Authors: Mistress Angel
She saw it at the very edge of her sight—black, huge,
a shadow against the flames, off to her side, and now a real form, swooping
around from the tree line to her left to face her directly. She stared across
the crackling fire at the shape and bit down on the shriek rising up her
throat.
The beast stepped through the fire, and she saw its
claw reaching for her. She heard a click, off to her right, but still kept
watching the claw, even as the fire was suddenly gutted and dead, all light
extinguished.
Darkness, absolute and terrifying, smothered her, and
she was lost.
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Sequel
to “The Snow Bride
.”
Can a knight and his witch save seven kidnapped
maidens? Sir Magnus and Elfrida strive to find the girls, but at what cost to
their marriage?
When a shadowy piper kidnaps seven beautiful girls,
can a wounded knight and his witch save them? Will Sir Magnus and Elfrida find
them in time, and at what cost to themselves?
Magnus, the battered crusader knight, and his
witch-wife, Elfrida, are happily married but in secret turmoil. Elfrida dreads
that her difference in rank with Magnus will undermine his love for her.
Wounded and scarred, Magnus fears he will not be able to give Elfrida children.
Their fears are sharpened when high-born Lady Astrid
appears at their manor and demands their help to find seven missing girls. The
lady clearly regards peasant-born Elfrida as beneath her notice, but why has
such a woman sought out Magnus, a country knight? Who does she really want to
recover so badly?
In a scorching summer, Magnus and Elfrida search for
the missing girls. Can they recover them in time? And will their own marriage
be the same?
Chapter
One (Excerpt)
England, summer, 1132
“I am the troll king of this land and you owe me a
forfeit.”
Elfrida glanced behind the shadowed figure who barred
her way. He was alone, but then so was she.
Do I turn and run along the track? Should I flee into
the woods or back to the river? He is close, less than the distance of the cast
of a spear. Can I make it hard for him to catch me? Yes.
But catch her he would.
Play for time
.
“Indeed?” she asked, using one of her husband’s
favorite expressions, then sharpened her tone. “Why must I pay anything?”
“You have trespassed in these woods. In my woods.”
The nagging ache in her shoulders and hands vanished
in a tingling rush of anticipation. Elfrida dropped her basket of washed, dried
clothes onto the dusty pathway, the better to fight. “King Henry is lord of
England.”
“I am king here.”
A point to him. “I kept to the path, and then the
river.”
“That may be so, but I claim a kiss.”
He had not moved yet, nor shown his face. The summer
evening made his shadow huge, bloody. Her heart beating harder as she
anticipated their final, delicious encounter, Elfrida asked, “Are you so bold?
My husband is a mighty warrior, the greatest in all Christendom.”
“That is a large claim.” He sounded amused. “All
Christendom? He must be a splendid fellow. The harpers should sing of him.”
Elfrida raised her chin, determined to have her say.
“I am proud of my lord. He is a crusader. He has seen Jerusalem and he has
learning. He can whistle any tune. He defends all those weaker than himself.”
Should
I say what I next want to say? Tease him as he has teased me? Why not? Are we
are not playing?
“Go back to your woods, troll king.”
She heard the crack of a pine cone as he shifted. In a
haze of motion the troll king was out of the tree shade and into the bright
sunset, dominating the path in front of her. Taller than a spear, broad as a
door, he had a face as stark as granite, of weathered, broken stone. Heavily
scarred—many would say grooved—he had the terrible beauty of a victor, a winner
wounded but unbowed.
A ribbon of heat, like hot breath, flickered across
her breasts. He was so magnificent , so handsome. She both loved and hated
defying him, even in jest. Striving for calm, she said, “You will come no
closer.”
“Or what, little laundress?”
That tease irked her. “The clothes and bedding do not
wash themselves. Not even for you, troll king.”
He smiled, a daunting unfurling of that scarred,
sword-cut face. The churning heat in her belly swept up into her cheeks and
down to her loins.
“I am a witch, besides,” she added, though not as
coolly as she would have liked. She saw the gleam in his large brown eyes pool
into molten bronze.
“You would put a spell on me, elfling?” he challenged.
“Perhaps I already have.” Her tone and mouth were as
dry as the summer.
How much farther can we stretch this sweet foolishness?
He raised thick black eyebrows, while a breeze flicked
and flirted with his shoulder-length curls. “Is that Christian?”
She wanted to cross her arms before herself, to shield
her body from his bold stare. At the same time she longed to strip herself
naked for him, unlace his tunic and caress him. Unsure how he might react, she
armed herself with words instead. “I am a good witch, Magnus.”
“Indeed.” Again he looked her up and down, glanced at
her buckets, basket, and clothes. “Should you not have an escort, wife?”
Do I tell him I sent Piers off to help? Are we still
playing now or is he truly angry?
Looming over her, he was close enough for her to touch
him. To caress his strong body will be like stroking sun-warmed stone.
Distracted, she shook her head. “There is the sheep shearing…”
“Done.” He tossed a stack of rolled, lanolin-scented
fleeces at her feet. “I did my share and more and, as I have said already, I
claim a reward.”
He winked at her and she found herself smiling in
return. “Forfeit and reward, too, sire? Is that not greedy?”
“Are we in Lent, that I should fast?” He raised his
hand, cupping her face with supple fingers. “But you are too dainty to linger
alone, witch or no.”
He traced the curve of her lips with his thumb and, as
she trembled, he gathered her firmly into his arms. “Any man will try to spirit
you away.”
“Hush!” She made a sign against the evil eye and wood
elves, but he shook his head at her caution.
“I have faith in your magic craft, Elfrida. But a
passing knave or outlaw? He is quite another matter. He would see you as a
tempting piece, my wife, my lovely.”
“I am not helpless,” she protested, but her heart
soared at his loving words. His mouth, as crooked and scarred as the rest of
his face, stole a kiss from hers.
He smelled of lanolin, salt, and summer green-stuff,
and tasted of apples and himself. Elfrida closed her eyes under his tender
onslaught, her thighs trembling.
“Troll King?” she murmured, when they broke apart
slightly. “Is that how you wish me to address you in the future, husband?”
“‘Sire’ will do, or ‘greatest knight in Christendom.’
Those will do very well.” He kissed her again.
“You rob me, sire,” she murmured, a breathless space
later.
“Of kisses?” He sounded delighted at the idea, the
beast, and grinned when she pinched him.
“Even one-handed I can do that better than you.”
He demonstrated, squeezing and lightly slapping her
bottom, chuckling as she thrust her hips back against his fondling fingers. A
shred of modesty remained as her wits dissolved into a sweet blaze of need.
“Magnus, what if someone comes?”
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