The Isle of Destiny
Shanna Murchison
Northern Wales, Ireland, 1146
Caradoc the Black Hawk rescues novice nun Morgaine from a murderous band of cutthroats. He tries to return the beautiful young woman safely to her convent, but her enemies have burnt it to the ground.
Demanding answers from the lovely but mysterious woman who sets him on fire, Caradoc is shocked to discover his companion is none other than the legendary Morgaine of Yns Draiocht, said to be descended from both King Arthur and the great wizard Merlin.
Morgaine is now a pawn in her neighboring lord Yestin's bid for power over the magical island of Yns Draiocht, the most sacred of all druid strongholds. Her father Gawain is being held to ransom by Vikings in Dublin in exchange for Morgaine. Caradoc knows they will keep Morgaine a prisoner forever, and destroy all that she as a druid is sworn to protect. He undertakes to rescue her father and remove Yestin's threat.
Morgaine is stunned at the depth of her feelings for the handsome but badly scarred Caradoc. She determines to trust him and teaches him how to use the power she can sense within him to control the four elements. Their growing love gives both the strength and confidence to do battle with the forces of darkness. But the mystical forces underlying Yns Draiocht are nothing if not seductive. Will Caradoc uses his new found magics for good or evil? And can he ever believe that he is worthy of the love of so powerful a princess?
The Isle of Destiny
Setting: North Wales, June 1145
Word Count=120,000
Rating: Sensual
Price: $7.99
The Isle of Destiny
Merionedd
North Wales, June 1145
Chapter One
Morgaine bit her trembling lower lip and told herself not to be such a goose. She gathered her reins more firmly in her hands and tried to keep her eyes on the road. There was no need to feel so restless and uneasy. There was nothing sinful in feeling glad to be going home.
Nor would anything happen to her on the journey there. She had several stout male companions, and three of the good sisters to accompany her. Anglesey wasn't that far away. She would see her beloved sea again, and her father--
She heard a hiss through the air and felt a sharp thump and vibration under her. Her horse trembled and screamed. The dusty earth hurtled up to meet her. Morgaine fell hard on both her elbows and lay winded as the dreadful swishing sounds continued.
Arrows.
The clash of steel on steel joined the deadly susurration.
Sister Arwenna cried out sharply. Father Rhodri gave one surprised grunt before the blood began to cascade down the front of his black robe.
Panic froze Morgaine for an instant as she watched the horrifying tableau unfold before her:
Sister Winifred, stabbed in the side, her final breath a long groan. Sister Elyn, kicking at the man trying to drag her out of the saddle while her horse neighed and reared.
"No!" Morgaine mouthed, still struggling for breath.
But no one could hear her.
Elyn's body was already tumbling onto the hard-packed road. Father Edgar was lying on his back staring sightlessly at the blue sky. The two yeomen who had accompanied them were now being surrounded by the leather-clad warriors.
The tall figure clad in brown standing so commandingly in the midst of the fray made a chopping motion with his hand.
Morgaine heard the smack of the blades and turned away, weak with nausea, shivering with fear.
At last she made an attempt to save herself, crawling on her hands and knees into the tall ferns which draped the forest floor. She pulled the black cowl of her traveling cloak up over her white wimple and lay perfectly still while she tried to gather her wits and some air.
"Where is she?" a tenor voice rasped nearby, making her heart leap like a trapped, frantic bird against the cage of her ribs.
"She was just here a moment ago," came the gruff reply.
"Well, find her!"
"Aye, sir."
She heard the sound of a slap against leather. "And don't even think about it. I know that smile. She must remain virgin just a little while longer, until we get to--"
A rustling in the bushes caught their attention.
Morgaine froze.
"She's over there," the gravely voiced man said, moving off to the left.
Morgaine made quick use of the lucky diversion to crawl deeper into the forest. She knew they would thrash the undergrowth for her soon. If she could get far enough away and find a likely tree. Or maybe a cave...
Morgaine wished she knew the region better. The convent lay five miles back, and their nearest town two miles to the east. West was St. Asaph, north the Menai Straits. Across them was Anglesey, and home. All of those destinations seemed incredibly far away with no horse, let alone a boat, and a dozen armed men searching for her.
She inched further forward, every crackle of the crisp leaf marl stiffening her with fright. The sounds must have been soft enough, but in her terror she was sure they were each a clarion call announcing her presence.
She crept forward and stopped by a broad trunk to catch her breath. It had come back to her eventually, but her lungs still felt as though they were bursting. Then she realized that she had been holding her breath.
Morgaine shoved the cowl and some stray wisps of ebony hair out of her deep blue eyes and dared sit up against the oak. She peeped around the tree and spotted several men in the distance.
Once again she saw the tall man who had led the warrior band.
Betrayed her.
He had called himself Yestin. Had said he was a messenger from her father. That he and his two men had come to escort her back safely to her llys. Her Mother Superior had insisted on sending an appropriate entourage as befitting her virtue and station in life. Now they had all been ambushed, killed because of her.
Was Yestin going to kill her too? Or try to force himself upon her? Try to force her to marry, as her enemies had done once before?
She shuddered. Was that why? Was this a last desperate attempt to get her under their power before she took her vows?
But no, there had to be more to it than that. Men like Yestin certainly wouldn't respect any holy vows of chastity.
She clamped her hand over her mouth to subdue the roiling in her stomach. She would rather die than marry Arwel, their only neighboring lord back home on her island. He was young enough, and quite good-looking by most women's reckoning. But he was debauched and dissolute. Many of his serving men and women fled to her family's estate for help, recounting horrendous tales of woe. It was Arwel's last attack upon her which had caused Morgaine to flee to the safety of a convent on the mainland.
Was every man she came across only interested in the power she was supposed to convey?
Who was that man Yestin? She had never seen him before. She would have remembered him. He was tall and thin, with a nose like a bird's beak and the oddest gold eyes. When he had looked at her, she had felt as though he had been the hunter and she the prey. She should have known not to trust him. His red hair, a furious flame atop his head like the fires of Hell, should have warned her that he was a god of war, bringing nothing but death and destruction to her peaceful little world.
Yestin began to prod the foliage near where her horse had been brought down by the crossbow bolt. If he found her, she her fate would be dire indeed.
The fact that he did not intend to kill her outright only worried her more. Morgaine was horrified by the many possible grim fates that awaited her. Rape, slavery... She was sorely tempted to break cover and flee for her life.
She offered up a quick prayer and was just steeling herself to jump up and run like the wind when a huge hand clamped over her mouth, pinning her back against a broad chest as solid as the oak she had just been leaning upon.
She went rigid with terror.
"Don't scream," he whispered hurriedly. "I'm a friend. How many of them are there?"
He eased his hand away slightly. "Th-th-thirteen, I th-th-think," she stammered. It must be one of the yeomen, she reasoned. He had managed to escape from Yestin and had doubled back for her. She was so relieved she almost turned into his arms to fling hers own around his neck. But would he not have known from his own observations in the clearing just how many of the enemy there were?
"Stay here. And whatever you do, don't run," he warned as he edged forward to peer through the concealing ferns, drawing level with her, his arm still wrapped protectively around her shoulder.
She turned her head to look at her new companion and nearly fainted. The other man had been tall, but this one was as vast as the great mountain of Moel Wnion itself. Long ebony hair flowed down his broad shoulders and chest. His enormous upper arms were as thick as her thighs.
His face was extraordinary, so handsome as she viewed his right profile that she wondered how many women had fallen in love with him at first sight. His eye was a strange hazel, as dappled as the forest floor they lay upon.
She felt oddly comforted by the stranger's touch. They were intertwined so intimately that she could feel his rapid heartbeat and his every breath.
She had never been so close to a man before, not in a soothing, comforting way at any rate. His hand rubbed up and down her shoulder, steadying her as though she were a fractious mare. The feelings his touch engendered were almost more terrifying that the pursuit by Yestin.
He rubbed her back reassuringly for some time as he peered out at her attackers. She admired his straight nose, firm chin, the strong ivory column of his throat arching from the open neck of his black tunic. She noted the simple wooden cross which nestled in hollow between his collarbones, fixed by a leather band.
Unconsciously, his fingers sought the small piece of tough yew.
Her whole body trembled. She steadied herself by touching her own crucifix, carved from birch. Then she leaned up against the shielding oak tree.
"Thank you for helping me. You are most kind, sir. Do you think we can creep away unnoticed?"
He shook his head. "I'm Caradoc. Caradoc Ap Gruffydd, Owain Gwynedd's man. Why are they pursuing you?"
"I'm Morgaine," she said without thinking.
Blast. She should never have given her real name. But it was too late now to take it back. "I'm to be Sister Brigid when I take my vows. As to what they want, I don't know, truly. One minute we were riding along sedately, the next, well--" She gestured with a sweep of her tiny white hand.
She was glad he was not looking straight at her, for she was sure something of her innermost thoughts had to be reflected in her expression. True, she didn't know the reason for the attack, but she was starting to have some awful suspicions.
He glanced around him quickly while she continued to gape at his stunning profile.
"I'm not sure we can get away, Lady Morgaine. Or fight. I was only out on a simple hunting expedition. The hart chanced to take me too far east. I'm not fully armed. Even if I were to call to my other companions, they might not get here in time. Can you climb a tree?"
"Yes. I can also fire a crossbow if you'll let me," she said, looking down at the weapon he had left upon the ground, sitting next to his gleaming sword.
He looked surprised at her offer. "It takes a vast amount of draw."
She nodded. "I pluck geese and do a lot of the hard labor at the convent. I can manage. I've done it before. Unless you think I stand a better chance with the sword."
He tucked some of the errant raven hair back into her wimple. The right side of his mouth turned up into a tight smile. "I believe you can manage both, child. Though aren't there injunctions about nuns killing?"
"I'm only a novice, and they just slaughtered my companions for no reason," she said angrily. "Give me the crossbow."
"Sush." His warm fingers stroked over her lips lightly for a brief second.
Caradoc picked up a stone and threw it hard, far into the dense thicket to the right about sixty feet. Yestin's men immediately began to search that area.
"If I kill the leader, the others might just give up," he speculated quietly, fingering the hilt of his sword. "Are you ready to try?"
"Yes," she said, eagerly putting out both hands for the weapon and the open bag of bolts.
"If you can't draw back the mechanism a second time, just bash the man in the jewels with the bow and run."
"Jewels?"
"In the fork."
"Fork?" she repeated blankly.
"Between his legs," he said with a touch of impatience. "Lord save me from all nuns."
"A rather irreverent prayer, sir, but I shall offer up a better one to God for us both."
He patted her shoulder once more. "Whatever happens, don't run. Hide in the ferns or up a tree, but don't run. I'll find you, never fear."
"I promise," she said, wondering at his odd insistence.
"Good." He nodded, seeming satisfied. "Let's go."
Morgaine raised herself off the ground timidly and inched forward, while Caradoc moved around to the right, where Yestin was still poking through the shrubbery.
She watched the dark warrior go, admiring his wide back, which tapered to a narrow waist and lean hips before his body bulged briefly once more with iron-thewed thighs. He was clad from head to toe in black, and moved with all of the lithe grace of a panther she had once seen in a cage when some traveling mummers had come to her family's home.
He began to imitate bird song and animal cries.
Morgaine crouched down, keeping in a tight ball, certain the sounds would the alert the men to her approach.
Several of them gathered in the road. She felt her stomach rebel again. They preferred to loot the bodies rather than look for her.
Damn them all, she thought furiously, but instantly repented. Caradoc was right. These were not the type of feelings a nun should be harboring.
Three more steps, and she was in range. Morgaine checked the release on her weapon. It was a simple catch which she could press with her thumb. Heaving the cord back and fitting another bolt from the bag Caradoc had given her would be the hard part. It would be a two-handed job as she pinned one end to the ground with her feet and rammed the butt of the weapon into her belly to tug the bow into place.
She slung the leather strap of the sack across her body so that the opening was hip-height, and then she was ready.
She looked over at the prowling black figure and once again saw a panther, deadly, dangerous. Divine to look at.
And to touch? she wondered, seeing his glossy blue-black hair waft in the wind. He was magnificent, there was no denying it. And he was helping her, though Heaven only knew why.
He was a warrior, a killer. She knew she shouldn't admire him. Neither what he did, nor the fact that he was such an impressive man. She was supposed to be a good Christian now. She had to leave her pagan and clannish ways behind.
Still, she couldn't help the fluttering of her maidenly heart, for surely the handsome man was the stuff of legend like King Arthur, Gawain, Percival. He was her brave knight who had come to her rescue. A black knight who was furtively approaching Yestin and his men, and who was relying upon her to do her part.
Morgaine crept closer to the cluster of men in the road, took aim and fired. Not pausing to see if she had hit her target, she rammed the wooden butt into her belly and was already drawing the cord back. As soon as it locked into place she slid the next bolt into its cradle. She heard the solid thunk a moment later which told her she had indeed been accurate.
She ran to the next tree to use it as cover and fired again. Another hit. Morgaine ran back into the woods, letting the third man pursue her while she readied her weapon once more. All of her muscles straining, she heaved the bow back, loaded and let fly. A third solid crash of metal into bone echoed in the cavernous woods.
That was three, but where was Caradoc? she wondered nervously as she yanked the cord back yet again.
The clash of swords in the distance told her he was as good as his word regarding Yestin. There was no sign of the other men. She stepped backward with a start, right into two of the brutes.
"Got her!" one of them crowed in triumph, trying to pin her against his chest.
She took Caradoc's advice and brought the edge of the heavy D right up between his legs like a mallet. Then she grabbed a steel-tipped bolt out of the bag and daggered it into the other man's neck. He tried to clutch her hood as she fled, then moved his hands to his stabbed throat.
Pure raw fear at her near-capture made her run straight into the road for a nearby horse, where she found herself surrounded.
"I'll take that, lass," the man with the gravely voice commanded, grabbing for the crossbow.
Morgaine swung it in a wide arc, but as soon as she pressed forward, one of the other men tried to approach her from behind.
"Caradoc!" she shouted as they closed in like a pack of hunting hounds taunting a timid hare.
He let out a piercing whistle which filled the forest.
The clearing sprang to life.
Or rather death.
For a pair of hawks came swooping down to claw at the men's eyes. A low rumble from deep in the belly of the forest became a feral snarl as a pair of ebony wolves sprang out at two more men.
Morgaine's eyes widened as a pack of huge dogs and two other warriors dressed in black came from behind her now and launched themselves against into Yestin's forces.
She recovered from her shock and heaved the bow back, but fumbled for a bolt as she watched the melee of man and beast with horrified fascination.
Yestin, who had been fighting his way toward Morgaine, grunted in pain as Caradoc slashed him in the upper arm, trying to get him to drop his weapon. Seeing all was lost with his men, he ran for one of the horses at the edge of the road, sprang up, and galloped straight for Morgaine.
She scrambled backwards, turned, and began to run for the cover of the trees. Suddenly she fell flat on her face, arms sprawled out above her waist as she hit the ground hard. Her crossbow flew several yards, far out of reach.
In an agony of suspense, she waited for the thud of hooves to come crashing down upon her back or skull, but all she felt was a tugging at the skirts of her black habit.
She heard a sharp shout of alarm from Caradoc. Smelled the scent of blood, felt hot breath upon the nape of her neck.
The anguished whinnying of a horse in its death throes echoed through the trees. She spun around onto her back and looked up into Yestin's eyes as he sprawled on the ground a foot away. The light of life was already dimming rapidly from his odd eyes as blood gushed out of his shredded throat.
The larger of the two wolves licked its lips languidly. Morgaine shivered at the sight of its red-flecked maw.
The second red-muzzled wolf shook its head at her as if scolding, blinked his pale blue eyes, then got up off the skirts of her habit and cloak.
Morgaine's head began to swim. She could feel the perspiration bead her entire body from the back of her neck to the soles of her feet. She began shivering deep inside with a profound chill so penetrating it felt as though it was invading her soul.
But worse was in store for her. Caradoc was coming toward her now, his jet hair flowing in the light evening breeze. He looked every inch the conquering knight she had fancied him only a few moments before. For the first time, she saw his full face, and lurched in shock, one hand flying up to cover her open mouth.
The left side of his visage was hideous to behold, a mockery of the masculine beauty on his right. A deep furrow ran from his hairline straight down through his ebony brow, what was left of his eye and lid, down his elegant cheekbone and lightly bristled cheek through his sensual lips, to the edge of his lean jaw. The scar was a perfect slash.
Too perfect to have been an accident.
Her mouth went as sere as sand. The weight on her chest was crushing. The poor man...
She saw it all in a flash, the cruel knife, his horrendous struggles. And they had not stopped there. She saw a flash of bare male torso and long legs.
No.
Her chill grew sharply more acute. There were even worse scars upon this man than what she could see. Her foggy vision swirled and cleared, but she had witnessed enough to find herself weak with pity and horror.
He was staring at her, his single hazel eye daring her to recoil from him. He tensed, waiting for her horrified response.
Morgaine knew she was staring. She couldn't help it. The hawks, the wolves, the whole shock of all that had happened to her, made her feel like a gaping idiot.
She rubbed her eyes and blinked, looking right and left. "Is it over?"
He relaxed slightly. "Are you hurt?" he asked with a worried frown, kneeling down to examine her.
Morgaine couldn't have stopped herself if she wanted to. No sooner was the thought in her head than her hands were on his shoulders, her lips on his mouth.
She kissed Caradoc with all the passion born of youth, desire, pity and grief. Then, mercifully, she fainted.
The Isle of Destiny
Shanna Murchison
Setting: North Wales, June 1145
Word Count=120,000
Rating: Sensual
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