A gleam appeared in Strahan’s sod-dark eyes. “She is the elder daughter of Daffyd of Wenlock and a beauty at that. Her grandmother, Enit, is supposedly a Welsh witch, and rumor has it that Morgana had inherited her powers.”
“But you claimed she wasn’t a witch.”
“They say she can see into the future. She hears the fates speaking in the wind.”
Garrick snorted disdainfully, then swallowed most of the ale in his cup. “I do not believe in witchcraft or sorcery or talking to the wind.”
“Aye, you are a God-fearing man,” Strahan said with more than a little mockery.
Garrick slid him a cold glance. “You doubt my convictions?”
Strahan shook his head. “I only want to help you find Logan.”
“If the witch refuses to help?”
“She cannot. You are her lord.”
Garrick studied his cousin. He sensed that Strahan wasn’t being completely honest with him. Though Strahan was his most skilled k
night, he was as shrewd as he was loyal. He’d often made his ambitions known and was anxious to possess the castle and lands that Garrick had promised would someday be his. As soon as Logan was found, it would be time to give Strahan his due, Garrick thought. “The witch’s father may protest the taking of his daughter.”
Strahan’s lips slid into a smile. “I am prepared to marry Morgana of Wenlock.”
“Are you? Even though you think her a devil-woman? What kind of a wife would she make?” Garrick asked, amused. He took another swallow of ale. “During your first argument she might become angry and curse you, causing your member to shrivel or your hair to fall out.”
Strahan caught his cousin’s humor and laughed heartily. “Nay, cousin. I will keep the witch so satisfied that she will use her powers only to keep me in her bed.”
“Then she must truly be a sorceress,” Garrick replied, as he knew his cousin’s need for the company of women.
Strahan propped one booted foot on a bench and leaned forward, closer to Garrick. “I want this woman, Garrick. I met her only once, but I have not forgotten her. She will find your son for you.”
Garrick had no choice. Remaining at the castle, waiting, was doing no good, and he could not bear to sit idly by as time passed — time that might mean his son’s life.
“If I go, you and Ware must remain here to defend the castle. There may be word of Logan, and Lady Clare will need protection, though I doubt she’ll want it,” Garrick said, frowning as he considered his strong-willed sister. Even now she wasn’t on the castle grounds but had gone to visit someone who’d been taken ill in the village. Against her judgment, however, she had taken two of the baron’s best knights with her. “Keep my sister safe,” he muttered to his cousin.
“As you wish,” Strahan agreed, though his eyes clouded a bit and Garrick suspected that his cousin might have his own reasons for wishing to go on the journey. He was obviously taken with this witch-woman, though why he had not mentioned her before was a mystery. It had been three winters since Strahan had ridden to Tower Wenlock, and at that time, his visit had been brief, only to assure Garrick that Daffyd of Wenlock was loyal to Edward.
Garrick rubbed the stubble on his chin in frustration. If indeed this Welsh witch could help him locate his son, then nothing else mattered. He would use her.
And if she couldn’t find Logan, he’d have the satisfaction of proving her a fraud, though in truth it mattered naught. Whether she be witch or woman wasn’t his concern. All that mattered was that he find Logan.
He took a long swallow of ale and felt a welcoming warmth in the cold pit of his stomach. But the pleasure of drink did not ease his mind. For the first time in his life, Baron Garrick, son of Maginnis, felt absolutely powerless.
After draining his cup, he slammed it onto the table. “We ride at dawn.”
Chapter Two
I don’t know why you allow her to speak like a heathen, Father,” Glyn complained. Morgana’s family was eating supper at the large trestle table in the great hall of Tower Wenlock. As usual, Glyn was casting her sister dark looks.
“I’m not a heathen,” Morgana insisted. From the corner Wolf growled low in this throat.
Glyn visibly jumped. “Keep that beast away from me!” She wrinkled her pert little nose and tossed her head, golden curls falling past her shoulders. “There is gossip of her, Father. The servants say she thinks she’s a witch or a man — but that she most certainly isn’t a lady.”
Daffyd of Wenlock sighed. “I will hear no more against your sister, Glyn.” He glanced at his son and frowned. “You, Cadell, finish your food. “’Tis a sin to waste it.”
“Would God strike me dead?” Morgana’s fourteen-year-old brother straightened, but his blue eyes lost none of their mischievous luster.
“Nay, but I would punish you and well,” Daffyd bit out.