Sorceress (14 page)

“For the love of Christ, what’s happening?” Cain demanded, instantly alert. The horse backed up and Cain was on his feet, trying to quiet the stallion.

“The wild wolf.” Bryanna went to Alabaster and tried to soothe the frightened mare. “There you are . . . good girl.”

“What about the wolf?” Cain asked as he tried to ease his own horse’s anxiety. “That’s it . . . you’re okay,” he said to the stallion, his tone low but firm.

Bryanna, in control of the frightened mare, said, “The wolf was drinking on the other side of the stream when I approached. She . . . she stared at me for a bit, then started growling, her fur all on end. I thought she was going to attack me!”

“But she didn’t.”

“She missed by the breadth of a thread.”

“If she’d meant to harm you, she would have.”

Though Cain’s words made sense, they didn’t slow her racing heart. “She ran right by me, nearly knocking me over as she took off into the woods.” Bryanna was holding the mare’s reins in one hand, her dagger in the other. She pointed the knife toward a spot beyond the firelight where the wolf had been swallowed by darkness. “She ran through there, past the tree with the split trunk.”

“But she didn’t harm you.”

“Nay, but—”

“You’re just scared. Like the horses.” Satisfied that she wasn’t hurt, he turned his attention back to his frightened stallion. “Whoa, Rhi . . . you’re all right,” Cain said softly, though the black horse still sidestepped and tossed his head. Nervous sweat had broken out on the steed’s sleek black coat and he pulled hard on the bit, yanking on Cain’s arm again.

Cain sucked his breath in through his teeth, then swore, all the while trying to steady the horse. “By the gods,” he said, then, “Shah . . . boy, there now . . . that’s better.” Slowly the animal calmed. “See . . . nothing to worry about.” He rubbed Rhi’s muscular neck, glancing over his shoulder to the dagger still clutched in Bryanna’s hand. “You didn’t need that.”

“I was defending myself against a wolf. She’s a wolf, Cain. Remember?” she said and noticed that he seemed to have paled beneath his bruises, that he appeared weaker as he led his horse in a small circle. “The horses and I . . . we know that. You seem to think the beast is just some friendly castle dog, ready to be patted on the head and scratched behind the ears. ’Tis foolish.”

“You weren’t hurt,” he pointed out.

“But you were.”

“I’m fine.”

“And you call yourself a good liar,” she mocked.

“The wolf didn’t harm me.”

“She scared the horse, who reared and yanked you out of sleep, mayhap opening your wound again.”

“I said I’m fine. Leave it.”

She held her tongue for the moment but noticed that he favored his right arm, transferring Rhi’s reins to his left hand.

She knew all about men and their false pride. While she was growing up, her brothers had taught her about the silent prowess of men in dealing with pain or discomfort or embarrassment, how they preferred to hold their tongues and pretend not to suffer while the women would cackle and cluck about any little thing. And so it was with Cain. She knew she should tread carefully with him, but she found it impossible, because he irritated the hell out of her.

“Why did the wolf run off?” he asked her.

“Because she’s a wild wolf,” she said, exasperated. She threw the hand holding her dagger toward the sky. “’Tis not as if she’s a rational being.”

“Did you hear or see anything that would have caused her to run into the woods?”

“Besides my heart pounding harder than an armorer’s hammer? No,” she said quickly, but then added, “Well, I did . . . I did have the sense that there was something—or someone—watching me. But ’twas most likely just the beast. The wolf was right across the stream from me.”

Frowning, he glared into the dark, silent forest and slapped Rhi’s reins into her hand. “We’ll see,” he said, unconvinced. “Stay here with the horses.”

“What?” she cried, her fingers curling over the leather straps as he slipped his quiver and bow over his back, then headed into the forest. “You’re not going after her?”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Cain, do not leave,” she insisted, but her words fell upon deaf ears as he jogged off, vanishing into the gloomy, night-dark thicket. She stared after him. “Fool of a man,” she muttered under her breath. She hadn’t wanted his company, had not invited him to stay with her, but now that he’d run off, she felt a sudden odd sense of loss.

She tended to the horses, stoked the fire, and scratched out a rune for his protection, drawing three overlapping circles in the earth. Then she said a quiet prayer for both the man and beast. In truth, Cain was right. The shaggy wild wolf had done nothing to harm them.

Watching the moon rise, she huddled against the bite of the wind and the whir of bat wings overhead as the fire’s flames crackled over moss and pitch. When he didn’t return immediately, she tried not to worry, her eyes wandering to his saddle and the leather bag. Glancing over her shoulder as if she thought he might be watching, she ventured over to the place where he’d been sleeping and opened his pouch. Maybe she could find something in his personal belongings that would reveal more about him.

She opened the pouch and withdrew its meager contents: a small whittling knife, tips for arrows, a whetstone for sharpening his weapons, and nothing more. Nothing personal. ’Twas as if she were looking in a soldier’s pack.

“Find what you were looking for?” His voice rang from the darkness on the other side of the fire. She dropped the pouch and felt heat climb up the back of her neck.

“Aye, you carry a whetstone with you. My knife is dull.”

“You could have asked.” He walked out of the woods, his gaze stern.

“You were not here and I wanted to stay awake to wait for you. The wolf?”

He shook his head. “Missing.”

“Mayhap gone back to her pack.”

“I think not.” He pushed the hair from his eyes and frowned. “What’s that?” He pointed to the earth where she’d scraped her rune into the dirt. His lips twitched in amusement. “Practicing your magick again?”

“’Tis for protection and it worked,” she said. “You returned.”

One side of his mouth lifted as the campfire popped and sparks rose into the air.

Oh, he was a pain in the backside and, aye, she didn’t need him about, but there was something a little endearing about him. As she tilted her head to look at him again, she was certain she’d met him somewhere before. The feeling, though fleeting, was bittersweet, a little pleasure mixed with a little pain. It didn’t last long enough so that she could examine it and truly remember him, but it was there, that feeling of recognition.

“You care?”

What was he asking? The night seemed suddenly close. “About your safety? Yes.”

“And why is that?”

Her gaze found his and for a second her breath was lost, her mind wandering into dangerous territory. “I don’t know.”

“You’re attracted to me.”

She almost laughed. “Ah, that is it,” she said, shaking her head. “Have you any idea what you look like?”

“It matters not.”

“Of course it does.”

His gleaming eyes accused her of the lie. “Aye. Of course it does.” He walked to his horse and once again wrapped Rhi’s reins around his palm. This time, though, he tethered the horse to his left hand, and as he settled back against his saddle again, he grimaced.

“Your shoulder,” she said. “It bothers you. You’re in pain.”

“
You
bother me,” he retorted, closing his eyes. “Good night, Bryanna.”

As if she could sleep! With the wild wolf roaming the woods and the eerie sense of a dark presence nearby, she felt certain sleep would elude her.

She settled on the ground by her own saddle and wrapped her mantle about her to ward off the cold of the night, but her restlessness made the night sounds seem exaggerated. The frogs were croaking again and an owl gave off a lonely hoot over the hiss of dying flames.

Her mind teased her with thoughts of the warmth of Calon until she chastised herself by recalling the reasons she’d left. She glanced over at Cain, who was already sleeping, and somehow the sight of this strange man eased her guilt about Morwenna’s husband.

Cain was wrong, of course. She was
not
attracted to a self-proclaimed liar who looked as if he’d been trampled by an army. She wouldn’t think twice about the man if he hadn’t offered up information about her quest.

That mysterious quest, elusive even to her.

’Twas folly, she thought, sliding lower on the saddle as weariness took hold of her muscles. She closed her eyes and heard him moan, his first small cry of pain.

Well, too bloody bad.

She hadn’t invited him to be a part of her camp and she certainly didn’t want a wolf skulking in the shadows on the other side of the fire. She didn’t know much about this man who called himself Cain, but she was fairly certain he brought trouble with him.

As if she didn’t have enough of her own.

He moaned again, more loudly this time, and she tried to close her ears to it. She reasoned that the pain couldn’t be that bad if he could manage to sleep through it.

Again, he let out a miserable groan.

She couldn’t stand it a second longer. She rose to her feet and circled the fire, moving close to him. His face in repose was still strained, as if he were in agony. God’s teeth, he was battered and suffering.

There was a chance she could alleviate some of the pain.

With deft fingers, she sorted through her pouches and horns, finding some powder that Isa had used. She filled Isa’s iron cup in the stream, then placed it on a flat rock that jutted over the embers of the fire. As the water warmed she sorted through her dried herbs and seeds, deciding on willow bark, flax, and Saint-John’s-wort. Once the water was steaming, she tossed in her powder and waited until the herbs had steeped.

She worked in silence but for his continual laments of pain, and she couldn’t help but feel empathy for the man. Using the hem of her mantle to protect her hands, she carried the steaming potion to the spot where he lay.

“Cain,” she whispered. “Cain, wake up.”

He didn’t move.

“Cain . . . ,” she said more loudly as she knelt beside him. When he didn’t rouse, she touched him gently on the shoulder.

Still nothing.

She moved her hand to his neck and there her fingers brushed against the spot where she could feel his pulse, the lifeblood pounding through him.

The instant her fingertips touched his bare skin, she saw an image, a brief, vibrant portrait of a boy on the verge of becoming a man whose hair was dark with sweat, his head twisted to look over his bare shoulder as he braced himself. Two faceless men held him steady.

And then she saw a black whip snake forward and bite into his tanned flesh.

His body jerked.

A red welt appeared as the whip slid backward over the dry grass. The sky above was dark as death, the clouds parting and roiling over the scene, the barebacked boy taking his punishment from the Penbrooke stable master.

“Gavyn,” she whispered.

The whip snapped again. Hissing through the air, it slashed into his back.

“Gavyn,” she cried.

The image of the beaten boy disappeared and she was in the forest again, her fingers upon a stranger’s throat. No, not a stranger. Gavyn.

His eye opened groggily, the light within alert and knowing.

“Holy Mother,” she whispered, pulling back her hand as if she’d been burned.

How had she not recognized him, this man who had once been her friend?

His dark gray eyes focused hard on her and she felt tears gather at the back of her throat as she recalled the brutal punishment he had endured.

“I wondered if you’d remember,” he said.

“By the saints, why did you not tell me?”

Frowning, he pushed himself upright, leaned forward, and draped his arms over his bent knees. He watched her thoughtfully and shook his head. “’Twould be better if you did not realize who I am.”

“Why?”

“Because there is much you don’t know about me, Bryanna,” he admitted, rubbing his chin. “Some things you’re better off not knowing.”

“Nay.”

“Aye.” He nodded, staring into the fire. Somewhere far off, a night bird called, his song nearly drowned out by the rush and gurgle of the stream.

“You should have told me,” she insisted.

He cocked his head, as if considering all the implications and consequences of revealing the truth. “Mayhap, but what would have changed?”

She didn’t utter the words aloud.

“Hmmm. See?” he said, his gaze unnerving as he glanced back at her again. “Nothing. So . . . ’tis your turn for the truth. What is the spoiled daughter of a baron doing alone in the wilderness casting spells, calling to a woman who isn’t there?”

She wasn’t about to answer, realizing that the truth would have made her sound crazy. Could she tell him that Isa had been killed, yet the dead woman still spoke to Bryanna? Could she admit that she was on this quest to save some child she’d never met? Could she acknowledge that she’d stolen amulets from a dead woman and escaped Calon for fear she was in love with her sister’s husband?

Of course not. “There’s truly nothing to tell,” she said, “and I was never spoiled.”

“Aye, your father’s favorite.”

Oh, for the love of the saints, now she knew he was a half-wit. “My father’s favorite was my brother Kelan.”

He snorted and shook his head. “While your older sister tried to outdo her brothers, you had but to smile at your father and he would allow you anything.”

“ ’Tis true,” she admitted. Their eyes connected and something in his quicksilver gaze sparked the memory of another time, when she was but a child riding across a dusky meadow, her little brown jennet struggling to keep up with the rangy dun-colored gelding and the boy astride the taller beast. The boy had turned in the saddle, flashed a gorgeous smile, slapped at his horse’s withers, and then bolted off on his dun. Leaping ahead, the horse had scattered grasshoppers and butterflies and even pheasants as he raced across the tall grass at sunset.