The Spell-Bound Scholar

Chapter 3

Moraga took a moment to adjust her mental screen, projecting a figure even more voluptuous than her own and a face dazzling in its beauty, framed by hair of a rich mahogany. Sure that she would have tempted a eunuch and strained the vows of a monk, she stepped from the underbrush ten feet in front of Gregory's horse, a playful, inviting smile on her lips, eyes heavy-lidded. "Good day, Sir Knight."

"Hmm?" Gregory looked up, startled—as indeed he should have been, for he had been listening to Moraga's thoughts coming closer and closer to him, and if he quailed within at the vengeful tone, no sign of it showed in his face.

But the woman he saw before him bore no resemblance to the dowdy yet sensuous creature he had been escorting. Indeed, the fusty robes had gone, and she wore a blouse, skirt, and bodice that emphasized both the slenderness of her waist and swelling of her hips as well as a spectacular bosom. But the thoughts were Moraga's; he recognized their overtones and emotional color as well as he would recognize a very familiar face. He was startled indeed.

"I fear that I am lost, Sir Knight." Moraga pulled a stalk of grass from the roadside and began to nibble at the tip. "Will you help me find my way in these woods?"

"Why . . . gladly, damsel." Gregory swallowed as a wave of desire rolled over him. He reminded himself that it was only a projection of Moraga's own mind and said bravely, "If you will mount and ride behind, I shall bear you out of this wood."

"I had rather it were you who did mount and ride, sir/' the milkmaid purred. "I shall bear you in delight, you may be sure."

Gregory strove to take her words at face value and failed.

"I will rise up, if you insist." The milkmaid swayed up to him, raising a hand to rest on his knee. "Still, I would liefer you came down." Her fingers traced upward on his thigh.

Gregory fought for composure and won. He inclined his head gravely. "I thank you for the invitation, maiden ..."

"I am no maiden, nor do I wish to be," she said, her voice husky. "In truth, my only regret in leaving that virtuous state is that there are so few boys who wish to play my games— or have the stamina to play them well."

"I am not gamesome," Gregory protested.

"Then I shall teach you how to play."

Now Gregory smiled with relief, back on familiar ground. "If only you could! But I have striven to learn through the years, damsel, and cannot. I go through the motions that give others so much delight but feel only boredom."

Her eyes flashed. "You would not be bored with my games, Sir Knight."

"I doubt not," Gregory admitted, "but I would certainly play them with no sense of fun, no sense of joy—for I lack both. Come, damsel—do you truly wish to dally with a man who would study his every move earnestly, paying the game only the gravest of attentions?"

In spite of her goals, Finister shivered with loathing. Gamely, though, she said, "No man can be so tragically serious as that, sir."

"Not many," Gregory agreed. "I had rather be a rare man in other ways, but I must settle for this, since it is what I am. In truth, I doubt not that I would approach the bout as a study, striving to discover which caress could elicit which shiver."

That was too much even for Finister. "Then I wish you joy of your studies, sir, for it is all the joy you shall have!" She turned and flounced away, disappearing into the underbrush in seconds.

Gregory stared after her, his breast a churning of emotions. He was relieved that he had found his prisoner again, but he found himself shaking with the aftermath of the encounter. No matter how cool a face he had presented to Moraga, his emotions were rampant. Never before had he felt such a tidal wave of desire—which was reasonable, considering that he had never met a woman at once so beautiful and so voluptuous. Worse than that, though, the woman was a projective telepath, and the emotion she had projected was raw lust in proportions he had never known, with a frightening intensity.

That intensity had saved him from falling off his horse and into her arms, no doubt—the fear of the power of the emotion itself, even though he knew that if he once confronted that fear, it would yield to a pleasure more extreme than any he had ever known. Part of him longed for it but another part was repelled by the thought of the time that would be wasted, the energy that would be leached from his research. Still, the fear of pleasure had been a good thing, for now that she had gone away, he remembered a far more practical fear—that while he was distracted by passion, she might strike him a mental blow that would stun him long enough for her to drive a dagger through his ribs or, more likely, use the passion itself to catapult him into her projective hypnotic spell, imagining himself to be some loathsome creature who could not stir from its prison, even as she had made his eldest brother believe himself to be a snake doomed forever to crawl around and around the base of a tree.

He sagged, limp with the aftermath of the confrontation, and was astounded to find that his trembling came not from exhaustion but from desire. Lust so intense was a new feeling for him, and he paused to savor its novelty, bemused, studying the phenomenon—and forgetting his ordeal. It was amazing that the woman could generate such an intensity of feeling. Before meeting her, he had always managed to sublimate such feelings into creative energy, which he channelled into research—a far more productive use.

Still, the current situation had its advantages. He had always wondered what compelled other men, such as his brother Geoffrey, to waste so much time with women. He could have understood counselling, teaching, or working with them to find some way to alleviate their poverty—but simply to trade sallies with them over cups of wine? There was nothing accomplished, nothing achieved! Why would an otherwise completely sane fellow be such a spendthrift of his hours? It seemed he was about to find out.

Gwen looked up at the sound of voices in the hallway. Glancing at her husband, she saw that he had heard it, too; from his desk to the right of the great window, he paused in his writing and looked up at the door. He glanced at her, eyebrows raised in inquiry, mouth curving in amusement, as though to say it was no doubt something minor. Gwen smiled back from her reading chair at the other side of the clerestory, a smile that said she was equally certain it was a minor matter.

Their solar was filled with light; the great window faced south and was filled with color, for the glaziers still had difficulty making clear glass and, as a result, deliberately tinted the panes in various hues. The furniture was sparse, the books many, with a figured rug covering the flagstoned floor and a tapestry over the mantelpiece. It was a warm and cozy room, though it seemed empty now that the children had all gone out into the world. Nominally, they were still at home, but actually spent very few days there, being always out and about the kingdom, caring for the needs of the people and protecting them from the predators that pervaded a medieval society.

The sentry at the door stepped into the room. "Beg pardon, lord and lady."

"Certainly, Trooper Harl." Gwen smiled to put him at ease. Ever since they had rid the castle of its ghosts and taken up residence, there had been a constant stream of poor people coming to their gate for alms. She and Rod had given a dozen of them jobs, that being the most practical way of alleviating their poverty; the number had increased as the children had begun to spend less and less time at home. They now housed a company of guardsmen, none of whom had ever seen military service before, a dozen servants, and three dozen foresters and farmers. Rod had begun by inventing jobs for poor people and had ended making a profit. It had surprised him immensely and allowed them to hire a mason and a carpenter to instruct a dozen apprentices each in renovating the castle.

"The porter brings word, milady, of a young peasant who has come to the gatehouse begging aid."

"Then bring him in and give him food."

"Well, we brought the food out and tossed it to him, milady, for he would not come near us. The aid he asks is healing; he says his whole village has fallen victim to a plague that none has ever seen before."

"A plague!" Gwen stiffened.

Rod rose. "We'll come."

"Indeed not," Gwen said with some asperity and laid her book aside, removing the spectacles Rod had fashioned for her from the prescription provided by his robot horse, Fess. She rose, saying, "If I cannot mend the disease by myself, it is exotic indeed. Continue writing your history, husband—it is at least important for future generations as healing is for this."

"Well, I do have to admit you know a lot more about medicine than I do, especially at the microscopic level." But Rod looked distinctly unhappy about it. "You'll call if you need any help?"

"On the instant," Gwen promised, then turned to tug a bell rope. She told the guard, "When Lanai comes, ask her to bring my medical pack to the broomport in the west tower."

"I shall, milady." The guard gave a small bow as he stood aside. Gwen swept out of the room and off on her errand of mercy.

Rod sat down slowly but glanced anxiously after her before he took up his own reading glasses again. He put them on, then frowned at the door with vague unease.

After all, who else did he have to worry about these days?

Gregory rode the forest paths, disconsolate, hoping he would find Moraga again but very nervous about it, too. His mind was open, though guarded, picking up all sorts of thoughts— faraway peasants at work, nearer ones at play, and a host of animal emotions with the occasional sharp spike that could almost be shaped into words.

Suddenly he stiffened at thoughts of bewilderment and fright, but also at resolution to brave whatever dangers the forest might present. The aura was feminine, the cast one of hunger for experience, especially romantic adventure. Gregory listened and probed ever so delicately, and by the time he rounded the trunk of a giant oak and saw the young gentlewoman, he was already certain that the thoughts were Moraga's, though carefully disguised by a consummate job of acting, so thorough as to partially deceive even herself. Only in the hard shell beneath the fictitious character was he able to sense the angry and vengeful emotions that were the young witch's signature.

The damsel he saw had a heart-shaped face of excruciating beauty, framed by luxuriant jet-black tresses that fell onto the shoulders of a stout broadcloth travelling gown of a rich blue that complemented the startling azure of her eyes. The gown was fitted so expertly as to leave no doubt that her figure was spectacular. She looked up at him, and a wave of desire rolled out from her to rock him with its intensity. There could be no doubt that she was a virgin and impatient to be rid of her state, a passionate creature who longed to experience the mystery of romance and the ecstasy of lovemaking of which she had heard and read so much but never tasted, thanks to vigilant chaperones and strict parents.

Not that she said so, of course. She shrank back against the trunk of the oak, wary but also filled with longing.

Gregory had to admire the screen of projective telepathy so complete as to convince him that he was looking at a black-haired, hungry, but virginal gentlewoman, as well as the construction of the character—not the real person, of course. It was an artful construct indeed. He reined in his horse and inclined his head in courtesy. "Good day, maiden."

"Good . . . good day, sir," the young woman said warily, but her eyes spoke of curiosity and pleasure at the sight of him.

"I am Gregory Gallowglass, and it is quite unchivalrous of me to ride when a lady must walk. If you will mount, I shall step down and lift you into this horse's saddle."

"I... I thank you, sir." The young woman stepped a few feet away from the tree. "I am Lilia, the daughter of Squire and Mistress Hallam—and I have indeed grown weary." Her eyes belied the last statement.

"Then ride you shall." Gregory dismounted, turned, and found himself a foot from Lilia—at least, his face was. His chest was much closer.

Her eyelids drooped, her lips seemed to thicken and moisten of their own accord; she tilted her head to the side as she breathed, "I thank you for your courtesy."

The wave of desire swept out to enfold Gregory, pulling him forward even more strongly than his natural reserve pushed him back, and his lips brushed hers.

It was as though an electric spark jumped from her to him, then welded their lips together. Hers trembled beneath his, then opened, beginning to nibble. With a sigh, she relaxed into his embrace. The tip of her tongue caressed his lower lip, and his whole body stiffened.

At that, alarm won over attraction, and Gregory backed away, gasping for air. "Your . . . your pardon, mistress. I. . . I have no idea what overcame me."

"I have," she whispered, swaying closer again, "and I only wish it would overcome us both."

But Gregory was on his guard now and caught her around the waist with both hands, lifting so that her own momentum helped boost her up to the saddle. Perhaps it was a mistake, for his hands seemed to burn at the feeling of the resilient body beneath the cloth, and he marvelled that his grip could encompass so much of her waist but feel so much more hip beneath them. He let go quite quickly but still found himself staring up at a view even more tantalizing than before as she blinked down at him in surprise.

At least her lips were safely out of reach.

"I... I thank you, sir," she said reluctantly.

"And I must thank you, and very deeply." Actually, it had been Gregory's first kiss, and his emotions were as turbulent as a dozen modulated waveforms in constant interference. He recovered his poise by resolutely ignoring his feelings. "But how does a damsel as gentle as yourself come to be alone in such rough woodlands as these?"

"Oh, my parents are impossible!" Lilia burst out. "They must ever keep me close at home, and when they do let me visit a dance or a meeting, they have my old nurse ever at my shoulder! There is no chance for fun, no chance to taste the delights that are the right of youth!"

"Indeed," Gregory said, shaken. "But it is quite dangerous for you to be alone in the greenwood with none to guard you."

"I shall chance whatever dangers come!" Her eyelids drooped again. "Are you a danger, sir?"

"I? No, never!" Gregory protested in shock.

"That is unfortunate." Lilia leaned forward, lips seeming to swell and moisten again. "I would you were a danger to my maiden state."

Gregory stared, wordless.

Lilia leaned farther forward, then suddenly fell with a little shriek. Automatically, Gregory reached up and caught her waist. She fell right against him, he felt her breasts pressing against his chest, her thighs and hips against his, and his body's reaction was so embarrassing that he involuntarily stepped back.

But she stepped with him, still pressed up to him, lips smiling up, parting, eyes dreamy under heavy lids, head tilted to the side, voice husky as she said, "You are handsome and gentle and, I doubt not, patient, and likely to touch a woman with delicacy. I wish very strongly that you were a danger to my innocence."

It was the wrong word; Gregory protested in alarm, "Such a thing would be quite wrong, maiden! That pleasure is and should be reserved only for those who are wed!"

"Reserved? I think not." Smiling lazily, Lilia pressed even more tightly against him. "I have known many who shared a bed without benefit of clergy."

"And were they not shamed before all the world?" Gregory stammered.

"Not at all, for the lasses had drunk of a potion given them by a wise woman," Lilia said, "as have I. None needed know of it save the couple themselves."

Even with his emotions churning, Gregory's mind caught the logical flaw. "Surely not so, damsel! For if these women were not exposed to public shame, how could you have come to know of them?"

"Servants gossip," Lilia breathed, and her breath was heated perfume. "Servants boast—and no, not the men alone! I have even heard three wantons arguing about who had bedded a handsome plowboy first!"

Gregory found that hard to believe but knew better than to question her veracity. "But. . . but not people of your class! Servants perhaps, but not young gentlewomen!"

"Pooh!" Lilia scoffed. "Why should they have all the fun? Come, sir, explore new delights with me!" She caught his hand and pressed it to her bosom.

Gregory tried to pull it away, but she held his wrist with surprising strength—or was it his weakness that was surprising?

"Come, sir, a beautiful woman invites you," she breathed, "and if you turn her away, she must suspect that you, too, are a virgin and afraid of real pleasure."

"That. . .that is so."

Lilia stared up at him, her hold loosening. "You feel no shame in saying it? But all men jeer at those who have never known the delights of a woman's embrace! None will admit it!"

"I will." Gregory began to feel a little confidence returning. "I have far greater interest in books than in sport, damsel, and I doubt that I would be a lover of any skill. I know nothing of how to give pleasure to a woman."

"Then learn with me," she breathed, pressing close again. "Let us learn together. Do you not hunger for experience?"

"Not at all," Gregory said quickly. "My ... my hunger is only for knowledge!"

"Then this is a whole realm of human knowledge of which you are innocent." Lilia's smile broadened again. "What manner of scholar could you be if you do not truly know what so many books tell? You may have as fine a chance as this again, sir, but never a better—and I am quite willing to risk clumsiness if I can be certain of gentleness!"

"No ... no one can be certain if a man loses his senses."

"Nay, with me you shall find your senses, or their true purpose, at least." Her voice was husky again. "Do you think a virgin wishes to marry a man who has no idea how to make love?"

It was the wrong tack; the argument Gregory had learned from monks came to the fore. "I never mean to marry, damsel—but if I did, I doubt not that marriage would badly need the power of that first lovemaking, which can be a bond of great strength between new wife and husband—and surely every such binding is vitally necessary to make a marriage last. The wedded state has need of every bond it can have, for there are so many strains upon it."

Lilia actually drew away an inch in repugnance. "If so, then perhaps that marriage should not endure! What strains are these that you imagine?"

"Why, poverty and bondage, but most of all the pressures of two people living side by side every day—two people trying to live with the fear of losing themselves in the whirlpool of family life, fearing even more to lose freedom, pride, and their ability to govern themselves."

"You mean fear of being dominated or enslaved!" Lilia drew farther away, anger sparking in her eyes.

Gregory shuddered within, for she was at least as beautiful in the one passion as in the other, and caught between the two, as she was at the moment, she was absolutely spectacular.