The bump on Alasdair’s head throbbed as he watched the delicate marvel of Morgaine le Fee dance up the stairs. Aye, she was all he had heard of her and more, an enchantress of the highest order. What manner of woman would flaunt such shapely legs before the eye of a red-blooded man?
Incredible as it seemed, Alasdair had indeed been sent to confront a powerful sorceress within her own den. He thought furiously, but there was no other explanation. It did not help at all that the whisky, the fall and Morgaine herself had left his thinking all tapsal-teerie.
His first idea, that she was a w***e hired by the lads to muddle his wits in good fun, had been a reasonable one given her garb. But then the other details had not added up.
If the bite of her tongue—another attribute held to be Morgain
