Dark Emerald

by Lisa Jackson

  Mary swallowed hard. “I—”

  “Within the hour,” he instructed and ran a gloved hand over the slope of her shoulder, still bare where her dress had slid to one side. Yes, bedding her would ease some of the strain in his muscles.

  “A—aye, m’lord.”

  “Good. Be off,” he said softly, and as she escaped the room he slammed the door shut. Both of the soldiers came to attention when he turned toward them again, and Regan, his mouth twisted in irritation, stood.

  “What’s this I hear of Lord Innis?”

  “He be dead, sire,” said the former sloucher. “I come from Marwood. Lord Innis died in his sleep and his son, Cavan, is now the new baron.”

  Tremayne rubbed his chin. “Anything else?”

  “Aye, the old man lingered on his deathbed for days, and as he did he saw himself as a younger man. He called his son to his side and told him that he was brought to him as an infant, that he is the son of Gilmore, that ‘tis he, and not ye, who is the true ruler of Twyll.”

  “And Cavan, he believes this?”

  “With all his heart,” the spy said. “He already amasses an army.”

  Tremayne’s headache thundered. “To be used against us.”

  “Aye.”

  He closed his eyes for a second, then pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought. “This day was coming. I’ve sensed it. Sooner or later the issue of Gilmore would return and lay claim or siege to the castle. ‘Twas just a matter of time. Now”—he opened his eyes and stared at the informant, James, a cocky but talented spy—”has he the stone?”

  “The stone?”

  “The dark emerald of Twyll. Does Cavan possess it?”

  “I know not.” James’s expression was puzzled. “There was no talk of it.”

  “ ‘Tis said that the true issue of Gilmore has in his possession the emerald.”

  Tremayne felt slightly better, though whether Cavan owned the gem or not was of only secondary importance. He was putting his army together, ready to strike at the gates of Twyll. A young pup full of piss and vinegar, ready—nay, determined—to prove to the world that he was ruler of all he chose. Tremayne had once felt that cocksure, self- righteous surge of power, of pure invincibility, that comes with youth. Before the first sword has sliced one’s skin, or the first opponent has held a knife to one’s throat, or the first sliver of understanding that death is an enemy one never escapes has entered a young whelp’s mind.

  ’Twould come, though, that understanding, and Tremayne was only too eager to help Cavan on his road to enlightenment.

  “So what of the outlaw? Why is Rhys not standing before me as I pass sentence upon his head for stealing my horse?”

  “We caught him not,” the stiff-backed one, Edwin, admitted. “Caught sight of him in the trees, but we could not catch him.”

  “He was astride Gryffyn,” Tremayne guessed, his nostrils flared. His gray was the fleetest and strongest warhorse in the stables, mayhap the land.

  “Aye … it appeared, and he was not alone. There was a woman with him.”

  “A woman?” Tremayne repeated, his mind spinning ahead to new territory. “But Rhys rides alone. Always has.” There had been rumors, of course, that Rhys had a band of thugs loyal to him, but he was never spotted with any other men, and those who had been caught would not admit to knowing him, not even under pain of torture. Never had there been any mention of a woman. “You are sure that you spied Rhys?”

  “Unless someone else rides your steed.”

  Tremayne’s fist clenched and it was all he could do not to cuff the impudent soldier.

  “Tell me of the woman.”

  “ ‘Twas thick fog, hard to see, but it seemed as if she and Rhys had been … embracing afore they heard us and made haste.”

  Tremayne advanced upon the sorry excuse for a warrior. “Are you telling me that both escaped? On my horse?”

  “There were two horses, m’lord, but aye, we were unable to catch them.” Edwin foolishly lifted his chin a notch. Tremayne balled his fast and slammed it into the upstart, sending him reeling. His head banged into the wall. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

  “Fool,” Tremayne growled as he advanced on the smaller, younger man. “Now, hear you this. You are to pull together another search party, one with dogs and my best huntsmen. You are to find the bastard, this woman, and my horse, then bring them back to the castle. Alive. If you are successful, you will be rewarded handsomely, but if you fail, the consequences will be dire.” He pushed his face near Edwin’s. “Do you understand?”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  “Good.” Tremayne, pain pounding through the base of his skull, whirled on the cocky son of a dog who had been spying on Marwood. “As for you, you are to leave Twyll this night and return to Marwood. You will take someone with you who will report back—aye, take Red.” Though an unsavory sort whose love of coin would be his downfall, Red was one of the best spies in the castle—just less trustworthy than James or Edwin. “Track Cavan’s movements, find out how many men he has called forth to help him with the attack, and uncover his intentions.”

  A corner of James’s insolent mouth lifted. “And what is in it for me?”

  Regan stiffened. Edwin rubbed his jaw, which had begun to discolor, and his gaze followed Tremayne’s every movement. “What’s in it for you?” Tremayne repeated. “Well, let us start with the most elemental—you shall live. If your reports are accurate and aid us in fending off—nay, in defeating—Cavan, you will be rewarded, mayhap with the recently vacated position of Sir Edwin here.”

  Edwin’s hand, still rubbing his aching jaw, stilled.

  “What if I want more?” James asked.

  Tremayne’s jaw tightened. “How much more?”

  James’s gaze slid to Regan. “Mayhap I could be constable.”

  Regan, who had been standing near the table, stepped forward. “You insolent, stupid fool—”

  “Quiet. Just do your job,” Tremayne said. “All of you.” He leveled a stern look at each man in the room—and smelled deception. One of these men, mayhap more, was betraying him. He thought again of the footsteps scurrying away as he had descended the tower stairs. How many others were involved?

  God’s teeth, ‘twas hell to be the baron.

  “ ‘Tis time.” Rhys stood in the doorway, and Tara, still gazing out the window, started at the sound of his voice. Turning, she was surprised to see him in clean breeches and tunic—black decorated with brown leather and metal studs, the opening at his throat gaping where the leather cords held it together only loosely. Dark chest hair was visible, obscuring her view of the fine muscles beneath it. Not that she cared. He was an outlaw, a thief, her captor. Nothing more. Aye, he was tall, with a straight back and broad shoulders, and his silver eyes did hold her in a gaze so intense that she always felt the need to put some distance—breathing room—between his body and hers, but he was nothing to her. Nothing.

  His gaze was once again centered on her face and slipped downward to the hollow of her throat and bare chest, where the tops of her breasts were visible.

  “So tonight you are a lady,” he said with that crooked half smile she found so irritating. “And earlier you were a witch.”

  “I be neither.”

  “So you say.” He crossed the room and insolently lifted a still-damp curl from her shoulder. “You wear not your ring, nor the chain upon which it hung.”

  “I lost it.”

  He barked out a laugh. “I think not.”

  “Oh, but I did … on the ride here, mayhap in the river where both me and my horse nearly drowned, the chain snapped. When I took off my clothes here, ‘twas gone.”

  Not a fraction of doubt entered his cursed gaze. Should I send out a search party?”

  “ ‘Twould be of no use. By now the ring is probably a long, long way downstream … or mayhap lost in the forest.”

  So close was he that she smelled the leather upon him, noticed a few streaks of blue in hi
s eyes. He pressed his face even closer, so that she smelled his breath, and her heart took flight, pounding so fast and hard she was certain he could sense it—hear it. He was going to kiss her again. She knew it. And though she willed herself to step backward, she couldn’t. Her feet wouldn’t move and her gaze was drawn to his mouth, which hovered so closely over hers. “Lost in the river? Forgotten in the forest?” His gaze centered on her lips. “Oh, lady, I think not. You would not give up your prize so easily. Methinks you’ve hidden the stone. Somewhere here.”

  “Nay, I—”

  “Shh.” He placed a warm finger on her lips and something deep inside her melted. “Worry not. Your secret—it be safe with me.”

  She didn’t believe him for a second.

  His gaze traveled slowly upward to rest at her eyes. It silently said things to her that were wicked and wanton. Her breath caught. She swallowed hard and glanced at his mouth, partially hidden in the dark bristles of a beard that needed to be shorn. She flushed. Her skin tingled at the thought of his lips pressed intimately against hers.

  Oh, dear God, what was she thinking? Turning her head, she recoiled in disgust at the realization that she wanted to kiss him.

  “Oh, woman,” he said under his breath. “You vex me.” Then, as if hearing his own words, he stiffened and drew back. “Come. As I said, ‘tis time.”

  She managed a deep breath. “For?”

  “You to meet the others.”

  “You mean outlaws and thugs?”

  His smile was wicked—a devil’s slash of white against his bearded chin. “To begin with. We’ll move on to the murderers and kidnappers later.”

  “I be with a kidnapper,” she shot back.

  He clucked his tongue. “And I expected gratitude for saving you from Tremayne’s men.”

  “What have I to fear of them?” she asked as his gaze slid down the length of her body.

  He seemed bemused that she’d changed into the dead lady’s finery. “They’re not a trustworthy lot.”

  “And you … and your men are?”

  He barked out a laugh. “Between ourselves, yea.”

  “But I be not a part of your clan.”

  “Not yet.” He took her elbow and urged her toward the door.

  “Never.”

  “Ah, but you might like the ritual of admittance.”

  “I daren’t ask what that might be.”

  “Simple tasks,” he assured her, and she guessed from the spark in his usually cold eyes that he was teasing her—flirting with her, this bold scoundrel of an outlaw.

  “Such as?”

  They passed into the dark corridor and walked toward the great hall, from which sounds of gossip and laughter emanated. Tara tried not to notice the possessive feel of Rhys’s fingers through the velvet, half convincing herself that he was having no effect on her whatsoever. But when she tried to pull her arm from his grip, his fingers only tightened.

  “Such as pleasing me.”

  Her heart thudded. “And how would I do that?”

  “Use your imagination, witch.”

  Heat rose up her neck and she felt her cheeks stain with a blush she couldn’t hide. She didn’t risk a glance in his direction, for she was certain he would be laughing at her. “I dare not even think.”

  “Nay?”

  He was mocking her.

  She tried to wrench her elbow away from him, for even through the velvet she felt the hard pressure of his fingers.

  “Mayhap, to join our group you might steal something of value from Tremayne of Twyll.”

  “Oh, yes, very easy,” she mocked.

  “Not only must you take a prized possession from him, but you must bring it here.”

  “And why would I endanger my life?”

  “To join with us, of course.”

  “Of course,” she replied dryly.

  As they entered the great hall, the whispers and bawdy laugher that had been echoing down the hallway immediately ceased. A few men had collected around two tables, and the looks they sent her caused Tara’s blood to chill. There were those without teeth, one was missing an eye, most looked as if they had lived in the clothes they were wearing for the better part of their lives. Straggly hair, beards in fierce need of trimming, and eyes that were shuttered, hiding whatever secrets they carried deep in their souls.

  Rhys didn’t bother with their names but made a general announcement. “This is Lady Tara. She is our guest and will be treated accordingly.” He paused, looking each man in the eye for a split second, silently promising that were something unpleasant to happen to her the guilty party would have to answer to him. He didn’t have to say a word; Tara and the others read it in the set of his jaw.

  “She’s joinin’ with us?” one man asked, his pointed nose wrinkled in disapproval.

  “For a while.”

  A few men whispered among themselves. Some leered at her, thinly veiled lust evident in their eyes; others ignored her, and still others seemed irritated that she had penetrated their private hideaway. “Wait a fool’s minute,” one, better dressed than the others, said when Rhys offered her a place at one of the tables. “I thought there be a rule. One that couldn’t be broke.”

  “The lady hasn’t decided how long she’ll stay.”

  “But—”

  “We’ll discuss it later,” Rhys said sharply, and the man, who had been pushing himself to his feet, sat down abruptly, his narrow little hips landing on the bench with a soft plop. “Now, let’s eat.”

  “And it’s about time,” Rosie grumbled as she and Pigeon and a youth of about nine or ten carried in planks of food. Eel, venison, and pike—cooked simply and accompanied by hard bread and ale. The men ate hungrily, greedily, as if they doubted they would ever see food again. They surveyed her silently, with looks that turned her blood to ice and caused her skin to prickle in distaste.

  She sat with Rhys on a short bench positioned at the end of one table, while the men around her ate with the worst manners possible. She was given a slice of bread topped with some of Rosie’s salted eel. “Eat up,” Rosie instructed, then ordered her daughter to fill the wooden mazers. “Hurry along with the wine, now, and you, boy, bring that venison here.” She muttered something under her breath as Pigeon filled cups and blushed as Rhys offered her a kind thanks.

  The girl was besotted with the man, sure as anything. She went about her tasks, filling cups before they emptied, but as the men talked and teased her, Pigeon managed only a weak smile. When she thought no one was looking, she stole longing glances at Rhys.

  He didn’t seem to notice, apparently intent on his joint of venison. There was talk of robberies planned, loot taken, and gossip that was heard about the villages, abbeys, and castles. Tara felt the emerald ring press against her skin and wondered which of these men would slit her throat for such a prize. From what she could gather, Lord Innis of Marwood had died, leaving his only son, Cavan, to rule. The general feeling at the tables was that Innis was a fair baron, his son a hotheaded, bloodthirsty tyrant.

  “ ‘Twill be the end of picking off wagons going to and from Marwood,” the man with only one eye insisted. “Cavan, ‘e won’t stand fer it.”

  “Ach. There wasn’t much there, anyway,” another man said around a mouthful of bread. He had a round face and a bulbous nose. His short fingers moved quickly as he talked. “ ‘Tis much better at Twyll.”

  “Aye, but Tremayne, he be gettin’ more cautious as well.”

  Rhys’s back stiffened slightly, but he didn’t say a word until another man, taller than most, entered the hall. He took two long strides. Then, as his gaze landed full force on Tara, he nearly missed a step.

  “Abelard,” Rhys said without a smile. “Glad you could join us.”

  “Someone needed to check the perimeter. God only knows who might have been following you.”

  “Was it safe?” Rhys cocked a dark brow.

  “So it seems.”

  Standing, Rhys gestured toward Tara. “This is th
e woman I spoke of earlier. Lady Tara.”

  “I be not a lady,” Tara said swiftly. She felt the weight of Abelard’s gaze and managed a stiff smile. He was a big man, larger than Rhys, with wild white hair in deep contrast to his black eyebrows. All of his features—eyes, nose, and mouth—were oversized, a mite large for a face that was clean and sculpted.

  “What be you, then?”

  “A … woman.”

  She heard a few snickers from the men, who kept their gazes downcast as they continued to feast.

  “Not a witch? Rhys says you were chanting spells by the creek.”

  He pulled up a chair, squeezing next to her at one of the corners, and one of the men who had been close to her slid further down on the bench, grateful, it appeared, to put some distance between himself and the big white-haired one.

  “I was praying.”

  “To whom?”

  She managed a smile. “Whoever was listening.”

  “Well, ye best be on yer knees to the Holy Mother,” Rosie said, entering the room through a side door and slapping a plank of sizzling meat onto the table in front of Abelard. “Pigeon, hurry up with that ale, would ye?” she called over her shoulder.

  “I always pray to Mary,” Tara said.

  “And others as well,” Rhys pointed out.

  “Aye.”

  Rosie clucked her tongue and wiped her hands on the apron straining over her wide belly. “Well, remember, the Lord God is a jealous god, and ye’d be best puttin’ no false gods before Him.”

  Tara caught the older woman’s gaze and saw the fires of piety burning in her eyes. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “We have no one ‘ere practicin’ the dark arts, do we?” the stubby-fingered thief demanded. “We all … we all be Christians here. Right?”

  A few men nodded as they peered into the bottoms of their mazers and swilled more wine. “All Christians.”

  “Then you go to mass?” Tara asked and saw a few sheepish looks being exchanged among the men. “And you believe in the Ten Commandments … is there not one about stealing?”