“Think you, I’ll—” But her protests died as he turned his back to her and waited. She slipped between the bushes to a protected spot near the creek and accepted his offer of privacy. The grime of the journey was thick on her skin, and she took a few minutes to comb her hair and to wash her face and hands. She thought fleetingly of escape. With her agility, she could quickly cross the stream on the flat rocks that protruded above the rush of water. But without Phantom, how far would she get? Where would she go? Back to Tower Wenlock, wherefrom she’d been banished? Or to Castle Pennick and Lord Rowely, the old man who had more than willingly offered to marry her to strengthen his ties with the house of Wenlock? The thought of marrying a man who was older than her father made her shudder. Even Sir Strahan would be better than Nelson Rowley.
“Morgana?” Garrick’s voice was filled with irritation.
Morgana hurried, hating the fact that she jumped when he called for her.
She appeared from a copse of oak, and Garrick, though angry, was taken again by her beauty. She’d removed her wimple, and her hair fell down her back in tangled raven-colored waves. Her cheeks were fresh-scrubbed and red from the cold water she’d splashed upon her face. Her eyes were large and starred by the drops of water that still clung like dewdrops to her thick lashes.
Garrick’s gut knotted at the sight of her. “You take too long,” he said gruffly, still rocked by the simple beauty of this woman.
“Just doing your bidding,” she said saucily. Turning, she started up the path, but again Garrick grabbed hold of her arm. This time she yanked it back and whirled upon him. “I’ll not be letting you lead me like a blind horse!” she said, her cheeks flaming. “I can find my way back to the camp alone!”
He couldn’t help but admire her courage, and he wondered at the wisdom of his next move. “I wanted but to return this.” He held out her dagger.
“You would trust me with this?” Her anger seemed to melt before him.
“Trust?” He shook his head slowly and eyed the thin blade. In truth, he’d not been comfortable with the dagger since taking it from Morgana. “You may need it. We cross through lands that are not happily ruled by Edward.” He handed her the knife, and Morgana wrapped her fingers familiarly around the hilt.
“You think I won’t use this against you?” she asked.
He rubbed his chin, and his gaze turned thoughtful, his handsome face pensive. “I think many things of you, Morgana of Wenlock. Some good. Some bad. But in all that I have seen of you, aside mayhap from leaving your father’s castle vulnerable with your rope, you are not a fool.”
She snorted. “Yet I am on this fool’s mission with you.”
His jaw clenched and anger flared his nostrils, but he held his tongue. Motioning her ahead, he said, “’Tis time we were back in camp, and unless you want to be led like a blind horse, you’d better start walking.”
She glanced at his face, searching for a trace of humor. A glimmer of amusement flickered in his gray gaze but was quickly disguised beneath his stony countenance. So the fierce one had more depth to him than she’d first thought. Surprisingly, she was pleased and chastised herself silently for being a dunce. So the man had a sense of humor. So what? Rather than risk angering him further — she turned quickly and started along the path, ducking the low-hanging branches and carefully skirting the puddles. She sheathed her dagger, and it rode along her hip comfortably.
At the camp, the fire was burning bright. Several rabbits and quail sizzled on the spit, and the scent of smoke wafted through the forest. The tents were arranged near the perimeter of the clearing, and soldiers milled abou
t. Some polished swords; others talked and laughed while drinking ale; still others were playing a game of throwing knives in the red shadows of the campfire.
The horses were tethered and fed, and sentries, more alert than the one who had let Morgana slip out of Garrick’s tent the night she’d met the great lord, guarded the camp, their eyes moving slowly over the closing darkness of the woods.
Garrick led Morgana to his tent. She spent the evening with Springan, who spoke little. They were brought food and wine while a guard sat near the entrance of the tent and Morgana had little doubt that others, perhaps two or three, were posted to the rear. She chewed scorched rabbit thoughtfully. Surely Garrick was the death from the north, unless her vision had lied. Aye, he had vowed vengeance on her family should she fail in her mission. Yet he had trusted her with her dagger.
Springan seemed near sulking as she sat on the edge of the pallet.
Morgana, from boredom, tried to speak to the girl. “Missing Lind, are you?” she asked, shoving her trencher aside.
Springan shrugged. “A little.”
“Tarren will be good to him.”
Springan didn’t comment, pretending interest in her food and not looking up from her meal.
The time passed slowly, and when Springan took the remainder of food to the guard, Morgana walked to the door of the tent.
“Orders are that you are to stay inside, m’lady,” the guard, Marsh, insisted. He offered her a wide toothless grin that turned Morgana’s insides cold. A scar ran down the length of his cheek and was testament to the battles he’d fought.
Morgana clamped her teeth together — to tamp down her fear and try to still her tongue. During all her seventeen years she’d been allowed to run free and do as she wished, but ever since the horrid vision and meeting Garrick of Abergwynn, she’d been held captive, first by her own father and now by the bloody lord himself. “Tell Lord Garrick I wish to stretch my legs,” she commanded coolly.
The big man frowned, and his beard-roughened face took on a stern expression. “You are to stay in the tent, m’lady.”
Morgana took a step closer to the huge man and thought of the dagger in her belt. “And if I don’t?”
“The baron will not be happy.”
“I care not whether he is happy or sad. I need to stretch my legs, and if you don’t let me pass, I’ll be forced to change your mind,” she said sweetly.