Sorceress by Lisa Jackson

through many a night.
    Deverill’s lust for the boy’s mother had roiled for years. At times, he thought it might be the death of him, as Ravynne had taken her son far from Agendor, forcing Deverill to ride north to Tarth or off to Penbrooke to quench his voracious need for her.
    Aye, it had all ended badly, with his fair but barren wife, Marden, interceding. Recognizing Deverill’s keen lust for the seamstress, Marden had gone behind his back and ordered Ravynne dead. And that fool Craddock had carried out her wishes.
    Damn them all! Ravynne’s death had riled the boy beyond reason. ’Twas nearly two years ago and now Gavyn, a man of twenty years, had wrought a vengeance most violent on the sheriff of Agendor. With Craddock’s murder, Gavyn had forced his hand, leaving Deverill no choice but to punish the murderer. Now, at last, Gavyn would be caught, finally brought to justice. His mockery of Deverill would be put to rest.
    Over the priest’s weak protests, Deverill yanked on his gloves and strapped on his scabbard, then slid his favorite sword into its sheath. Once his boots were pulled over his leggings, he was out the door, stepping into the brisk wintry night. Most of the huts were dark. Only the coals at the farrier’s forge burned red in the night. His boots crunched through puddles that had already iced over as he strode along the path.
    Hunting had always been his favorite pastime, and he loved it best when the quarry proved a challenge.
    His bastard son had shown himself to be more than a worthy opponent.
     
Through the fog, her lover came to Bryanna. Dressed as a hunter and riding upon a dark horse, he appeared through the mist. He was tall, his shoulders wide, his face obscured in the darkness, and yet she knew he was the one for whom she’d been waiting all her life.
    “You have the dagger.”
    It was not a question, but she answered anyway. “Aye, ’tis mine.”
    “And the jewels?”
    “I’ve yet to find them.”
    “You are traveling north.” He dismounted, but try as she might to view the features of his face, she saw nothing but shadows from his hood and the ever-thickening fog. “For the opal.”
    “Yes.” Of course.
    “And once you find it, you’ll go east?”
    “East?” she repeated, but as she said the single word, she understood a new meaning to the ancient riddle:
     
An opal for the northern point,
An emerald for the east,
A topaz for the southern tip,
And a ruby for the west. . . .
     
All the while she’d thought the mention of points on a map indicated the placement of the missing jewels in the hilt of the dagger, for surely there were holes where they had once been inset. Now, she had a new perspective, a new path to follow.
    “Yes,” she said as she realized he was waiting for her to speak. “First I’ll travel north, then east. . . .”
    “So you do understand.” He advanced upon her, this huntsman, his face still obscured. Though she could not recognize him and knew not his name, she felt no fear of him, even welcomed him to this, her small camp in the woods.
    Before she could look into his eyes, strong arms surrounded her. She didn’t protest, didn’t fight. Her own arms circled his neck, her fingers finding the strident cords at the back of his neck as the wind seemed to rise, swirling through the canyon. He leaned over, bending her back, her hair nearly brushing the barren ground.
    Cold, eager lips found hers and he kissed her so hard she could barely find her breath. She heard only the wildly pulsing beat of her own heart, felt the first warm yearnings of desire curl through her blood.
    His tongue slid between her teeth, gently teasing as his hands moved against her back, kneading and holding her close. He buried his face in the cleavage of her breasts and her blood ran hot with a newfound desire. She wanted more of him and her fingers dug into the muscles of his back as his hot, wet breath brushed against her bare skin.
    “I want you,” he whispered,