Whistle Down the Wind (Mystic Moon) (12 page)

Catlin
sighed and let her eyes adjust to the murky light inside the small cottage. A
rock fireplace lined one wall with a pallet nearby, as if someone had been
sleeping there. A round table with a few chairs stood in the middle of the room,
and a rough cupboard squatted along an expanse of wall.

She found
some dry wood and kindling in a pile in one corner and quickly stacked it in
the fireplace. She’d remembered to carry her small leather bag with her today,
which held her stone and flint. A tiny curling glow quickly blazed into a cozy
fire. She might not have the assistance of her more powerful sister’s elemental
fire dragons, but she could still work her own kind of magic. Once tinder
touched dry wood, her
sylphs
made sure sufficient air existed to keep a
blaze burning.

The storm
continued to rage outside. Rain splattered upon the roof in angry torrents.

She found
the cupboard stocked with candles, more flint and stone, a few pieces of
pottery, and a jug. Removing the cork, she sniffed and recognized the scent of
Rhenish wine. She grabbed two pottery mugs and the wine and placed them upon
the table. There was no reason she and Griffin couldn’t be comfortable while
they waited out the storm.

Catlin sat
down upon the pallet after using a broom she’d found in one corner to get rid
of any rodent invaders who might have made a nest there. She removed her
leather boots and woolen stockings. They, too, were soaked through, and she set
them close to the fire to dry.

The wooden
door squeaked open on its leather hinges, and Griffin paused in the entry. Did
he suspect she used magic to cause the storm?

“Well,
you’ve made yourself at home in here, haven’t you?” He took several long steps
and dropped his saddle to the floor. He moved to the fire and held out his
hands to warm them. “That damned storm came upon us with no warning.”

Catlin
didn’t answer, but pretended to be busy trying to dry her hair by twisting it
repeatedly to drain off the water.

He knelt on
one knee to draw closer to the fire before giving her a sinful smile. “At any
rate, I’ve somehow contrived to find a way for us to be alone together.”

Catlin
swallowed. What in the Goddess’s name did she think she could accomplish by
bringing this charming and dangerous man to such a place? She endangered not
only her reputation, but her very virtue.

She was no
courtesan trained in the sensual arts to persuade and entice men. She
understood there were techniques a woman could use to mold a man to her
purpose. She’d heard enough common gossip about the many women who gained
favors by plying their charms in the King’s bedchambers. Yet she’d not been
tutored in any of the requisite skills, and she cursed her lack of knowledge.

She stood
and padded to the fire, pulling one of the chairs forward to sit down. She
placed her bare feet upon the stone hearth before leaning back. “I fear you
have somehow arranged this, Sir Reynolds.” She gave him what she hoped was a
coquettish look. “I shall need to be vigilant, lest my good reputation suffer
irreparable harm.”

He frowned.
“I’m afraid I didn’t consider that. Perhaps we should go now, despite the
storm.”

A tremor of
alarm surged through Catlin, and she instantly formed a plan. If she could
arrange a way to remain in the cottage with him, if only for a brief time,
perhaps she could cast a spell upon him strong enough to bind him to her. Once
she’d done that, convincing him to keep her by his side would be much easier.

Her
conscience pricked her. Her mother had warned her many times not to cast love
spells, for the results could be very unpredictable.

“I doubt
this storm shall last long enough for us to be missed, and I have no interest
in getting soaked to the bone again.” She gave him a sweet smile. “Shall we
wait a bit and see what happens?”

Griffin
wiped the water from his brow. “Wait?”

Catlin
focused her intent and closed her eyes for a moment. She repeated the ancient
words to create a love charm in her head. Of course, she didn’t have the
requisite supplies, but for her purposes, she didn’t need anything very strong.

Griffin
stretched his long legs out to put his booted feet closer to the flames. He
didn’t seem to react to her spell at all, although since she’d never used such
a thing before, she had no idea how long it took for the subject to be
affected.

She shuddered
at her own audacity. To attempt something she knew could cause trouble was imprudent
enough, but to be alone—unchaperoned—with a man was absolute foolishness. She
cringed at the thought of Aelwyd’s reaction when she discovered what Catlin had
been up to this afternoon.

“’Tis only a
spring shower and ’twill be gone before we know it.” She tried to keep her tone
light, but knew her cheeks were rosy with warmth. She suddenly felt nervous and
shy.

“Then it
seems prudent to wait it out.” Griffin picked up a stick to poke at the hot
embers of the fire. They didn’t speak for a few moments.

Catlin rose
and went to the table. “I found some Rhenish in the cupboard and thought
perhaps a mug might warm us while we wait out the storm.” She poured them each a
portion, handed him one of the mugs, and returned to her chair.

She took a
sip, and a curl of heat trailed down her throat. She set the mug on the dirt
floor and attempted to make amends to her appearance.

Pulling the
bodkins from her hair, she shook it out then used her fingers comb through it,
anxious to smooth any snarls. Finally she threw her head back in hope she might
look more presentable.

She lifted
her head to discover a strange expression upon Griffin’s face. His mouth was
open, the mug frozen in his hands and his eyes held a glazed look.

“Is there
something amiss? Is your wine sour?”

Griffin
shook his head and took a quick swallow of the wine. He blinked at her and took
a deep breath. “No, ’tis nothing, just...” He set his cup on the hearth and stood
up. He took two long steps, paused in front of her, then reached down to grasp
her hands and pull her gently to her feet.

A shiver of
alarm mixed with delight rippled through her. She should be afraid, and perhaps
she was, just a bit. But more then that, she waited, eagerly anticipating his
next move. She didn’t have to wait long. Sir Griffin Reynolds drew her into his
embrace and covered her mouth with his own, bending her backwards across his
arm.

Catlin’s
will bent, too, as his mouth devoured hers, then drew back and teased her lips
gently before once again begging—no demanding—her submission.

Lightening
flashed, but not from the storm above. Rather, the storm within her caused the
bolt. Lethargic weakness left her bones melting to puddle upon the dirt floor.
She was grateful for the support Griffin’s strong arm provided.

His tongue
pushed forward, beyond her small front teeth, and she opened her mouth to
welcome his plundering quest. She could muster no defense against this man, for
every part of her body craved his touch.

Her head
spun, and she felt like a girl twirling about on a summer’s day until she fell
onto the soft grass. She tasted him, the wine sweet upon his lips. The dampness
of his hair and clothes mixed with the moisture on her own and this should have
chilled her. Instead as the heat blazed between them, it only made her swelter
as if they were standing in the sun on a mid-summer day.

His lips
moved lower, diverted from pillaging her mouth to eagerly exploring the
tenderness of her earlobe. He gently nibbled, as if she were a sweet morsel he
sampled.

She
shivered, but not from the cold. In her mind, cold did not exist, only a
trailing, molten path that flowed across her skin wherever his mouth and
fingers traveled. His lips moved lower yet, to the small indentation at her
shoulder, and another tiny flame ignited within her. She should be pushing him
away, but it was sweet torture to have him holding her. She couldn’t form the
words to stop this sensual play.

He grasped
her hand, led her to the pallet, and pulled her down with him. Before she even
realized what was happening, he hovered just inches above her. His dark eyes
looked feverish, as if he were barely conscious of his actions.

“You are so
full of sweetness, Catlin,” he murmured, his voice rough with desire. “Silky
skin and sweet kisses, that is how I shall always remember you.” He pointed at
the door of the cottage. “If you wish for me to leave, you must say the word
now.” His mouth hovered over hers. “In a few more moments it shall be too
late.”

Too late?
Too late for what? Catlin’s mind raced for a brief interlude before realization
seized her. He intended to make love to her, and he was asking for her
permission.

Catlin's
heart was beating so loud, she was surprised he didn't comment upon it. Her
virtue stood in jeopardy, and she must somehow muster the strength to refuse
him and send him outside to wait out the storm. Yet her breasts ached with a
heaviness she didn't recognize and her body floated, as if she were weightless.
She didn't want him to go, she wanted more.

Instead of
asking him to leave, she gently pulled his mouth down to hers, answering his
question with her own sensuous, demanding kiss.

Griffin’s
hands explored the soft curves and gentle valleys of her body. When he cupped
one of her breasts with a hesitant, tentative touch, she stretched toward his
fingers. Her skin prickled with a molten heat everywhere Griffin touched her.
She licked her lips, but her mouth felt as dry as a desert storm.

He quickly
helped her unfasten the ribbons holding her bodice together, and she delighted
in the sensation of his warm breath upon her bare flesh as he trailed tender
kisses from her throat to the deep valley of her décolleté.

When he
suckled the hard, pink tip of one breast, she arched her back again. The
languorous warmth built to a blazing crescendo within her. A thousand colors
swirled behind her eyelids, and a gentle pressure swirled from her lower belly
to move slowly to the soft petals of her womanhood. She wanted his fingers, his
lips, and more.

A solid,
urgent thickness pushed against her inner thigh.

“Do you feel
how eager I am for you, my lady Cat?” His voice was garbled, as though he’d
imbibed too much wine. Catlin didn’t know how to respond, so she kissed him
with an eager tenderness that she hoped demonstrated she understood what he
wanted from her.

Griffin
stood to unfasten the laces of his breeches as Catlin prepared herself for her
first sight of an aroused and naked man.

Suddenly,
the fire turned into blazing tongues of flame that shot out of the fireplace,
seeking Griffin out as if trying to singe the skin from his flesh.

“Bloody damn
hell!” he roared as he launched across the room in an effort to escape the
inferno.

Catlin
thumped her fists upon the pallet. Her fever of desire dissolved in the face of
this sudden intrusion by Aelwyd’s elemental emissaries. “I hate those
damniol
fire dragons.”

Griffin had
twisted away from the flames and now stood at the other end of the room,
staring at her as if he were emerging from a dense fog. She snatched her
clothing back into place to cover herself.

“I beg your
pardon, Catlin. I have no idea what came over me, I should never. . . would
never, I mean. . .” He drew one hand through the dark, unruly locks of his hair
and looked at her, his brow wrinkled in confusion.

Catlin
didn’t know what to say, for to excuse him and lay the blame upon herself might
expose her plot to entice him to take her to Virginia. Her love charm had
worked better than she’d ever expected. She should be congratulating herself
for the success.

Unfortunately,
at this moment, with her body screaming for a release she didn’t understand and
her sister’s minions watching her she was only confused and ashamed.

“I think we
need to return to Mabley Hall,” she suggested.

Another
flame rose hot and orange from the embers, and Griffin nodded. “Bloody damned
right you are. It’s been the strangest day. I cannot explain my behavior
Catlin, but I offer my most humble apology for what has transpired between us.”
He took another step backwards, away from her. “Let us be grateful it went no
further.”

He fumbled
with his clothing in an attempt to straighten it. She should offer some sort of
explanation. If only she could come up with something that didn’t sound like a
nursery tale.

Please don’t
concern yourself, Sir Reynolds, for I cast a love spell upon you. But I didn’t
actually realize how powerful it could be, so it was my fault entirely. Magic
spells can be so unpredictable, you know.

Catlin
couldn’t confess her part in the sudden appearance of the storm or their hasty
lovemaking. To do so would certainly indict her as a witch, and while Griffin
might allow her to cast a healing spell upon his friend, he would most
certainly not be happy to hear she was using magic to bend him to her will.

Men didn’t
care for women who contrived to make them do things they did not think of
first. Even as young and inexperienced as she was, she understood the male
enjoyed the hunt and pursuit of the female. Turning the tables made them very
angry. Or so she'd been told.