Heart's Magic (21 page)

“If Brice proves, as I suspect he will, to be
a victim of the dark force that Hugh has detected, then your cousin
will need to be rescued, rather than challenged,” Gavin
answered.

“What about Alda?” Mirielle had to ask. She
saw the bitter rage in Gavin, before he turned away to face the
still-empty shelves where jars of healing herbs had once been
stored. That rage shocked her and left her unable to say anything
more, for it suggested to her that Gavin cared for Alda and was
hurt by his wife’s adultery. His next words only confused her.

“Alda needs nothing that I can give her,”
Gavin said.

An hour later, Gavin and Hugh stood together
in the bare little chapel. The single oil lamp they had brought
with them burned on the altar. By its feeble light Gavin had just
deposited the document from King Henry, along with a few other
objects, into the safe hiding place Mirielle had suggested. With
the stone over the opening beneath the altar replaced, no one who
did not know of the secret space could guess it existed.

“Will you really let Sir Brice live?” Hugh
asked.

“You heard what I told Mirielle,” Gavin said.
“If Brice has been caught in a mage’s web, then we will help him,
and if he survives the coming contest, I will do no harm to him.
But if he proves to be allied with the dark magic—and he may well
be, since he craves wealth and power—then let us hope we can entrap
him along with the dark mage you have sensed. Thus, we will prove
to Mirielle how false her dear cousin is and, in that case, when we
destroy the mage, we will destroy Brice with him.”

“What of Mirielle then?” Hugh cast a sharp
eye on his friend. “She may not forgive you for Brice’s
downfall.”

“Mirielle.” Gavin sighed. “I doubt if we can
ever be friends after the way I deceived her on our first visit to
Wroxley.”

“You want more than friendship from her,”
Hugh said. “Admit it. Be honest with yourself.”

“Mirielle touches my heart as Alda, with her
famous and strangely unchanging beauty, never did. There is a
purity at Mirielle’s heart that evil will never touch.” Gavin’s
voice lowered and he spoke with profound sorrow. “Whether she can
forgive me past and present deceits or not, no love can pass
between us, for I am a married man. No matter what Alda has done,
if I would be worthy of Mirielle, I cannot break the vows I took on
my wedding day.”

“Good, you are here.” Alda brushed past Brice
at the doorway to his room.

“Where else would I be at this hour?” Brice
rubbed his sleep-heavy eyes. “Have you lost your wits completely,
to come to my room so late at night? You belong with your
husband.”

“I will never again lie with Gavin of
Wroxley. He will get no more children on my body.” Alda whirled to
face Brice, her loose hair floating outward at the movement like a
fine golden veil.

“It is your duty to give him children.”
Brice’s eyes were on her hair. He knew just how those silken
strands would feel, entwined in his fingers.

“I have always preferred passion to duty.”
Alda’s declaration was quite unnecessary, since Brice was kept
continually aware of her passion, as well as her lack of interest
in duty.

“Nonetheless,” Brice insisted, “you must do
as your husband commands.”

“Never! I have ways of avoiding that which I
do not want to happen. And of bending men to my will.”‘

“I do not think you will be able to cajole
Gavin,” Brice said.

“Cajole him?” Alda repeated with a throaty
chuckle. “Mere cajolery is not what I have in mind. I would
ensorcel Gavin, snare him with unbreakable cords, bewitch him into
total immobility to keep him out of my bed—and torture him when he
cannot protect himself. It would serve him well, after the way he
insulted me.”

“What are you saying?” Brice had thrown on a
loose robe when he rose from his bed to answer Alda’s furious
rapping at his door. Now he drew the robe close about himself, as
if a sudden chill was touching him.

“Do you know what he told me?” Alda
demanded.

“How should I know?” Brice asked. “Do you
imagine I had my ear pressed to your door to hear your moans of
delight? Or his?”

“He said he would rather bed a moldering
corpse than me. The insult! The rudeness! After the care I take of
myself, the things I do—and have done—to keep my beauty. Gavin will
pay in blood for those words. I’ll see to it.”

“So you did not leave his hot embrace to come
to me,” Brice said.

“Did you imagine I had?”

“I think you might find it exciting. I assure
you, I would not.”

Alda paid no attention to what Brice was
saying. She was busy pulling her gown over her head. Brice heard
the sound of ripping stitches, and for a moment he envisioned
Donada carefully sewing the gown. He put that image away. This was
not the time or place to be thinking about Donada.

“Does this look like a corpse to you?” Alda
let her gown fall to the floor. She stood before Brice in all her
naked glory. She took Brice’s hands and pressed one to each of her
breasts. “Is this flesh warm and living? Can you feel my heart
beating? You know how hot I am inside, there where you want to be.”
Alda’s hands slid beneath his robe, stroking, teasing, and Brice
began to harden.

“In the name of heaven, Alda!” Brice meant to
push her away from him. Instead, he found himself pulling her
closer. “You should not be here. What if someone discovers us? It
will mean my life—and yours, too.”

“Are you expecting someone else?” Alda’s
hands clutched at a sensitive spot, holding him as if she would
pinch. “Another woman, perhaps? Have you been false to me,
Brice?”

“You know better than that.”

“Do I?” Her fingers tightened until they
began to hurt. Brice growled. Alda laughed and turned the
threatening touch into an erotic gesture. “Imagine what I would do
to you if I should discover that you have given this to another
woman. And what I would do to the woman. You belong to me, Brice.
Especially this, most useful, part of you.”

Brice was by now so stiff with desire that he
thought he would burst. His body was blazing hot wherever Alda
touched him. The threat of pain had only excited him further.

Alda slipped out of his reach to kneel on his
bed, luring him with a smile. When Brice tried to join her there
she placed both of her hands on his chest, holding him away.

“Tell me I am beautiful,” she ordered.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever
seen.”

“Say you worship me.”

“You know I do.”

“Beg me to give you the pleasure only I can
give.”

“Alda, please!” Brice bit back a groan. He
knew he was going to die if Alda did not open her thighs at once
and give him what he craved.

“Again,” she commanded. “I want you to plead
with me.”

“Alda, I beg you! I cannot contain myself any
longer.”

“You will wait until I tell you otherwise.”
She was merciless. “Ask me again.”

“Please. Please.” Brice was on his knees on
the floor beside the bed, his clasped hands held up toward his
beautiful tormentor. Through the mist of lust that surrounded him,
he could see that his pleas were exciting Alda. Her bosom was
heaving, her nipples were dark red and hard. With her eyes on his
and a sly smile on her red lips, she slid one hand down between her
thighs.

“No,” Brice gasped. “Let me do that. Alda, I
implore you.”

“Well, then, you great, stupid beast.” Alda
lay back on the bed. “Come and take your pleasure. And I will take
what I need from you.”

There was a part of Brice that despised Alda
and hated groveling to her. There was a part of him that felt
sullied every time he left her body. But he could not resist her.
No matter how many times or how recently they had coupled, she
could always rouse him anew. Gratefully, Brice sank into her heat.
Following the orders she gave him in a gasping, husky voice, he
treated her as roughly as she demanded for as long as she required.
At the end she granted him the release he sought, the long, hot
spiral of fleshly delight that took him out of himself and let him
forget both the caution he knew he ought to exercise and his shame
at what he was doing. In the end, there was only the moist place
between Alda’s quivering thighs, and his own desire, and a deep,
aching exhaustion when the act was finished.

Shortly before noon of the next day, as
preparations for the welcoming feast that Mirielle had organized
for Gavin and his men were being completed, Captain Oliver appeared
in the great hall, bringing with him five people. Two of them were
men-at-arms, and those Captain Oliver sent off to join the men of
Wroxley for the feast, promising warm places to sleep before the
visitors began their return journey on the morrow.

Left with a middle-aged priest and two
children in his charge, Captain Oliver approached the high table,
where Mirielle and Hugh were awaiting the arrival of the lord and
lady of the castle.

“My lady Mirielle,” Captain Oliver said,
“this good priest is Father John. He has escorted Lord Gavin’s
children home from Cliffvale Castle. I thought it best to bring
Warrick and Emma directly to you.”

Mirielle advanced to the edge of the dais.
The priest’s tall and ascetically thin frame suggested a distain
for the mortal pleasures of food and drink. His disapproving scowl
and the sour line of his mouth as he regarded Mirielle hinted at a
further strictness of spirit that did much to explain the attitudes
of the children with him.

The girl, who was about eleven years of age,
looked frightened. The boy was a sulky thirteen-year-old. In her
own youth Mirielle had on occasion clashed with priests who
disapproved of certain aspects of her work, so she recognized in
the children before her two who had doubtless been browbeaten all
the way from Cliffvale to Wroxley.

“Welcome home,” she said to them. “We were
not expecting you, but you come at an opportune time. Your father
has also returned home after long years of crusading. I know he
will be happy to see you.”

“Not when he hears what I have to tell him,”
said the priest, extending what was apparently a perpetual frown
from Mirielle to the children and then back to Mirielle again.
“These two deserve no welcome but, rather, a severe
punishment.”

As Mirielle sought for a response that would
reassure the children while not offending Father John, she was
rescued by Hugh.

“Good Father,” said Hugh to the priest, “I am
certain you must want to refresh yourself before joining us for the
feast we plan.”

“I do not require any luxury,” the priest
said in a lofty tone. “My life is dedicated to holy
simplicity.”

“A noble point of view,” Hugh responded,
“speaking in the holiest sense of that word, of course. It was my
thought that if you were seated at the high table, any conversation
you wish to hold with Lord Gavin and his lady will be more easily
accomplished.”

“I see.” Father John looked from his own
dusty hands to the spotless white linen covering the high table.
“Perhaps I ought to wash.”

“I will be happy to escort you to a place
where you can do so.” With an elegant motion of one hand, Hugh
indicated the way the priest should go.

“He’s clever,” said young Warrick, gazing
after the departing men. “I wish I could talk that filthy priest
into doing what I want so easily.”

“Perhaps Master Hugh will teach you,” said
Captain Oliver, who had a distinct twinkle in his eyes. “Young sir,
if your father agrees, I will be happy to see you in the practice
yard tomorrow, with the other fellows of your age. Your servant, my
lady.” Captain Oliver bowed to Mirielle and left the little group
by the dais.

“I am not going to take up weapons.” Warrick
thrust out his jaw in a fair approximation of a determined man.

“Warrick, you must,” said his sister. “You
know you must. It is a nobleman’s duty.”

“I don’t care!” What else young Warrick might
have said on the subject was interrupted by Donada.

“Warrick?” Donada’s wan face was lit by a
wide smile. “Is it really you?”

“Donada!” All the sulkiness vanished from
Warrick’s expression. He turned to Donada as if he would embrace
her. Just in time he recalled his manners and stood very straight.
Then he bowed. “It is good to see you again, dear lady. I trust you
are in excellent health.”

“Well enough, I thank you, sir.” Donada
looked at Mirielle. “If you like, I will see to Warrick’s needs.
Robin is washing his face and hands. Warrick could join him. I see
saddlebags in the entry, which will probably contain a change of
tunic for the feast.”

“Robin is still here?” Now Warrick’s face was
filled with boyish eagerness.

“He will be glad to see you again.” Donada
then explained to Mirielle, “When they were little, Warrick and my
son were inseparable. They spent a lot of time in the seneschal’s
quarters with me and my late husband.”

“Captain Oliver told me that Sir Paul died
soon after my grandfather,” Warrick said. “I am sorry. He was much
like a father to me.”

“He thought of you as another son, in the
absence of your own father,” Donada said. “Come, I’ll show you to
Robin.”

They went out of the great hall together,
which left Mirielle alone with Emma. The girl still looked
frightened. Mirielle began to wonder why the children had been sent
home so unexpectedly.

“Your father will be very happy to have you
with him,” Mirielle said, by way of beginning a conversation that
she hoped would elicit some information.

“I do not think that will be so when he
learns why we have come,” Emma replied.

“I have always found,” Mirielle said, “that
when I am concerned about a meeting, it helps my spirits if I look
as neat and tidy as possible. We won’t have time before the meal
begins for you to bathe and change your clothes, but if you wash
your hands and face and brush your hair, I think you will be quite
presentable.”