiter, she loved being taken this way. Vulnerable, yet uninhibited.

  She ripped open her chemise to allow her breasts to rub against the flour that had spilled over the wooden bench. Her erect nipples glided across the silky powder. Her open hands slid into the flour and clenched it within her fist. She heavily breathed, a bland taste settling in her mouth.

  Her receptive body tensed. She was about to find her zenith.

  Please do not let Cookie find his release first. Hold out. Hold out…

  The voices of men came from down the hallway and Cookie lurched to a halt.

  “Do not stop!”

  “But Mary, someone comes.”

  “And it is not me,” she growled. “Keep going.”

  Mary ground her buttocks against his hips, but he pulled out of her just as two strangers entered the kitchen. Granting the men with a view of her exposed femininity, she rested her hand on her floured chin and stared at them.

  The shocked expressions on their faces were scrumptious.

  “Well is anyone going to finish me off?” she purred and wiggled her backside, hoping the young handsome man in the gray tunic would step forward.

  Instead, the ugly one with an oddly shaped, blue hat leered at her and walked closer. Oh well, as long as he has a big…

  “Master Grigor, we will allow this couple their privacy,” the attractive man said, his arm barricading her would-be lover.

  Cookie straightened in the corner after donning the laces on his breeches. “Milord, I pray your pardon for this, this…”

  “That is quite all right.”

  “Is there something you wish to eat?” Cookie offered.

  Filled with humiliation, Mary swore under her breath and struggled to stand. Here she was open and ready, and these men were talking about food!

  Mary brushed the flour from her breasts. Her skin was sticky from perspiration. After she was satisfied most of the powder was off, she raised her gaze to find Grigor ogling her, his round eyes shining with a dark excitement.

  She gave him a half smile and turned her back to watch the handsome man follow Cookie to the open hearth where he poured a bowl of stew.

  So these were the men that festered fear into everyone. Mary slanted her head, staring at the tight roundness of the witch hunter’s rump.

  Hmm, I wonder what he would do if I grabbed it and squeezed.

  Wiping the flour off her chin, she went to walk around the kitchen bench when her arm was pulled backward. Intent on the man’s backside, she forgot Grigor stood nearby. She turned back and scowled at him, yanking her arm out of his grasp.

  Without a word, he threw his arms up and stepped back.

  Men! Offer them a look at your womanhood and they think they own you.

  She sashayed toward the hearth. Her sights were on something more delicious than Grigor. Why go for a used mule when a thoroughbred was nearby? A stallion as fine as this one should not roam the moorlands alone.

  Oblivious to her presence, the witch hunter walked around the other side of the bench just as she neared him. Was she just ignored?

  “Thank you, Sir, for the fare. I bid you all good eve.” The nobleman nodded his head and left with a bowl in both hands and little eye contact.

  An irritated blush warmed her cheeks and she gritted her teeth.

  Cookie whined, “Mary, I need to get to bed, I have an early morn—”

  “Go then.” Mary dismissed him with shrug and crossed her arms on her chest. This
eve did not turn out the way she wanted.

  “He is above your station, Mistress Mary.”

  She jolted. The deep voice stirred her insecurities.

  Grigor walked around her like a highland black wolf sizing up its prey. She lifted her chin. “No man is above me. If I want him, I could have him.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “Lord Lachlan would never lay with you.”

  She coldly glared at him. How dare he insult her?

  “Nae, only a lovely and beautiful lass like Lady Rhiannon would capture his lusts.” He peered at her from the corner of his eyes.

  Mary’s heart beat faster; fury burned her chest. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I am just as bonny as Rhee.”

  Grigor stood close to her, his face only inches from hers. “Denial is as unattractive as you are.”

  Mary bit her lip and went to slap his smug face, but he caught her hand and pushed her back against the bench. She could feel his hard member poking in her thigh while he leaned on top of her.

  “You will never be good enough for Lord Lachlan. Never be as good as…her,” he whispered and forced his tongue in her mouth.

  Jealously fueled the justification to teach this man just how good she could be. She pushed against his chest and stared at him. A buried aggressive nature shone through his brown eyes. He did not seem ugly to her anymore, but instead was almost desirable.

  She lifted herself on the bench and he smiled at her with superiority.

  Pulling up her skirt, she wrapped her legs around his waist.

  “I am beautiful,” she growled, a self-doubting ache grew within her heart.

  Grigor threw his feather hat to the floor and quickly lifted his kilt. He pushed his thin, but long member inside her and grinned. “Nae, you are not.”

  Chapter Six

  Rhiannon covered her mouth to stifle a yawn while she ambled down the short stairs to the outside bailey. She spent a frustrating night lying awake, tossing and turning. The infuriating witch hunter invaded her mind and would not leave.

  She shifted the heavy basket of vegetables and herbs under her arms and took a deep breath. The sun shone on her face, revitalizing her sluggish muscles. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of the early morn mist that came after an autumn storm. Pushing her vision of the future to the side, she concentrated on the moment. Everything was going to be all right. It had to be.

  “Why are you smiling?” Mary said when she linked arms with her.

  “’Tis a beautiful day. The birds are chirping. We have a bountiful crop to last us the winter. All is well in the world.”

  “Are you daft?” Mary stared at her incredulously and touched Rhiannon’s forehead. “In case you have forgotten, you have the witch hunter residing in your keep. He could haul your family away and have you all killed.”

  “Fear not, that is not going to happen,” Rhiannon tentatively replied, forcing herself to believe her own words. She smiled to a farmer’s wife as she hobbled up the road. The woman lowered her head and hastened her step upon her elderly legs.

  Rhiannon sniffed the air and straightened herself with poise.

  Mary shook her head and snatched a carrot out of Rhiannon’s basket. “Where are you going?”

  “To Alyssa’s cottage. The seamstress has been sick of late and Grandmother wanted me to deliver these herbs and food to her.”

  Mary blocked her path, and Rhiannon abruptly halted. “What is the matter?”

  “You are giving Alyssa healing herbs.”

  “Aye, Grandmother heals everyone with her herbs.”

  “If the Inquisitors found out, you would definitely be arrested as a witch.”

  “These simple herbs are not magical.”

  “But they do not believe that. People have been hung with less provocation.” Mary took a bite of the carrot.

  The tangy scent reached Rhiannon’s nose, making her hungry. Pushing her empty stomach aside, she walked around her friend. “I will not allow Alyssa to suffer needlessly because of silly superstition.”

  Mary turned and joined her. She shrugged her shoulders. “All right, but I would not tell those men what you are doing.”

  Just when the thought of the witch hunter came to her mind, he appeared out of the corner of her eye. Standing casually against the doorway of Gallagher and Kathleen’s cottage, he grinned while talking to the Italian blacksmith.

  Unable to resist, Rhiannon stopped and gaped. He looked so in control and at ease with himself in his black woolen cloak, white tunic and bay breeches tucked into calf-high boots. Even his chestnut hair shaped his angular face without a single strand distressing his clear eyes.

  How does he get his hair to do that?

  Rhiannon gently tugged at her own unruly locks.

  Mary looked back to see she why she had stopped and returned to her side. “He is a good looking man.”

  “Aye,” Rhiannon whispered.

  “I cannot wait to bed him.” Mary swayed her shoulders, biting her lower lip and ogling at him.

  “Nae.”

  “Do you not think I can?” her friend said with a frown. “I am beautiful, too!”

  “Of course you are,” Rhiannon replied. “I just do not want you to.”

  How could Rhiannon tell her friend why she did not want her to enjoy Lachlan’s fine body? In truth, she had no hold over the man, no reason to keep him all to herself. A pang of selfish guilt washed over her, but she still could not force herself to grant an explanation.

  A long silence stretched before them.

  Mary’s lips tightened, her eyes flashed with anger. “Men want me just as much as they want you, Rhee.”

  “I did not mean…”

  Mary threw the carrot down and ran back up the cobblestone road, leaving Rhiannon to wonder what was wrong with her friend.

  When she turned around, she caught Lachlan watching her from the doorway. A sinful smile crept over his lips and her heart flipped in response. She scowled and continued down the steep road.

  Why does he have to affect me in every way?

  She sneaked one last peek over her shoulder and found him walking toward her. Rhiannon shifted the basket from one arm to the other. He must not find her carrying these herbs. If what Mary said were true, he would have enough proof for a trial.

  Quickening her steps, she scuttled down the road without tripping over her skirts. She glanced back again to find he kept up with long strides and nary a bead of sweat.

  A horse cart heavy with hay rambled by her. She dodged behind the cover and rushed down an alley between a market stall and a stable. Just as she rounded the back of the stable, she ran into someone. Rhiannon yelped and stumbled backward. She clutched the basket to her chest, and a few turnips fell to the ground.

  “What have you there?” Master Grigor asked, peering into her basket.

  Fear shot through Rhiannon and she lost her voice for a moment. “I…I have vegetables for a sick friend.”

  She kneeled on the ground, placing the basket behind her while snatching up the turnips. She glanced up to find the seedy man looking down her hazel gown. A creepy chill washed over her as if the man had put a layer of salvia on her. She shuddered and quickly rose.

  “What else do you have in there?” he asked and shoved his hand into her basket.

  She pulled away. Whether it was from fear or anger, she kicked him in the shins with all her might. “You need to learn to respect a lady.”

  Hopping on one leg, he rubbed his injury. “Bitch!”

  Rhiannon edged along the wall to dart around him when he grabbed her arm. The Inquisitor’s eyes burned with fury, and he raised his hand. She squeezed her eyes tight, waited for the sting of a slap.

  When none came and he abruptly released her arm, she opened her eyes.

  Lachlan held Grigor against the wall with a dagger against his throat. “Hit a lady again and I will slice off your hand. Do you understand?”

  Rhiannon was dumbfounded at first. Why did he save h
er from a thrashing? The glint of the silver dagger shone in the sun. It was the same weapon in her vision. The same dagger he would use to kill her in the future.

  At the moment, she was more terrified of the dagger than Grigor. Gathering her skirts, she fled, running as if a plague had infested the town. She did not stop until she passed the baker’s stall and reached Alyssa’s thatched-roof cottage.

  Leaning against the door, Rhiannon took a deep breath to calm herself. Showing Lachlan and Grigor fear would only cause more doubt to her innocence.

  Innocence? She was not innocent, and glad of it. Why should she run from these men? She was a Celtic witch and a sorceress. Rhiannon hated that she had to cower before them.

  After checking on the sick seamstress, she returned to the castle with no sight of Grigor or Lachlan within the village. Although she did not care to see the former, she did search for Lachlan, her heart racing at the thought of his presence. She was angry with herself for being attracted to him. How could she feel lust for a man who not only wanted to put her on trial for witchcraft, but also was destined to kill her?

  So he had a handsome face that caused tingles in her stomach every time she looked at him, a sculptured body that seemed chiseled by the late Michelangelo, and gold-flecked eyes that affectionately peered into her heart, making her defenseless against his charm.

  He was a witch hunter.

  What was wrong with her?

  Her head ached from the glare of the sun and she shielded her eyes. The sound of people shouting and cheering bounced off the castle’s walls. Rhiannon swiveled her head toward the noise coming from the training field. Lifting her skirt, she ran through the bailey, beyond the castle’s stables, to the flat field on the side of the mountain.

  A group of soldiers and villagers gathered around to watch two men fight with broadswords. Rhiannon pushed her way through the crowd until she stood in the inner circle.

  One of the men on the field was her father. His charcoal hair was tied back while sweat stained his mauve tunic. He panted with exhaustion, but Rhiannon knew that look of determination. He would not stop until his opponent fell first. The two men pivoted in mirror precision when Rhiannon finally saw the face of her father’s foe.