He shifted position, snaring her attention. “Did Sir Brian tell you that tale?”
“He doesn’t need to. He’s Irish. They’re full of elves and gobelins and faeries.”
Sensing the approach of the tavern wench, she paused, allowing her attention to focus on the maid. As usual, the images in the frowsy wench’s mind had more to do with men than anything of real importance, and Sasha lifted her brow at some of the visions. What a busy person she must be—but among the images flitting through the shallow depths of the maid’s mind was Biagio, his darkly pretty face accompanied by her sigh of longing. She looked at the maid more sharply. Her blue eyes were hazy and replete, her face glowing. Curse him—`eīh! A vision of Biagio with few garments caught her unaware. No, he had gone too far with wooing the maid. Now she fancied herself in love with him, and that could create problems.
The maid looked at Rhys, and the image of Biagio faded, quickly replaced with a fleeting memory of the blond knight in the kitchen, asking if she had seen a maid in green and purple. Sasha’s eyes narrowed. Viewed through this wench’s eyes, he looked strong, dangerous, male, and very tempting. When the maid entertained a brief, fanciful vision of him undoing her bodice laces, Sasha blocked the fantasy and sought to distract her.
“Must you dawdle, girl? I desire food and drink before the full moon.”
Rhys looked at her and lifted a brow. So she added, “I’m hungry. Very hungry.”
After a pause, he asked, “Shall I order you a side of beef?”
She shrugged. “Nay. A small trencher will do.”
At a signal from Rhys, the tavern girl nodded, but the glance she shot at Sasha held a wealth of resentment. It could not be helped. The half-formed thoughts and full-blown images that filled the girl’s mind disturbed her, but in truth, were no worse than those that filled the minds of many men, whether peasant, soldier, knight, or prince.
As the girl flounced off to the rear of the common room in high dudgeon, the front door of the inn opened, and one of Rhys’s knights entered, eyes scanning the room until he found him. He approached rapidly, simmering with resentment, anger, and a disturbing fear.
Rhys stiffened slightly. She didn’t blame him. The approaching knight was about to boil over with rage and indignation. As he drew closer, she realized with dismay that it was directed at her.
“My lord,” he said stiffly, his gaze riveted on Rhys, “I would speak with you in private.” He paused, thought briefly of betrayal and enchantment, then of Rhys’s inordinate attachment to the wench with witching eyes. Sasha realized with a shock that the wench he meant was she. Comely enough in an odd way, but those eyes . . . see right through a man . . . Brian’s right . . . not about faeries, mayhap, but she means trouble to us all . . . those herbs . . . purple flowers . . . hemp agrimony. . . .
Sasha suddenly remembered: she’d left her chest of herbs in the stable, so flustered by Rhys that she’d not thought about leaving them behind for anyone to examine. If this man knew anything about herbs, he would recognize some of them, and then the symptoms that afflicted the men groaning in the stables would take on new meaning. Ah, what had she done, letting herself be so distracted?
Disaster yawned, waiting with dark, snapping teeth to claim her. The end to her plans, the finish to her dreams, all threatened. What could she do?
“I TELL YOU, M’LORD,” Sir Robert insisted harshly, “the symptoms are the same. I know that herb. I’ve used it myself on occasion, when my youngest son ate a poisonous plant by mistake. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me earlier.”
Rhys stared at him in the feeble light afforded by the tavern window. Smoke hazed the air. “But what reason would she have for making my men sick and not me?”
“How do you know she didn’t try you first?” Sir Robert glanced at the maid still sitting at the table, her back to them, loose hair uncovered by scarf or headdress. “I’ve not known you to drink so much before, m’lord, and I’ve known you eleven years or more. Yet this morning you were sick from it.”
True, though the symptoms were not the same as his men’s. His mouth tightened. “How would it be done, then?”
“In their food, wine—any number of ways. And you must admit, even those men who stayed late yet drank little still have some sickness on them.”
Yea, that was true enough, too. Brian was not sick, but Brian had been sleeping off the effects of too much wine in a corner of the stable before the night even began. And Sir Robert had not frequented the inn later in the night, preferring his own company to the rowdier company of drunken soldiers. Wise under any circumstances. Rhys devised and rejected several theories, but the only answer seemed to point to the maid—and he had no idea what she’d done after leaving his room.
He glanced toward Sasha. Glossy black hair gleamed softly in the gray light through the window, pulled back at the sides with two plaits, her face in profile. Mortal or faerie? Mystery maid, by turns saucy and teasing—and the heated memory of her golden body and slender thighs atop him powerfully arousing. He looked back at Sir Robert. “I suggest we ask the innkeeper what he knows before we accuse her falsely.”
“I shall fetch him to you,” Sir Robert said grimly.
Rhys moved back to the table, idly lifting a long strand of her hair in his palm, letting it drift free in a silky glide. He straddled the bench again and reached for her arm, pushing up her long, bell-shaped sleeve to place her hand atop his and hold it.
“Tell me,” he said in a pleasant tone, “what you did after you left me last night, sweet flower.”
Dark eyes fastened on his face, unfathomably deep. “Did, my lord?”
“Yea, fair maid. Did you linger at the inn or return to your tent straight-forth?”
She tried to pull her hand away, but he held it fast, and she gave a light shrug and fleeting smile. “My servant came to fetch me. We carried some wine back to Elspeth. She felt poorly.”
“How unfortunate.” He paused to let the silence lengthen. It stretched until she began to fidget, then he asked, “Is she better?”
“Elspeth? Yea, my lord. Much better. It must have been something she ate, for as you saw this morning, she is up and about as usual.”
“Yea, I remember.” He rubbed his thumb over the back of her hand in a gentle, idle circle, then turned it over to gaze at her palm. “You still have salve on your hand. You have a great knowledge of herbs, do you not?”
“Great enough.” She lifted one shoulder. “I know what most others know, what to eat and what not to eat, a few simple salves and remedies.” With an impatient motion of her free hand, she said, “I am not as hungry as I thought. I need to collect my herbs and go see that Elspeth is still well. My lord, please release my hand. It is unseemly to hold hands in public.”
Half-standing, poised for flight like a skittish mare, she stared at him with huge dark eyes and a questioning lift of her brows. He shook his head. “In a moment, fair lady. I’ve a notion to have some questions answered first, and I know you will oblige me.”
“Truly, I would be most happy to answer any questions you wish to ask, my lord, but as it is like to rain, I must go and help them strike the tent and find a dry place to bide until it passes. Biagio is competent enough, but Elspeth—”
His fingers tightened, just enough to warn her of his mood. “Gladly. After my questions have been answered.”
She stared down at him, dark eyes reflecting the rich glow of the lamp and pale light from the window, her lips parted, the breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. There was a deep color to her cheeks, like the dusky rose in late summer, beautiful and enticing, but hiding sharp thorns beneath fragile petals. A lovely flower. And like the flowers of the Deadly Nightshade—called Fair Lady by some—deceptively beguiling and fatal. Her face told the tale, gave the lie to her words, and he did not really need confirmation by the innkeeper to kno
w the truth. It gazed at him from her eyes.
Sir Robert arrived with the innkeeper and his daughter in tow. “Tell him what you’ve told me, Master Howard.” Sir Robert nudged the innkeeper forward a step. “Tell him.”
Master Howard bobbed his head, looking uneasily from the maid to Rhys. “She were ‘ere, m’lord. Last night late. ‘Er and ‘er servant, that dark lad wi’ th’ wolf’s face. I saw ‘im in th’ back, near my wine pitchers, but they said they only needed a bit of wine ta taik back ta summat who was sick.”
Sasha shrugged her hair off her shoulder in a careless gesture. “Just as I told you, my lord. Elspeth was ill.”
Rhys rested his gaze on her face, searching for truth but suspecting a lie. “Yea, so you did.”
Perhaps he would have released her then, with no proof of guilt, though experience told him differently. Maybe she sensed him waver, for she pulled free of his grasp and took a step back.
Then the kitchen wench pushed forward, brazen and angry as she put both hands on her hips. “I saw w’at you done, I did, but didn’t know ‘til now w’at ‘twas.”
“Hush, Hlynn,” her father said, reaching a hand out to draw her back. But she shook loose, tossing her head impatiently.
“Nay, I won’t hush. It were ‘er that done it. She poured sumthin’ in some o’ th’ pitchers, but I didn’ know at th’ time w’at she was doin’.” Hlynn turned to Rhys. “And now she’s tryin’ ta blame it on ‘er poor servant, w’en ‘twas ‘er all th’ time.”
Sasha looked at the girl with narrow eyes, gazing at her intently. Then she shrugged. “You were not in the kitchens when we came down for the wine. You saw nothing, because you were waiting near the garden gate for Biagio to pass by again. If you can sleep with him again you think he will take you with us when we leave here.”
Hlynn gaped at her, glanced at her father, then shook her head vehemently. “Nay, ‘tis not true. Ye be lying!”
“It is true. You think the money you’ve stolen from your father will convince him, but he has no need of your coins. He dallies with you, mayhap, but when we leave, you will not go with us.”
The tavern keeper’s face reflected anger and suspicion but Rhys heard more than truth in Sasha’s voice. She had not yet denied tampering with the wine.
He stood, suddenly impatient to be done with it. “We shall continue this discussion in my chamber, fair lady. I trust we shall not be disturbed.”
It was warning and promise, and neither the innkeeper nor Sir Robert spoke as he took Sasha’s arm and led her toward the narrow staircase to the upper floor. She did not resist, though a faint tremor radiated through her body when he put his hand on the small of her back. It was not until they reached the bottom tread that he heard the innkeeper begin to berate his daughter, and her whining protests that she had not taken any coins was punctuated by a sharp slap. A wail rose in the common room.
“Your effort is rewarded, flower,” he murmured as they reached the first floor. “She has earned a just reward for her deception.”
“Yea,” she said in obvious satisfaction, pausing in front of the door to his chamber.
Reaching around her to open the door, he said softly, “I wonder if you will enjoy your reward for deception as much as you do hers.”
Chapter Eight
ECHOES OF THE closing door vibrated in the dim intimacy of the room. Releasing her, Rhys crossed the floor to the small table that held an empty pitcher; a stool was tucked beneath the edge. He pulled it out and set it in the midst of the dim-lit chamber; gray light filtered through the open windows, and wind belled out a thin curtain, smelling of rain. He pointed to the stool.
Sasha ignored him and went instead to perch on the rope bed’s mattress. Crossing her arms over her chest, she returned his gaze steadily, defiantly. Very well. This was not his first time questioning a miscreant. Granted, it was his first time questioning a woman he’d bedded, but he must have answers. Would enemies attempt assassination by a woman’s hand? It had been done since time immemorial.
He perched on the stool, pulling it close to face her. His knees almost touched hers, and he saw her swift intake of breath when he said, “You poisoned the wine, and I would know why. Do not toy with me, fair lady, for I can be very unpleasant when forced to it.”
For a moment there was only heavy silence. She sat as if turned to stone, eyes dark and mysterious, hiding secrets he could not fathom.
“If I had poisoned them, they would now be dead instead of recovering,” she finally said with quiet dignity.
“Then your intention was to disable them? Again, I would know why.”
It did not escape his notice that her small hands made restless movements in her lap, slender fingers clenching and unclenching. He made her nervous. That was in his favor. He held her gaze, expecting eventual capitulation. It was all a duel, the verbal feinting and slashing, but it could have only one outcome. He knew it. She knew it.
“Why, indeed,” she replied. “I do not know them and would have no reason to see them laid low, by all accounts.”
“I do not harken to all accounts. I want only your account.” Fraying patience lent a sharp edge to his tone, and she caught it, for her nostrils flared and eyes widened slightly.
Time spun slowly. Rain pattered on the stone sill, seeped damply into the room. Barking dogs accompanied the rumble of cart wheels on the cobbled stone court of the nearby priory. He heard it all, but did not hear a confession from the fey, exotic creature gazing at him as if trying to read his thoughts.
He waited. He’d found that the direction of a miscreant’s thoughts was proportionate to the level of their guilt, and if he waited long enough, dread would provoke—
“It was to delay your departure,” she said abruptly. “I meant no actual harm other than a minor inconvenience of digestion.”
Bittersweet success. He realized he’d hoped her to be innocent despite his conviction she was not. It was a betrayal of sorts, one he did not understand but that was far too familiar. He had experienced enough betrayals in his life to recognize another. Why it should matter that this one pierced him so deeply, he may never know.
“Honesty at last,” he said. “Who asked you to delay our progress? I would know now, for your answer may well decide your fate.”
“No one prompted me,” she said with a sigh. “It was my own ill-fated notion. I needed no urging. Although my companions counseled against it, I did not listen. Do to me what you must, but place no blame on others for my own fault.”
“I am not in the habit of persecuting the innocent.” Despite all experience, he wanted to believe her, but the evidence suggested she must be in league with someone. Why else would she desire to delay their progress to Wales?
“And the guilty?” She studied his face. “What is your habit then?”
It caught him off-guard, for he had no idea what he should do with her now that she had confessed. He could leave her behind, but that would not safeguard his progress. If ‘twas just his own safety, he could chance it. But he had not only his men here, but Glynllew to consider. And what was her intention?
“You have not told me why you wish my delay. It is not just for the sake of mischief.”
She drew in a deep breath; her hands tightened in her lap, knuckles white as she clenched her fists, then relaxed. “Your vow to be my champion requires a journey to my homeland. If you go to Wales, it will not fulfill the prophecy.”
“Your homeland—to fight? I made no such vow.”
“Yea, stalwart knight, you did vow to be my champion.”
“In a tourney, not in combat.” He sat back, dimly recalling a promise. On my honor as a knight, I swear to fight for victory in your name, he had said. But Sasha leaned forward, dark eyes glittering.
“I asked, ‘Do you swear to wear my colors and fight for a victory on the field
of combat,’ and you swore to fight. Do you now forsake your pledge?”
“I never forsake a pledge given honorably.”
“Then you will keep your vow?”
Irritated, he stared at her for a moment. “This is the reason you delayed me? Nay, find another to do your bidding. I have no intention of being so foolish.”
“None other will serve. It must be you, for the prophecy told of a gryffin who would take back my lands, restore my home, and avenge my parents.”
“I am a man, silly maid, not a mythical beast.”
“It is you. I saw your shield and knew at once why you had been put in my path. Fate has decreed it. We cannot deny our destiny.”
Perhaps he should be amused, but he was not. “You sickened nearly a score of men for a maunder’s tale?”
Shrugging, she said, “I misjudged their ardent appetite for wine.”
“Feckless maid, you misjudged much more than my soldiers’ appetite for wine.” He rose from the stool. “I am not convinced of this ridiculous excuse. I thought your tongue more agile than to spew nonsense.”
“You do not believe me?”
“I believe you fouled the wine, but for what reason, I have not yet learned. It makes more sense that you were paid to warm my bed and poison my men, and I would know who gave you coin to achieve it.”
She blew out a harsh breath between her teeth. “You do not believe the truth when you hear it, so why would you believe anything else I say?”
“A name would be credible.”
Shaking her head, she said sulkily, “I was given no name.”
“An Englishman? Welsh?”
“Bah, you are all the same to me. Faithless, deceitful, braying donkeys—”
Losing patience, Rhys grasped her chin in his palm to lift her face so that he stared into her eyes. “My tolerance for play is short. Give me a name ere I resort to harsher methods.”
The Magic Page 13
