Powerful Magic (8 page)

          
Megan shifted in his arms, murmuring softly.
 
Leaning close, he breathed deeply of her strange scent, more powerful even than the heavy smoke.
 
The scent of flowers, the scent of spring.
 
And here in his lonely cave with the howl of the wind promising retribution for his sins, he wondered where she had come from.
 

          
Morning came with a brightness of light that hurt Kenric's eyes.
 
Somehow, he'd managed to sleep, though little.
 
The brightness of sunlight reflecting off snow told him the storm had finally ceased.
 
That and the utter absence of sound from outside.
 

          
Their fire had died down to glowing embers that gave little warmth.
 
Shifting his numb arms, he eased the woman on to the ground, ignoring his morning arousal, ignoring too how she sleepily, greedily reached for his warmth.
 

          
Standing, he gathered more dried kindling, and built up the fire.
 
When he finally turned, it was to find her sitting up, wrapped in his ancient blanket, watching him with sleep filled, puzzled eyes.
 
Still, they were the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen.

          
He would do well to find her Roger and be rid of her.
 
God's blood, he could not remember when he'd last been so tempted.
 
This puzzled him, for he allowed nothing to sway him from his quest.
 
What irony then, that the one thing that made him burn might be the means by which he achieved his goal.

          
She promised land.
 
Land.
 
In four years he'd thought of nothing else.
 
For much of his life, he had been lucky, a bastard son acknowledged and loved by his father and family.
 
Yet there was no help for the fact that as a bastard he had no claim to their keep, to their herds, to their land.
 
He'd always known he would have to get his own, by whatever method necessary. He'd thought perhaps if he served his father or his half-brothers well, one of them might gift him with a small parcel.

          
He had not counted on death robbing him of even that slight hope.

          
And now he had a duty to his dead father, to the brothers who'd taught him to fight and to laugh and to drink.
 
He was the last of the line, the only one whose seed could bring continuance to a proud and noble name.
 
Bastard born,aye.
 
But his children and his children's spawn would be the future.

          
So he must do his duty, a promise enacted by his father as he lay, some two weeks after the attack, bleeding and feverish.
 
His father had known then that all his right-born sons were dead.
 
He had charged Kenric with the task of fathering the future of the line, given him the sword to seal the bargain.

          
To raise a family, Kenric must have land.
 
The King had seen fit, in his short-sighted wisdom, to gift the land once belonging to Kenric's father, to another family of noble birth, rather than the bastard son who was unacknowledged.

          
Land must be obtained by another means.

          
Now this Megan had promised that her Roger would gift him with some land.
 
Kenric would not have to purchase it with his small hoard of hard earned gold.
 
He would be able to use the gold for other things -
 
to build his keep, to buy foodstuffs and supplies, even mayhap to hire a small army of his own.
 

          
So now all that he must do was find this Roger.
 
And, no matter how difficult it might seem, return Megan Potter unblemished, untouched.
 

          
He grinned savagely.
 
Put like that, it would be easy.

All of these years then, the blurry, bitter years since he'd learned of his family's obliteration, all these years of fighting for causes he did not believe in, for money that he hoarded and saved, and it had come down to this.
 
One simple deed, one last quest, and his most cherished dream would come true.

          
He hardly dared to allow himself to think of it, so great was his elation.
 
For this, he would take her across the

mountains in the dead of winter if he had to.
 
For this, he

would even enter the stronghold of the Welsh, who knew and revered the hated Faerie folk, hoping that her apparent high birthright would afford him some protection.

          
If all she wanted was to be returned to this Roger, some English nobleman who no doubt searched for her this very moment, he would be happy to oblige her.

          
Because she still watched him, he contained his glee.

          
"Where is..."
 
she waved a hand, looking uncomfortable, "the bathroom?"

          
Kenric gaped at her.
 
"You wish to bathe now, when water turns to ice and there is snow all around us?"

          
She colored prettily, catching her lower lip between her teeth.
 
"Not bathe.
 
I need to, uh..."

          
"I don't have a chamber pot."
 
He told her, wishing he did not have to be so blunt but seeing no way around it.
 
"I am always alone in the cave, so I go outside."

          
"Outside."
 
She darted a glance towards the snow packed entrance.
 
"How deep do you suppose it is?"

          
God save him from feminine modesty.
 
"I will make a path for you."
 
He told her, glad of a task with which to occupy his unruly body.
 
Grabbing the crude shovel he had made from an old practice shield, he began pushing the snow aside.
  

          
When he had completed a tunnel-like path, he turned towards the small corpse of oak trees with their concealing

outcropping of rock.
 
Here he cleaned an area twice as long as his horse, and four times as wide.
 
Once the woman had

finished, he would need to bring the war horse here also.
 

          
"Thank you."
 
Wrapped in her pathetically thin blanket, the woman stepped out from the cave.
 
The shiver in her husky voice unnerved him.
 

          
Inclining his head in a nod, he moved past her.
 
Inside the cave it felt warm; the small fire crackled merrily. His war horse turned his huge head and nickered.
 
No doubt the beast was hungry.
 
Hay was in short supply, though thankfully he'd thought to pilfer some grain from the keep's stores.
 
He fed the animal, melting some snow in his helmet for water.

          
With a flurry of movement, the woman returned.
 
She rushed to the fire, holding out her pale hands and shivering so loudly he could hear her teeth chatter.
 

          
"You will have to wear my clothing."
 
He told her in a tone that brooked no argument.
 
"Unless you have a gown hidden somewhere."
 
He regarded her hopefully.

          
"No."
 
Still shivering, she shook her head and flashed a miserable smile.
 
"I have nothing."

          
Resigned, he went to the back of the cave where he kept a wooden chest.
 
Rummaging inside of it, he found her a heavy tunic and a pair of wool breeches.
 
Watching carefully for her reaction, since it was common knowledge only men of noble birth had such fine garments, he handed them to her.

          
She did not appear to notice.
 

          
"Thanks."
 
Flashing him a wan smile, she pulled the tunic on over her own clothing, then stepped into his breeches.
 
Of course, they were too large, so he handed her a length of rope to use for a belt.
 

          
When she'd finished rolling up the cuffs, she squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and faced him.
 
"What now?"
 

          
For a moment Kenric could not find his voice.
 
Though the tunic was several sizes too big, fitting her more like a gown than a shirt, the way she wore it made him think of sleeping chambers and tousled covers.
 
He forced his gaze away, looking instead at the fire as if he might find all of life's mysteries in the dancing flames.
 

          
"Now…"
 
Choosing his words carefully, Kenric kept his voice level and emotionless. "You must tell me of this Roger.
 
If I am to take you to him I need to know where he lives."

          
"Far away."
 
She answered quickly.

          
Much too quickly, he thought, searching her face.
 
"What is the name of the place?"
 

          
This time he meant to catch her in the falsehood.
 
Well he remembered the name she'd given him, speaking as if the place was some country rather than town.
 
I'm
American
, she'd said, though he knew of no such place.

          
Before she even opened her mouth, he knew she meant to lie. Like a small child caught stealing sweets, she couldn't even meet his gaze.
 
Then she mumbled something so low under her breath that he couldn't hear it.

          
"Where?"
 

          
She raised her head.
 
He felt a jolt when her huge amber eyes met his.
 
He could swear he saw defiance in the set of her small chin, the flash of her gaze.
 
"Dallas, Texas."
 
          
She'd told him that before.
 
The first word sounded vaguely Roman.
 
The second, he knew not what to make of it.
 
The woman lied, of this he felt certain.
 
But why?
 
She wanted to find this Roger, did she not?
 

          
He, Kenric of Blackstone, meant to find this Roger too.
 
Quickly, so that he might claim his promised reward.
 
He would have the truth, even if he had to force it from her.

          
Intending merely to threaten her, he moved towards her.
 
At his sudden movement, she flinched, as though she expected him to beat her.

          
"You think I'm lying."
 
The fearful misery in her expression stopped him as effectively as a sharp sword. What kind of man did she think him?
 
Did she truly believe that he, a warrior, would actually strike her?

          
He forced himself to remain still, so as not to frighten her further.
"Aren't you?"

          
She made a restless movement with her hands, shifting herself away from him.
 
"No, I am not.
 
But I think the place I come from doesn't exist, at least not yet."

          
More nonsense.
 
He must remember that she'd somehow injured her head.
 
 
"I see."
 

          
"No."
 
Her tone was sharp, echoing in the confines of the cave.
 
"You don't see.
 
I am farther than mere miles from my home.
 
God!"
 
She shook her head, the motion sending her hair flying wildly.
 
"Now I'm even talking like you."