Morag’s frosty voice gusted through the vacant throne room. “Bring wine, with a platter of cheese and fresh fruit to my royal chambers. At once.”
Four meek attendants scurried from the room like frightened squirrels. Morag addressed her Royal Advisor, her voice iced with anger. “Lord Voldurk, come with me. I am in need of your sage counsel.”
****
Morag stared out the window beneath her mauve velvet draperies, gazing at the courtyard where Lord Liam had so often ridden the dappled gray mare.A sight I no longer have to endure,she sighed inwardly. Now that her husband was weakened by violent purgings and frequent bloodlettings, his strength sapped by merciless, insatiable leeches—he could no longer watch the Master of Horse ride the palfrey from his bedroom window. The king could no longer stand, let alone rule. Thanks to her husband’s royalphysician, who now stood at her bedroom table, pouring two silver goblets of rich ruby wine.
Yes, she’d gotten rid of the damned horse, Morag thought bitterly, as she turned to face the dark wizard and drained the proffered chalice. But her stepdaughter still posed an intolerable threat to her tenuous hold on the Irish crown. A hold Morag intended to solidify with the powerful ally in silken black robes whose golden eyes glowed deeply into hers.
“My stepdaughter is stillalive.I cannot fathom it. For years, I believed her dead. Those guards—who happened to pass through that village blacksmith shop one day—received the report that the princess had been hiding in the Hazelwood Forest all these years. Living with that damned witch!”
Morag hurled her empty goblet across the room to clatter against the white limestone wall. The grating sound of metal scraped on the tile as it rolled over the cold, hard floor.
Voldurk removed his black robe and draped it across one of the two chairs tucked under the lace covered table. His long dark hair touched the wide shoulders of the black velvet tunic she longed to touch. She raked appreciative eyes over his lithe, powerful form, the dark breeches clinging to the tight muscles of his long, lean legs. Sensing her attention, he gazed at her with sultry, golden eyes. The blazing eyes of a dragon, enflaming her frozen veins.
He placed his goblet upon the table and sauntered toward her, his towering presence comforting as he wrapped her into a strong embrace. He lowered his full, warm lips to her bare shoulder, his tantalizing tongue teasing her pale, frosty skin. A ripple of pleasure shivered through her as she leaned back into his hold and exposed her swanlike neck.
He kissed her pale throat softly, the trail of his lips weakening her quivering legs. Yet, instead of the bed, as she had hoped, he led her to the table, where he sat her down upon the lush velvet chair, refilling his own goblet and handing it to her.
“Drink, my queen. It will abate your anger, and warm you to the idea I wish to propose.”
He walked across the room and retrieved the chalice from the floor, wiping it with a napkin from the platter of fruit. As he filled the goblet and drank deeply, his eyes locked with hers. Morag swooned in the golden, glowing pools.
“I wish to sail to Cornwall, my queen,” he said cautiously, pulling his chair up beside hers as he lowered himself to her side. “For there is someone I wish to meet. A powerful ally to aid in our quest.”
Morag raised an eyebrow, sipping her delicious wine. Intrigued, she tingled with anticipation.
“The dwarf Frocin, my queen. A wealthy baron who lives in the dark Forest of Morois, on the outskirts of Cornwall. An otherworldlycreature with a most unique power of clairvoyance.”
He grinned slyly at Morag, sending a thrill up her spine. “Frocin can not only read the stars and see the future. He also has the extraordinary ability to track the gift ofsight.”
Voldurk knelt at her feet and took her hand, warming her icy fingers with his wicked lips. Her breath hitched at his touch.
“Like you, my queen, I believed the princess dead.” His golden eyes bore into hers. “Once, as I covered the king with leeches to suction his blood, I sensed someone watching. A presence, an aura of power. The deep green eyes of a young blond woman observing me, transfixed with terror. I had no idea who she was. Until we received the report that the princess still lived.” He rose, peered down at her, the golden gleam of challenge in his serpentine eyes.
“Princess Issylte has the gift ofsight—a form of magic that leaves a telltale trace whenever it is used. A trail that Frocin, with his clairvoyance, can track for us.” He pulled Morag to her feet, his eyes glowing like embers. “Frocin will follow the verdant trail of her magic. He’ll find her for us. And his merciless mercenary knights will eliminate the sole threat to your throne.” He raised her chilled fingers to his fiery lips. She shivered with sensual delight.
“May I have your leave, my queen, that I may sail to Cornwall? To garner the alliance of the dwarf Frocin?”
Morag raised her eyes to his, a sultry smile spreading across her face. “Yes, my loyal Royal Advisor. Obtain this powerful ally. And return quickly to your most grateful queen.” She pursed her luscious lips into a provocative pout, tantalizing him with the tip of her dainty tongue as she tasted the rich, ruby red wine.
His snakelike eyes devoured her as he roughly pushed the lacy sleeves from her shoulders to expose her bare breasts. Morag moaned as his molten lips assaulted them, his tongue a flickering flame melting her like a wax candle. He led her at last to the bed, unlaced her corset, and grinned wickedly as her dress fell in a puddle of silk at her feet. He laid her back upon the bed, deftly removed his tunic and breeches, hovering over her, his serpentine eyes blazing with golden desire. Morag wrapped her slender legs around his hips and pulled her dragon deep inside, engulfing them both in flames.
Chapter 21
The Tribe of Dana
The acrid smoke stung Tristan’s eyes. The corpses of the dwarf’s men crackled as the flames consumed them in the courtyard ofle Château de Landuc. They’d already buried their fallen, in a ceremony of tribute amidst the sacred stones in the heart of the forest of Brocéliande. And now, as the flames of the pyres diminished into embers, and the remaining knights were departing forla Joyeuse Garde, Tristan followed Lancelot and Esclados back into the castle. Tonight, he would be inducted into the Tribe of Dana. His blood pulsed with adrenaline.
In the banquet room, the deep undertone of male voices and the clatter of metal goblets filled the air, perfumed by the delicious scent of sizzling ham and freshly baked bread. The warriors of the Tribe of Dana, seated at several rectangular wooden trestle tables, were finishing up their meal as Tristan and Esclados sat at a table to join them. Servants soon brought them a platter of meat, porridge, bread and ale, which the two men devoured with relish. As Tristan wiped the grease from his mouth, a contented grin across his healing face, Lancelot approached the table, accompanied by a young priestess with astonishing amethyst-colored eyes. Lancelot flashed Tristan a mischievous look, delight dancing in his brilliant blue gaze.
Tristan smiled at the priestess. She was tall and lithe, with sleek black hair that cascaded to her hips. The long, flowing sleeves of her deep blue robe nearly touched the floor and rustled with her movements like gentle wings. Her alabasterskin glowed softly, the green notes of fragrant herbs emanating from her like the scent of the sacred forest. She smiled discreetly at Tristan and pushed a lock of hair from her lovely face with long graceful fingers. He noticed that she bore the emblem of the Tribe of Dana inside her right wrist.
“This is Nolwenn,” Lancelot positively purred as he presented the beauty to Tristan.
Tristan rose to his feet and bent his head to kiss her proffered hand.
“She is the priestesses who tattoos the sacred emblem inside the wrist of each member of our Tribe. The first step in initiation.” The White Knight of Avalon smiled at Nolwenn, who observed Lancelot with her striking violet eyes.
