From the corner of her eye she caught sight of the emerald ring, its stone dark and cold as it lay on the table. Firelight played on the many facets, but the emerald’s reflection held no spark.
Pocketing the jewel, she stared down at the infant’s perfect little face. “This will be yours, child, and from now on, you shall be known as Tara, daughter of Lodema. I will raise you as my own.” Aye, as a Christian, but one who will know of the old gods as well, a girl who would love air, water, and fire as well as Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
She brushed her lips across the baby’s soft forehead and only hoped she hadn’t cursed them both.
Chapter One
Wales
Gaeaf Forest
Winter 1290
“The devil take you, Abelard!”
Upon a horse he’d stolen not two days earlier, Rhys, known as the Bastard Outlaw, glared up at the ominous sky. His mood was as black as the clouds scudding across the heavens, his skin cold from the slap of the wind. Even the fine gray stallion mincing nervously beneath him gave him no satisfaction on this somber afternoon. Though the forest was usually a place of solace, it seemed malevolent today. The wind creeping through the woodland made him anxious. Mist rose from the earth, bare-branched trees lifted their scrawny, naked arms to the unforgiving sky, and the constant drip of moisture was unsettling.
Rhys yanked on the reins and swept his uncompromising gaze in a wide arc.
By the gods, where was Abelard?
The high-strung steed was edgy, and Rhys’s own nerves stretched taut as bowstrings.
Abelard, the cur, had promised to meet him here in this narrow canyon between outcroppings of mossy rock, guarded by leafless oak trees. Yet he’d not appeared. Gryffyn pulled at the bit, shaking his great head, black mane damp, bridle jingling. “Son of a dog.” Rhys squinted through the fog, surveying every inch of this rocky canyon.
Curse Abelard’s sorry hide. ‘Twas he who had chosen this spot for their rendezvous. He who had insisted upon a meeting outside the hallways of Broodmore, he who had intimated that he had secrets to share—secrets regarding Twyll that he didn’t want overheard by others. At the thought of the tower from which he’d been cast—Twyll, a rugged castle perched high upon a cliff—Rhys’s heart grew colder than this very forest. Injustice icily chilling his heart.
Vengeance, always lurking in the shadows of his soul, never rested. Hence his kinship with Abelard—thief, liar, and spy. The man to whom he owed his life.
So where was he?
Christ Jesus, the man was a thorn in his side!
Glowering into the shadows, Rhys let out the soft hoot of an owl, the signal he and Abelard had agreed upon. Then he listened, waiting, straining for an echo … hearing nothing but the steady drip from leafless branches and the rush of the creek slicing through the chasm. The wind picked up, dancing along his spine, reminding him that somewhere, deep in the great hall of Twyll, fires spat and crackled, candles glowed with warm, soul-penetrating light, meat sizzled and gave off a charred, spicy scent as it was brought to the lord’s table where his half brother, baron of all Twyll, Lord Tremayne, feasted.
It had been ten years since Rhys had last been a freeman within the walls of Twyll, a decade since his half brother had sliced his face and broken his nose, but the pain, though dulled with the passing of years, still burned deep. And Abelard had promised him news this morn—news of Twyll.
Damn Abelard’s black soul. Rhys’s jaw clenched and he urged Gryffyn forward.
At a fork in the trail he slowed the horse again. A new sound carried over the rush of water—a woman’s voice, soft and low, whispered through the leafless trees and bracken. He drew up by instinct and turned toward the chanting, pushing aside a branch that hindered his view of the creek and the woman kneeling upon its bank.
At first glance he thought she was a crone who had stopped at the stream for a drink. Her back was to him, her tattered cloak fanned around her small body as she dipped her hands into the brook. Over the gurgle of the water, her voice was muted but rhythmic as she chanted or prayed. To Rhys’s mind it didn’t much matter which. God no longer listened. Mayhap He never had. The woman was a fool.
Silently he urged his mount a little closer, and Gryffyn stepped softly through the dripping ferns and underbrush. The fog was dense here, rising upward from the forest like the spirits that some said inhabited this hollow, ghosts of those who had given their lives in defending Tower Twyll. Ghosts that Rhys had inadvertently hastened to their graves.
Rhys’s jaw grew hard. He held the reins in clenched fingers and shoved his bloodstained memories aside.
“Cerridwen and Morrigu …” the woman murmured.
So she was a witch. Calling up pagan goddesses.
“… protect me in my quest …”
His lips twisted irreverently. Poor old hag. Still believing in the magic of the ancient ones. He pulled on the reins, determined to leave the crone alone, when he saw her reach into a deep pocket and withdraw her treasure—a gold ring suspended from a length of silver chain. Rhys sucked in his breath. Mounted in the center of the ring was a sizable green gem, dark and mysterious as this forest, a jewel that winked in the fragile shafts of sunlight that were able to pierce this ungodly mist, a stone like no other. God in heaven, ‘twas the Dark Emerald of Twyll—lost for nearly two decades. Worth a fortune. Said to possess powers beyond those of man.
Rhys’s thieving fingers itched. In a split second he saw a new path home, a trail blazed by the light of the jewel in this woman’s palm.
The crone held the necklace aloft as a gust of wind raced through the thicket, causing the stark branches of the trees to dance while tugging at her cloak. Her hood slid off, and the coarse fabric bunched around her neck to reveal a thick mass of ebony curls that caught in the breeze and glistened in the thick mist.
Rhys’s gut tightened. His breath caught. This witch was far from old.
Prancing nervously, Gryffn tossed his great head, muscles quivering beneath his mud-spattered coat, his bridle chinking softly.
She didn’t seem to hear.
“… be with me.” Standing slowly, as if it were part of her ritual, she tied several knots in the chain. Then, in one deft movement, she removed her heavy wool cloak and draped it over the exposed roots of a willow tree. For but a second she stood in a russet-colored tunic, then it, too, was flung off, tossed over the cloak.
The spit in Rhys’s mouth evaporated.
Nearly naked, she stood proudly, her back rigid as she shivered in the bare light of afternoon.
He should leave. Now. Something was wrong here, very wrong. Mayhap deadly. He smelled a trap as surely as if it were a carcass rotting in the sun, and yet he was drawn to her, unable to move.
Goose bumps rose on her flesh. With only a lacy chemise as protection against the damp cold, she turned her face to the sky.
Rhys’s throat tightened as she lifted her arms over her head again and the hem of her undergarment raised, showing off white, well-shaped legs that stretched out of her battered leather boots. In one defiantly raised fist she held the knotted chain with its glistening stone that winked a dark, seductive green. In the other her small fingers curled around a dagger—tiny and wicked as death.
Rhys’s gut clenched. The ring. The stone. The rumors. He blinked, telling himself he was a fool.
“Please, Mother, be with me.” Solemnly bowing her head, she slowly untied each little knot in the chain, then carefully looped the necklace over her head.
Crossing her arms in front of her, she gathered the folds of her chemise in her fingers and tugged the unwanted undergarment off. It landed in a pool atop the rest of her clothes and, aside from her boots and the chain, she stood naked on the shore of the creek, misty rain collecting on her bare skin, droplets sparkling in ebony hair that fell in unruly waves to the middle of her back.
By the gods, she was beautiful. Her body was lithe and young, the muscles of her back shifting beneath flawless skin, the dimple of her spine lon
g and curving. With slim hips and a tight, round rump, she raised her empty arms upward as if to embrace the sky yet again.
And around her gorgeous neck, she wore the ring. With the cursed but legendary stone.
Gryffyn snorted and tossed his head, jangling his bridle loudly.
She stiffened. “Nay,” she whispered in a voice barely audible over the sigh of the wind and the gurgle of the stream. She whirled swiftly, hands flying downward to cover her nakedness. Her gaze clashed with his. “Sweet Jesus, nay.” Her face drained of all color. “Bastard,” she muttered nearly inaudibly, and he flinched inwardly. “Get away!” Her wide eyes, a deep green, flashed in silent humiliation. “Who the devil—? Oh, by the saints—”
The magic was broken. The ring dangling from the chain at her neck glimmered between breasts as beautiful as any he’d ever seen—small, high, rounded perfectly, with rosy nipples that puckered in the chill December air.
Inwardly Rhys groaned. It had been long since he’d seen a woman—and never one like this. Never one who wore the dark emerald of Twyll.
Scrabbling fiercely for her clothes, trying to cover her nakedness with one arm while reaching for her tunic with the other, she skewered him with one hate-filled glance after another. “ ‘Tis enough you’ve seen!” Heat flared in her cheeks. “Who be you to slink through the forest like a serpent, spying upon—oh, curse and rot you, just leave!” One pink nipple peeked between her splayed fingers. He shifted his gaze lower, past her flat abdomen and slit of a navel to the dark nest of curls that was only partially hidden by her other hand when she bent over to slide into her chemise and tunic.
“You … you have no right to look at me!” she insisted as the rough cloth slipped over her nakedness. She skewered him again with a stare of intense hatred. “No right! If Baron Tremayne knew—”
Every muscle in his body clenched. In spite of the fury burning in her gaze, he urged his horse past the few scrawny trees that separated them. “What would the baron do?” he encouraged, inwardly angry that he didn’t have the brains or the nobility to yank on the reins and ride off. Or at the very least to steal the stone nestled between those enticing breasts.
“He’d hang you! Or … or draw and quarter you! Then he’d spill your innards and feed them to his hogs!” She tugged her hair through the neck of her tunic and glared up at him, not giving an inch, her small chin jutting forward in self-righteous fury and her cheeks flaming bright pink. “Or mayhap he’d strip you of your clothes and that fine sword, then flay you within a whisper of your life, spit on your wounds, and throw you over the cliffs to bleed to death.”
At that image he felt the rage that had smoldered deep in the dark recesses of his heart for a decade begin to ignite. “And what would he do to you if he found you practicing the dark arts in his forest?”
“I hurt no one—”
He lifted one eyebrow in mockery. “The priests at Twyll might disagree. They be a reverent and arrogant lot.”
She swallowed hard, her courage flagging for a second. She licked her lips nervously and her eyes narrowed a bit. “Speak you of Father Simon?”
The old one. How did she know the old one? What would a witch want of men of God? “And Father Alden.”
“You’ve met Father Simon?” she clarified, some of her ire seeming to fade, her gorgeous face turned upward.
“Has not everyone heard of the silent priest of Twyll?”
“Aye, aye, but you’ve spoken to him.”
“Long ago.” When he still confessed his sins.
“But he is at Twyll yet, is he not?”
“Aye.” Or so Abelard said.
She was anxious, her face white, her embarrassment forgotten, but she glanced toward the other side of the creek where her horse, a bay mare, was tethered to a spindly sapling. The mare’s ears were pricked forward, one back leg cocked lazily. “He speaks not?”
“Nary a word.”
She bit her lower lip, as if worried or disappointed, then muttered something under her breath about rogues who spoke in circles as she tossed on her mantle.
“You know the baron?” he asked.
Her head snapped back, and she was staring up at him again with those damnable eyes. She hesitated but a second, her throat working. “Aye.” She nodded vigorously, as if to convince herself. “And … and he’s the very devil himself, he is.”
“Is he?”
“Mean as a wounded bear. Banished his own brother.” She snapped her fingers. “Just like that.”
“Why?” he asked, curiosity getting the better of common sense. She was a liar. A beautiful, feisty liar. She knew not Tremayne, and yet she was determined to say otherwise. She was hiding something. Though Rhys knew he should leave well enough alone, be off before he was discovered this close to the gates of Twyll, he couldn’t ride away. “Why would a brother banish his own kin?”
“Know you not?” she asked, suddenly wary again. “You who have spoken with Father Simon? Have you not heard of the bastard Rhys?”
“Once or twice,” he said dryly, staring down at her raven-black curls. Who was this woman who chanted spells like a witch, had a tongue as sharp as a hunts-man’s blade, and was as beautiful as any lady he’d ever set eyes upon?
“Then you know that Rhys is an outlaw now. A murdering, thieving robber who …” She let her voice trail off as she eyed him more closely, taking in his worn tunic and breeches, scuffed boots and angry disposition.
“This outlaw—”
“Rhys,” she whispered, swallowing hard.
“Yes. Rhys. You’ve met him?”
She hesitated slightly before she shook her head and apprehension appeared in her eyes.
“You fear him.”
“I fear no one,” she retorted.
“You’ve been to his brother’s keep?” he prodded and watched her shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. When she didn’t respond, he swung down from his horse.
“Who be you?” she demanded, refusing to back up even one step.
“ ‘Tis the very question I was about to put to you.” He motioned to the pile of her clothes still resting on the blackened roots. “And why call you up the spirits?”
“I was not—” She snapped her mouth shut, and he silently damned himself for staring down at her upturned, innocent face. Though she played the witch, she was young and, he suspected, far from worldly. A light dusting of freckles bridged her straight nose, and sooty lashes curled around curious, intelligent eyes. A cunning expression crossed her features as she said, a trifle breathlessly, “Aye, sir, caught me, you have. Calling up the ghosts in these woods. If you be not careful they may arise and haunt you.”
“Would they now?” He couldn’t help but be amused, even though Gryffyn was edgy, ears cocked, nostrils snorting, as if he sensed an intruder. “ ‘Tis too late to prevent it, witch. By the gods, there are demons who plague me as if they were my shadow.” He felt a contemptuous smile twist his lips. “So chant if you must. Tell your ghosts to rise up and bedevil me.” He leaned closer to her, so close that he saw the shifting shades of green in her eyes. “Who be you?”
Stiffening, Tara bit her tongue. She couldn’t trust this man who seemed a strange cross between a knight and a rogue. His clothes had once been fine, leather stitched into the best black wool, his high-spirited steed was cared for and appeared swift, and in his expression a mixture of arrogance and anger shifted upon a once handsome face that had seen more than its share of battles. A thin white scar ran from his temple to his chin, burying itself in the whiskers that had not been scraped away in days. His nose was battered and not quite straight, one eyebrow had been cleaved, and the eyes that glowered down at her were the color of steel and twice as cold.
“Surely you have a name?” he asked again.
“Some … some call me Morgan Le Fay.” ‘Twasn’t a lie. Not really. Those who were frightened of her often conjured up the names of the old goddesses when speaking of her.
“Morgan Le Fay? The death g
oddess? So far from Glamorgan?” His laugh was as bitter as the wind tearing through the creek’s chasm. He crossed the short distance between them to stand close enough to her that she could smell the scents of smoke and horses that clung to him. “The one who can cast a destroying curse on any man?” White teeth flashed in his dark visage. “So ‘tis you I should blame for all my ill fate?”
“Aye,” she said, silently damning her quick and oft-times too sharp tongue. “And who be you?” She’d seen no sign of his allegiance. He wore no colors, bore no shield with a standard emblazoned upon it.
His silver eyes twinkled wickedly. “If ye be Morgan Le Fay,” he said so slowly that her gaze was drawn to his mouth, “then …” Stupidly, her silly heart began to pound, and she thought again how this man had seen her without a stitch upon her. “I must be Rhys, banished outlaw of Twyll.”
Fool! Did he think she believed him? Fury tore through her. So he was taunting her. Arrogant spying cur! No honorable man would have watched her undress as he had, but then, there was not a hint of honor about this man. “I think, mayhap, that you be a bastard, sir, pure and simple.”
Again the amused grin and bark of laughter. “Aye, witch, a bastard. But not so pure.” His eyes gleamed in the frail light. “And never simple.”
He was toying with her, he who had seen her naked in the woods, chanting spells, asking for help from any god who would speed her on her quest. Hot color infused her cheeks. “Curse you, then, outlaw.”
“Ah, lady, I think mayhap you already have.” In that moment she knew he would kiss her. His silvery eyes gleamed, and before she could take a step back his arms surrounded her and she was captured. Pulled close. She gasped, and his mouth bore down on hers. Her lips parted, and though she meant to utter a swift “no,” no words passed. “Ahh, witch,” he sighed, then his lips claimed hers. Hard, hot, demanding. She knew she should pull back, knee him hard, writhe away from him—but the wonder of the kiss, the sheer power of his lips molded to hers, kept her still.
Sweet Mary! Was this what it was like when a man and woman joined? Her blood heated in the cold winter air, and yearnings the like of which she’d never experienced stirred deep in her very core.