Page 11 of Enchantress (Medieval Trilogy 1)

Scarlet coals glowed against the sand. Crossing herself, Morgana began to murmur a prayer. But as she raised her gaze to the heavens, her words froze upon her lips.

Beyond the circle, past the northerly fire, the mist parted and the vision appeared once more.

On the other side of the golden flames that licked skyward stood a warrior, the fiercest she had ever seen. Blood red shadows danced across the angular planes of his face and turned his tunic crimson. His jaw was steady and hard, his black hair wet from the fog. Loose strands fell over eyes the color of steel.

Morgana’s breath stopped in her lungs.

“What kind of witch are you?” he demanded, his voice booming over the steady pounding of the surf. “A witch who casts spells and works omens, then crosses herself and starts to pray?”

So he was flesh and blood! He was so huge and dark that the thought that he was mortal was small comfort.

“Nay, I am no witch!”

“A sorceress, then?”

She shook her head, trembling suddenly from the coldness of the night. Her fingers fumbled for the dagger at her waist as she struggled to her feet.

His eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned. “But you are Morgana of Wenlock, are you not?”

“Aye,” she replied, trembling in fear.

He seemed satisfied at that. Crossing his arms over a chest as broad as that of any of her father’s finest knights, he commanded, “Come with me, then. I have traveled many miles to find you.”

She drew a breath. So this warrior clad in black was the danger she had heard murmured upon the wind? “Are you from the north?”

“Aye. Garrick of Abergwynn.”

“The baron himself?” she asked in disbelief.

He nodded and motioned to the circle and the four fires smoldering in the night. “What is this? Some devil magic?”

She frowned at her useless scratches in the sand. How feebly they had protected her. It was probably these very fires that had caught the fierce one’s attention! “This is not magic at all,” she said in disgust.

“But you are the one with the powers — the one who can see into the future?”

Morgana evaded him. “Only occasionally, my lord.”

“Upon request?”

She shook her head, and the warrior scowled sullenly. H

e gestured impatiently to the four dying fires. Candle wax sizzled against the embers. “I have no time to tarry. Let us be on our way.”

“Us, my lord?”

“Aye, Morgana. There is no time to lose. I need you and your powers and will have you serve me.”

Morgana’s mouth nearly dropped open, but she held it firmly in place, and though this man was no sworn enemy, she slipped her dagger from its sheath. “I cannot leave Tower Wenlock without my father’s permission.”

His lips twisted. “Did he give his permission for you to steal into the night and light fires upon the beach and cast spells into the wind?”

Morgana wanted to lie, to wipe the smugness from his savage face, but she could not. If he was truly Maginnis, and his crest gave credence to his claim, then she was compelled to obey him. “My father does not know I am here.”

“You disobeyed him.”

“I tried to protect him. But I have failed.”

“Failed?” he repeated, kicking at the sand with his boot and extinguishing the northern fire. “Well, Morgana, you must not fail me.”