A latent, potent force yet to be discovered.
A fecund, virid power yearning to be released.
The verdant, dormant magic of a forest fairy.
Reawakening her own.
Chapter 8
Lust for Power
Morag stood between the mauve velvet draperies of the ceiling-high windows in her lush royal chambers, watching the handsome young Master of Horse ride the dappled gray mare.
At her husband’s request, Lord Liam rode the palfrey daily across the grassy plains of the courtyard. She knew the king would now be seated in his comfortable chair, a warm blanket wrapped around his bony shoulders and another across his weakened legs, staring out from his forlorn bedroom window, clutching desperately to the memory of his beloved daughter.
In the eight months since Issylte’s death, King Donnchadh had become more and more withdrawn, preferring the solitude of his isolated royal chambers—tucked away in the farthest corner of the first floor of the castle, far from her own rosy bedroom on the second floor, where she now observed the last living link between King Donnchadh and his dearly departed daughter.
She experienced a rare pang of jealousy. Not because she no longer attracted her husband’s interest. Quite the contrary. His reclusive, nearly catatonic state had given her the freedom to enjoy more frequent trysts with her lusty lover. No, she did not regret the loss of her husband’s desire.
She was jealous that a father could love his daughter so very, very much.
For Morag had never known paternal love. She’d been the greatest disappointment of her father’s life since the day she’dbeen born female. Her father, who had so desperately wanted a son, had rejected not only the worthless infant, but the useless wife incapable of bearing him a male heir. Her mother, in turn, had blamed the child for the loss of her husband’s affection, seeking solace in newfound piety amidst the company of scornful priests in her private, inaccessible, royal chapel.
Neglected by her regal parents, the little princess grew up craving affection that was never given, learning instead to fill the hollow ache in her young heart with a different sort of attention. The sort that she’d seen burning in the eyes of every lord she met once her feminine curves had blossomed into the voluptuous petals of an irresistible flower they longed to pick.
Every noble lord, striving to please the beautiful, disdainful princess. Every lovestruck suitor, spoiling her with exquisite jewels, elegant silks, and the finest furs. Every loyal knight, eager to defend her honor—or warm her bed—with their mighty swords.
Lust. The source of her power over men.
And the means to satisfy the lust for power in her cold, withered heart.
A knock at the door interrupted Morag’s reverie. Her attendants cinched the corset of her shimmering lilac gown a bit tighter, adjusting the strand of flawless pale amethysts at the base of her throat. A pair of silver combs held the sides of the long, black locks cascading down her back. Scented with lavender, his favorite smell on her. Like the silken sheets in her tantalizing, lavender-scented bed.
Just the thought of him in those sheets created a painful throb deep inside. She shivered with delight.
Her servants opened the door and scurried out like squirrels as the Morholt strode into her royal chambers and feasted his hungry eyes upon the lavender queen. He dropped to one knee, his head lowered in homage. “My queen.”
The deep rumble of his voice sent a thrill rippling through her body.
She slid across the floor, the silk of her lavender gown rustling as she approached, placing a slender white hand upon his massive shoulder. The salty tang of sweat and a hint of smoke emanated from his dark green woolen tunic as she raised him to his feet to stand before her. Although Morag was quite tall, her eyes only came to the level of his throat, which she kissed seductively, humming her contentment at his presence.
He touched the glittering amethysts at her neck. “My gift pleases you.”
“Truly. I am most pleased.”
She rested her hand upon his. Her Viking had brought back many gifts, but this was by far her favorite. The color of lavender. Another ripple of pleasure flooded through her.
Her Black Knight’s brutal raiding expeditions had indeed been most profitable—the sleek bottomed drakkar longships could not only traverse the seas, but venture inland for miles, sailing up rivers to raid foreign monasteries and churches, brimming with gold and valuable jewels. Such as the brilliant lavender amethysts sparkling at her throat in the early morning light.
He lowered his lips to the side of her neck, sending a wave of longing down her spine. Her breasts tingled at his touch.
“The color of lavender,” he whispered, burying his nose into her hair and inhaling deeply. “The scent of passion.” His eager lips returned to her swanlike neck.
Then, just as Morag expected to feel his hands caress her soft, silken bottom…he turned abruptly away and walked over to the window.
Something was wrong. He never resisted her. Morag’s pulse quickened as he turned to face her, his eyes filled with longing. And regret.
“What is it? Something is troubling you. Tell me.” She squelched the urge to fling her arms around his neck and pull him towards the bed.
