Free Rexanne Becnel by Where Magic Dwells Page A

She’d firmly rebuffed any man who approached her in that way, and none of them had ever thought to anger the Welsh Witch.
    But this man … With only his slow, heated gaze he caused her mouth to go dry and her mind to go blank He turned her anger into a terrible burning in the depths of her stomach, leaving her unable to focus. Did he have powers of his own? Some ability that was stronger than hers? She’d heard of wizards and warlocks, but she personally knew of no men possessed of suet powers. Only women.
    His chuckle followed her, but she determinedly shut it out. Let him laugh. At least she knew that it was only his touch and his potent gaze that weakened her. If she stayed away from him and never met his eyes, she would be all right. She would plot in private. She would devise all sorts of miseries for him, and eventually she would drive him away.
    Yet even as she caught up with the children, she was not totally reassured. He was very determined. But then, so was she. And she was on her homelands, surrounded by people who would help her.
    Then she breathed a sigh of relief. Gwynedd. Her aunt Gwynedd would help her. She would know what to do. Wynne chanced a glance back and saw him not far behind. He was watching her with a confident, assessing expression on his face. It was enough to destroy her recovering calm.
    “Hurry, children,” she said, a false note of gaiety in her voice. “The first one back to the manor shall get a double serving of pears tonight.”
    But she would cook up a special recipe for the Englishman, she vowed. And she would make him very sorry he ever heard of the Welsh Witch.

6
    G WYNEDD AWAITED THEM IN a woven chair of rye straw draped with sheepskin, which had been placed outside in a pleasant, sunny spot. Her head tilted back against a down-filled cushion, and her eyes were closed.
    How could she be asleep? Wynne fumed as she herded the children forward. How could she nap so peacefully, so unaware of the terrible situation they were in? Surely she should sense it.
    “Children, leave your bags and pouches on the big table in the kitchen. Then go look for Druce.” She shot an angry glance at the Englishman, who stood so straight and tall, surrounded by the children. “And stay away from the English encampment.”
    As one, the five children looked from Wynne to Sir Cleve, then back at her. To her enormous relief they did not question her words. She supposed even a group of six-year-olds could not mistake the pure animosity that emanated from her toward that man.
    She glared at him in silence as the children trotted off to the house. Then, still not speaking, she turned and walked away. When she reached her great-aunt, she knelt down before her, sneaking a quick glance back at the Englishman. He was still watching her, but then the shivery sensation up her spine had already told her that. What was this disturbing effect he had on her?
    “Aunt Gwynedd,” she whispered urgently, even though he was too far away to hear. “Aunt Gwynedd, wake up!”
    “What? Ah, nith, did I doze off?” The old woman patted Wynne’s hand, which rested on her arm. “Ah, well, ’tis one of the pleasures of old age, I suppose. You gather the herbs while I rest in the sunshine.”
    “Aunt Gwynedd, I know now why that Englishman has come. He wants to take one of the children away. One of the boys.”
    Gwynedd pushed herself a little upright. “What do you say? He’s taken one of the children?”
    “No, no. Not yet at least. But he will. He says one of them is the son of some English lord. And that this lord wants his son back.”
    Gwynedd stared at her, all vestiges of sleep gone from her sightless eyes. “One of our lads is heir to an English lord? How can he be sure?”
    Wynne shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know. I don’t think he knows which one it is. He’s probably not even sure it is one of our boys, he’s only hoping. You know how the English are.” She snorted in contempt. “