Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

18

LIAR

LAMIA WATCHED THE blue-robed woman ride into the inner perimeter, and as she did so, Fantôme shifted against her arm.

But she’d already sensed something ‘amiss’. There had been a gentle breeze that evening, one rich with the scents of spring, and Lamia had been warming her hands over the crackling flames of the fire. And then, without warning, a strange wind had sprung up, one that smelled as if she stood deep in a pinewood.

It was a smell that Lamia recognized instantly.

They were two days from Stirling now, and soon the break in hostilities that winter had brought with it would end. Lamia would join Margaret and the king for supper shortly, yet she always liked to have some solitude first. She’d been savoring the quiet before the storm, while at the same time anticipating what would come.

Margaret longed for her husband to achieve dominion over Scotland, something he’d worked so hard for over the years—and Lamia shared her desire. Not only that—but Lamia wished to be part of history in the making. Her destiny was calling to her, she could sense it. Why else would she have received that warning about the Bruces?

But then a stranger had ridden into the midst of the inner circle, a woman of around thirty, with long red-gold hair tumbling over her shoulders, bringing with her the scent of pine and peaty earth.

Fantôme coiled around Lamia’s wrist in warning.

Lamia needed no cautioning. She knew what this woman was. She was the first of her kind she’d encountered in Scotland: one of the bandruì who’d once held so much sway in these lands.

Witch-will emanated from her, a gentle, earthy power, yet something that Lamia marked nonetheless. It was as different from her own aura as winter was to summer. She knew this kind of woman as an ‘earth witch’.

One that was no match for her.

The woman spied her, as did her mount. The pony tossed its head and sidestepped. However, Lamia sensed there was no connection between them. This witch wasn’t powerful enough to draw a familiar to her.

Lamia didn’t take her gaze from the witch. Instead, she watched as the newcomer swung down from her pony’s back and handed the reins over to the soldier who’d led her in here. The man wore a stunned look. He said something to the woman and then gestured to the tent beside him.

Hugh de Burgh’s pavilion.

The woman nodded to the soldier. Lamia could almost taste her nervousness, could almost hear the drumming of her heart, yet she held herself with the easy self-confidence of someone who knew her own worth.

All witches did. Their lives weren’t like those of other women. They did not need to become wives or mothers. They didn’t have to follow their fathers, their brothers, or their husbands.

The soldier led the garron away, to be unsaddled and fed, leaving the blue-robed woman standing alone before Sir Hugh’s pavilion.

Fantôme’s grip on Lamia’s wrist tightened. Her familiar demanded to know what this witch was doing here.

“I don’t know,” Lamia whispered back, as she watched the stranger enter Sir Hugh’s tent. She frowned then, jealousy coiling within her. What does that witch want with Sir Hugh? “But I intend to find out.”

Hugh stared at the woman who’d just stepped inside his pavilion.

She stood there, her pale face and golden hair illuminated by the candles flickering inside the tent, her expression imploring.

Thomas, who’d been cleaning Hugh’s chainmail, let out a gasp and leaped to his feet. The squire stood in the center of a sheet upon which he’d spread out the knight’s helmet, gauntlets, greaves, and plate armor. He was always meticulous about keeping them clean and polished, but as Stirling approached, the lad had become even more diligent. “Who the devil are you?”

“My name is Nessa,” she said in English, her low voice filtering through the pavilion.

“How did you get in here?” The squire took a step forward, his cheeks reddening. Nessa paid him no mind. Her attention didn’t move from Hugh. “Good eve, Sir Hugh.”

Thomas pulled up short, his gaze flicking between his master and the blue-cloaked woman who’d just ducked into the tent. “You know her, Sir Hugh?”

“Aye.” The admission tasted bitter upon his tongue.

“I apologize for appearing like this,” Nessa murmured, continuing in English. “I didn’t want to alarm you.”

Hugh merely watched her for a long moment, clenching his jaw. It had been a wearing day. His belly was empty, and he’d been about to sit down to his supper. Bread, cheese, and cured sausage sat upon the trestle table behind him. This unexpected visitor was the last thing he needed at present.

Hugh glanced at Thomas. The lad was watching Nessa with naked suspicion. “Leave us, Thomas,” he murmured.

The squire glanced at him, his blue eyes full of questions. But, perhaps judging the look on Hugh’s face correctly, he nodded, cast Nessa one more probing look, stepped over the armor he’d been polishing, and left the tent.

Alone, Hugh and Nessa watched each other. Then Hugh went to the table behind him and poured himself a goblet of wine. He’d been planning to have a tankard of ale with his supper yet now felt in need of something stronger. “Can I ask how you managed to get through both gates and find your way to my pavilion unchallenged?” he asked coldly, shifting to Gaelic.

He lifted the goblet to his lips and then froze, remembering that night nearly a moon earlier when Nessa had drugged his wine. Lowering the goblet without taking a sip, Hugh’s mouth twisted.

She took a step toward him, her green eyes luminous in the candlelight. “I told the men at the gate that I wished to speak to Hugh de Burgh, and one of them agreed to lead me here,” she replied.

His mouth twisted. “Aye, that straightforward, was it?”

He knew his men. None of them would agree to lead a strange Scotswoman through the camp and to their commander’s tent without express permission from him.

His gaze searched Nessa’s face. Who was this woman really?

He too moved forward, closing the gap between them so that he loomed over her. Nessa raised her chin, holding his gaze. “Did you get the answers you were seeking?” he demanded. “When you laced my wine?”

Her expression gave little away, yet he noticed a nerve flickering on one cheek, betraying her tension. He also saw fear shadow her eyes.

Aye, she was wise to fear him, after what she’d done.

“It was just a sedative,” she answered him, her voice husky. “Valerian … to make ye sleep.”

Fury kicked to life in his gut, although when Hugh replied, his voice was steady. “And why did you give it to me?”

Her throat bobbed, and her eyes glittered. “I was afraid, Hugh,” she whispered. She cast her eyes down then, as if she could no longer bear to hold his gaze. Her cheeks were now flushed. “After we lay together that eve, and ye told me ye would depart Dunfermline within the month, I panicked.”

Hugh went still, his gaze narrowing. “And so you fled? It makes no sense, woman. Don’t take me for a witless knave, some fool you can wrap around your little finger.”

“It’s the truth,” Nessa replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She wouldn’t meet his eye. “I knew ye would leave, and I couldn’t bear it. I thought it would hurt less if I went first, during the night while ye slept.” She drew in a trembling breath then before raising a hand and placing it upon her breast. “But I was wrong … it hurt more. I’ve missed ye, Hugh … more than ye can imagine.”

Hugh’s lip curled. He didn’t believe her in the slightest, and yet her nearness was doing strange things to him. His mind felt as if fog were drifting across it, and the sudden urge to reach for this woman, to haul her into his arms and kiss her, was almost overwhelming.

“I should have kept my distance from you.” He bit out the words, as he fought himself. “Right from the beginning, I knew you weren’t like other women … that your way of healing was … unnatural.”

She glanced up then, her eyes shadowed. “And yet ye let me heal ye. That wound on yer hand would have been the end of ye.”

“So you say.” He took another step toward her, so close now they were almost touching. It was an act of intimidation, yet he didn’t care. Fury pulsed through him, warring with the wooliness in his head and the desire that heated his veins and spiked through his groin.

Curse the woman, his rod was now rock-hard, just at the sight of her, and the soft lilt of her voice drove him insane.

She’s working some kind of spell upon me. Aye, that was it. Had she done so right from the beginning?

“What did I tell you that night?” he growled, his gaze pinning her to the spot.

She stared up at him, her eyes glistening. “Nothing,” she whispered.

“Liar.”

She swallowed again before licking her lips. It was an anxious gesture, and yet it made Hugh fixate on her mouth, on those soft, sinful lips that he’d once so enjoyed kissing.

“Ye told me ye loved me,” she whispered.

Hugh scowled. He certainly didn’t remember saying such, although his memories once he’d started to sip that wine were hazy at best.

“And that’s why I couldn’t stay away from ye,” she continued, her voice husky now. “I realized that what we have is special … and I had to return to ye.”

Hugh’s pulse thundered in his ears. This was nonsense. The hard, pragmatic side of his character, the side that had always protected him, jeered at this woman’s words.

She was trying to manipulate him, enslave him, yet she wouldn’t succeed.

But the rawness of her words, the way her throat bobbed as she spoke, the gleam in her eyes, and the scent of rosemary and sunshine that emanated from her, drew him in.

“We had nothing,” he said roughly, fighting his need for her with every ounce of will he possessed. This woman was a witch. She had cast an enchantment over him and would bring him to his knees if he let her. “You were a fool to come to me tonight, Nessa.”

With that, he reached out, his hands fastening around her wrists. “Thomas!” he called out, his voice lashing across the tent. “Fetch me some shackles and a chain.”