He needed but little help in conjuring or making spells. The power was within him, within his hands, within his heart and mind. His, for good or for evil.
But it was not power or magic that concerned him this night. It was a fair lass by name of Channa Leigh. What was he to do with her, now that she was here?
Dinner was a silent affair. He could think of nothing to say to her, the beautiful young woman who sat across from him, her head bowed, the shimmering curtain of her hair concealing her face from his prying eyes.
The meal she had prepared was fit for a liege lord: the roasted venison succulent and swimming in a rich sauce, the vegetables sweet, the bread still warm from the oven. And yet he would have traded it all for a plate of cold ashes to see her smile.
When the meal was over, he thanked her, curtly, and left the room.
He took refuge in the high-ceilinged library that was his favorite room in the castle. It was a large chamber, with a cozy hearth and leaded windows. A bearskin rug was spread before the fireplace; curtains of so deep a blue as to be almost black hung at the windows. An enormous overstuffed chair, large enough to seat two comfortably, was angled toward the fire. A heavy oak table stood beside it. Two walls were lined with shelves that were crammed with ancient books and scrolls that held the wisdom of the known world. He had read them all many times over.
He whirled around, his gaze going to the door, which he had left open. He heard her footsteps in the corridor, hesitant, barely audible, and yet they echoed in his mind like thunder.
"My lord?" She stood in the doorway, her head cocked to one side. "Are you here?"
"Aye, lass. What is it ye want?"
"You said you wished me to sing for you."
He grunted softly. "Come in," he invited, and then, remembering that she could not see, he went to her. Taking her by the hand, he led her into the room, bid her sit down in his chair.
"I would rather stand," she said, "if you dinna mind."
"As ye wish."
"What will you have me sing, my lord?"
"Whatever pleases ye."
She hesitated a moment, and then she began to sing the lullaby he had heard her sing on the night of First Harvest. Hands clasped to her br**sts, head high, eyes closed, her voice filled the room, soft and sweet and filled with yearning, and he knew in that moment that she dreamed of marriage, that she hungered for a babe of her own.
"My sweet bonnie lass,
A boon from heaven above,
I cradle you to my heart
And pray you know my love.
"Sweet bonnie lass,
My sweet bonnie lass,
Heaven sent you to me.
Heaven sent you to me.
"My sweet bonnie lass
So young and fair of face,
May you ever walk in sunshine
And be blessed with God's good grace."
She sang to him for an hour, and he felt her words twine around his heart, as delicate as a silken web, as binding as silver chains.
How beautiful she was, this woman known as Channa Leigh. There was magic in her voice, a mystical power equal to his own as she sang of a maiden's dreams and a mother's love and a warrior's heart.
"Enough," he said, his voice hoarse, his mind reeling from the images her songs had planted within his mind.
"As you wish, my lord," she said, and with a curtsey she left the room, leaving him awash in darkness though the room glowed with the warm rosy light of the fire.
And he knew, as he listened to her footsteps fade away, that he was totally, irrevocably, lost.
CHAPTER 6
In her room, as she undressed for bed, she resolved to be brave and strong. A year was not so very long, after all, and when it was over, she would go home and marry Ronin.
She found her bag at the foot of the bed and dug through its meager contents for her nightgown. Slipping it over her head, she crawled under the covers. The mattress was soft, the sheets wondrously clean. And warm. They were not made of the coarse cotton she was used to, but some soft material that seemed to enfold her. Her pillow, too, was softer than what she was used to. Filled with down, she thought.
Lying on her side, one hand beneath her cheek, she stared sightlessly into the darkness, a single tear slipping down her cheek.
"Mama's life is worth it," she whispered. But it didn't stop the tears.
Darkfest stood before the hearth in the great hall, listening to the sound of her tears. She was lonely and homesick and afraid. Why had he brought her here?
Why, indeed?
Without conscious thought, her image danced across his mind—her body supple, her hair like sunlight, her skin the color of the wild peaches that grew to the north. Oh, yes, he knew why he had brought her here, knew it with every breath, knew it in the deepest region of his heart and soul.
But he could not admit it. Neither could he stay away from her side.
He changed to wolf form as he made his way down the corridor. A thought opened the door and he padded into her room. For a time, he stood beside the bed, watching her, and then he licked her arm.
She woke with a start, her sightless eyes wide, her mouth open in a silent cry.
A low rumble rose from his throat as he leaned forward and licked her arm again.
"Magick? Is that you?"
He growled softly in reply.
"But… how did you get in here?"
With eager hands she reached for him, her fingers gently grasping his fur. And he felt the darkness leave her eyes, saw her smile as the shadowy room became visible. She gasped as the candle at her bedside sprang to life.
"Oh, my," she murmured, glancing around. " 'Tis even bigger than I thought."
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, one hand still clinging to his fur. "Look how high the ceilings are. Oh! Magick, look."
He heard the wonder in her voice as she stared at the painting on the ceiling. It had been done hundreds of years ago. He had stopped seeing it long ago; now, as he looked at it through her eyes, it was like seeing it for the first time. Fluffy white clouds were scattered against a pale blue sky. Turtledoves nested within the branches of a tree. A fawn slept in a thicket. A handful of sheep grazed in green pastures. It was a lovely mural, meant to lull one into peaceful slumber.
She ruffled his fur, and then she frowned. Leaning forward, she cradled his head in her hands. "Your eyes," she murmured. "They were blue before, and now they are gray. How is that possible?"
The wolf's tail thumped on the floor.
" 'Tis very strange," she said, and then laughed softly. "But no more strange than the way my sight returns when you are here."
Slipping out of bed, she crossed the room, opened the door, and peered up and down the corridor. "Where do you suppose he is?" she asked. "Do you think he's asleep?"