taste-touch-want-witchfearlipsbedtaste—
Latimer came back from that dangerous place and she with him, light-headed. He reached for her, heedless of their audience, but before he could grab her again instinct and training took over.
Avalon whisked her hand up and captured his, centering her thumb on the back of his palm, turning his wrist over and bending it backward as she took a step forward. She pulled his hand down between them to the folds of her skirts, hidden now, and put her other hand on his elbow, locking it into place. It all happened in a fraction of a heartbeat.
She then gave him a dazzling smile, as if he had just told her some romantic nonsense that brought them close together.
Latimer’s eyes grew wide with the unexpected pain. Avalon held him there, immobile, applying just enough pressure to let him know she could really hurt him if she wished.
Across the room she could hear the murmurs begin, her name spoken in rising whispers.
“Listen to me very carefully,” she said, keeping her voice as low as possible. “It is not witchcraft that lets me see that your nights are sleepless. If I ever hear you say that word in connection with my name again, you may be sure you will be very sorry, my lord. It isn’t witchcraftthat holds your hand right now, it is simple flesh and blood. Are my words clear to you, my lord?”
He looked around, then back at her, gritting his teeth. “Yes,” he said.
“Excellent. In exchange for your reason, I offer you a favor, Lord Latimer. I have heard, you see, that you enjoy eating the flesh of a most unusual mushroom, that you have fallen into the habit of it with a few of your friends. I may not be your friend, Nicholas, but neither are they. And I wish you no ill. But those mushrooms you crave are bringing your dreams. Let them go and the dreams will go, as well.”
She released his hand. He yanked it back, rubbing his wrist.
“I truly wish you no ill,” she said again.
He turned around and walked away from her, straight into the crowd of people who had gathered to watch them, everyone rapt with heated speculation. They broke apart and swarmed around him, eager to keep him in their center and soak up the beginnings of a new scandal.
Avalon knew with pure certainty that all hell was about to break loose.
Chapter One
TRAYLEIGH, ENGLAND SEPTEMBER 1159
T he riding party that approached the castle was notable for many things: the blazing heraldry of the d’Farouche family, splashes of red and green and white, bold and unmistakable; the number of men in the entourage, forty at least, soldiers with shining swords and proud steeds. They moved as one, an imaginary beast of glittering metal stretching across the landscape, weapons and armor and polished steel—the menace of war, proudly displayed.
But perhaps the most notable thing of all in this party, as they made their way across the gentle hills on the path to Trayleigh Castle, was the object they guarded.
Near the lead and yet surrounded by men rode one woman on a sorrel mare.
Lady Avalon had shunned not only the covered litter which was supposed to carry her, but also the hood of her cloak, which meant that the sun played on the brilliance of her hair, a mix of blonde so fair more than a few of the men had privately compared it to an angel’s halo.
Those that had argued with her about riding in the litter, however, muttered that no angel would be so stubborn. And some had even heard the other rumors, thewhispers traded behind hands, the dangerous word few dared say aloud—especially not when confronted with the uncommon stare of this particular lady.
“Look there, milady.” The lead soldier turned in his saddle and pointed off into the distance, prompting the young woman to follow his direction.
Unfolding around the long corner of a low-slung hill was the sight of Trayleigh Castle, revealed in bits and pieces through the autumn trees surrounding it. Home of Bryce, Baron d’Farouche—her cousin and