Nessa’s Seduction by Jayne Castel

19

GREETINGS, SISTER

THE CHARM HADN’T worked.

Nessa couldn’t believe it. The man had resisted the powerful witching she and Fyfa had woven into that scroll. He’d known what she was—and that had prevented her from bending him to her will.

Failure tasted like vinegar on her tongue.

Hunched near the fire, Nessa watched as the flames died to embers and those embers slowly dulled with the passing of the night. Knees drawn up under her chin, she leaned back against the pole that had been driven into the ground overnight—the pole she was chained to.

Around her, the camp slumbered; only the occasional cough or murmured conversation from guards punctured the stillness. The night lengthened, and she tilted her chin, fixing her gaze upon the star-sprinkled void. The moon’s absence from the night sky—for it was a new moon—made the stars stand out in relief against the inky blanket beyond.

They were all looking down upon her: the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. All watching the mess she’d made of things.

Nessa swallowed to ease the tightness in her throat. She’d seriously underestimated Hugh de Burgh.

What will become of me now?

Would he have her imprisoned? Executed?

She’d used every bit of her witch-will in that tent—as well as a slew of honeyed words and fabrications to get him to yield to her. The Three Curse her, she’d even told the man she couldn’t bear to be without him.

She hadn’t been able to meet his eye when she’d said that, for such declarations shouldn’t be bandied around—yet it had all been for nothing.

Hugh de Burgh had resisted the enchantment and slapped iron shackles on her wrists. He’d then led her outside before calling for two of his men to fetch a pole. A few soldiers gathered, looking on in interest as the pole was driven into the ground and Hugh fastened Nessa to it.

“Who’s this, Sir Hugh?” One of the men called out.

Hugh had initially ignored the question. However, he looked around at the curious faces and scowled. “No one is to talk to her,” he’d ordered. “The woman is a witch.” Then, ensuring that Nessa was secured, he swiveled on his heel and stalked back to his tent without a backward glance. Only his squire had lingered, his gaze flicking from Nessa to the man he followed, confusion upon his boyish face.

And so, Nessa was left alone with the dying fire.

Murmuring an oath, Nessa opened her eyes once more, taking in the canopied outlines of the pavilions against the twinkling sky.

Lost in thought, she didn’t see the cloaked figure that emerged from one of the tents at first. However, as it moved across the dew-soaked grass toward her, Nessa’s skin prickled in warning.

Her gaze settled upon the woman she’d spied earlier.

Nessa’s heart started to flutter like a sparrow caught in the cage of her ribs.

Mother’s blood, who was she? The sight of her had so unnerved Nessa before she’d gone into Hugh’s tent that it had been hard to fully focus on gathering her witch-will. Was that why she’d failed? It certainly hadn’t helped matters.

Fur-lined hood pulled up, framing a heart-shaped face, the woman drew up before Nessa. She had pale blue eyes that almost appeared silver in the firelight.

“Greetings … sister,” she greeted her in soft, melodious French.

Nessa tensed.

Sister.

So, her instincts hadn’t tricked her. This woman was a witch, yet not of the same kind as Nessa. Scottish witches left the scent of pine, crushed herbs, and freshly turned earth behind them. This one emitted the odor of hot iron, blended with a darker, muskier scent that Nessa couldn’t place.

Nessa stared up at her, unspeaking.

The witch favored Nessa with an arch look. “There’s no need to look so wary, sister. I mean you no harm.”

Nessa’s mouth thinned. She wasn’t so sure about that—and when the woman raised an arm and pushed aside her cloak, revealing the wide-sleeve of her cotehardie, Nessa spied the silvery head of a small snake emerge.

A chill washed over her.

Crone’s tears, this witch has a familiar.

Colina was the only druidess she’d ever known who’d drawn a familiar to her—and she was reputed to be one of the most powerful bandruì their order had been blessed with. Her recent vision and divination were proof of the skill she wielded.

Was this woman as strong?

A beat pulsed between them before Nessa murmured in French, “Who are you?”

“I am Lamia Delamare … lady-in-waiting to the English queen … and you?”

Although this woman had given up her name easily, Nessa was loath to do the same. Names held power. And yet, she found herself answering. “Nessa.”

“And what are you … some foolish hedge-witch who’s fallen in love with an English knight?”

Nessa drew in a slow, deep breath, anger quickening within her. The mockery in this woman’s voice was vexing. Aye, she’d failed in her task, yet she wasn’t the idiot Lamia Delamare seemed to think she was. The iron shackles around her wrists prevented Nessa from summoning her witch-will. If not, she’d have shown this woman she was no hedge-witch.

Even so, it was probably best Lamia didn’t consider her a threat—best let her think she’d allowed her infatuation for Hugh cloud her good sense.

“I’m a healer from Dunfermline,” she replied after a pause, choosing her words carefully. “Sir Hugh and I … formed an attachment over the winter. But I didn’t want to be parted from him … and so I followed him here.”

“Ah, Sir Hugh’s ‘mystery lover’,” Lamia murmured.

Nessa didn’t answer.

“Clearly, Hugh doesn’t want you back,” Lamia said, breaking the silence between them. “He looked mightily vexed when he chained you up.”

“Lady Lamia,” a gruff voice intruded then from behind the witch. “Sir Hugh has given orders for the prisoner to be left alone.” The bulky outline of a big, chain-mailed figure stepped from the shadows. “Please retire to your pavilion.”

A heartbeat passed, and the small white snake wrapped around the witch’s wrist slithered back into its hiding place. Lamia Delamare’s pretty red mouth tightened.

“Lady Lamia?” the guard rumbled, his voice more insistent now.

The witch drew her cloak tightly about her and stepped back from Nessa. The moment she did, Nessa felt the air about her lighten. “Very well,” she murmured. She then cast Nessa a veiled look. “We shall talk again soon, sister.”

Lamia Delamare swiveled then, favored the hovering guard with a nod, and walked away toward one of the pavilions that ringed the central fire pit.

Nessa watched her go. Her brow furrowed. There was no mistaking the subtle threat in Lamia Delamare’s voice—yet in revealing that she too was a witch, the woman had unwittingly made herself vulnerable.

It was something that Nessa would keep in mind, if and when the woman approached her again.