Dark Emerald

by Lisa Jackson

  “Careful,” he warned, and she bit back a sharp retort as they matched stride for stride to the hall.

  Inside the cavernous chamber, Abelard and a group of men waited. Two outlaws were wagering as they tossed dice on the floor; another, one with a huge belly, was half asleep by the fire, his feet near the embers; still another sipped wine from a cup.

  Abelard looked up at the sound of their footsteps. He shot up from the table. His white hair was mussed, his skin suffused with color from anger or wine, his expression thunderous as storm clouds. So furious that he was shaking, he glared at Tara as if she were the embodiment of all evil. In the firelight his eyes gleamed a pale, malevolent gold. “No one,” he said, rage causing his whispered words to quiver, “no one leaves Broodmore without permission.”

  “Is every man here a prisoner?” she demanded, refusing to be intimidated, refusing to back down.

  “Each is here by choice.”

  “Then that is where I be different.” She skewered each man in turn with her gaze. “I be not here of my own choosing. Nay. I was forced to join you and am held captive.”

  “And so you shall stay.” Abelard’s word appeared to be law.

  Never, she thought, but she kept still. ‘Twould do no good to anger this man any further. As it was, he seemed ready to wring her neck.

  “She be a witch,” one of the dice players said. He rattled the tiny blocks in his cup.

  “Then she be evil.” His friend sent a worried glance in Tara’s direction.

  “She wouldn’t dare cast a spell here.”

  Tara’s looked around the room and found the scrawny man, whose tunic was too large and tongue was too quick. Without a word she leveled her gaze at him and arched a brow.

  “Sweet Jesus, she’s casting a bloody spell, she is!” The worried outlaw gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing wildly, his eyes round, his lips trembling. “I’ve seen it before. Me da, he was struck down by a witch … his skin turned white as lamb’s wool and his manhood, it shriveled.” He couldn’t help glancing down at his crotch.

  “ ‘Tis a fool ye be to worry about the size of yer cock,” his compatriot laughed. “ ‘Tis little more than a worm as it is.”

  “Enough!” Abelard thundered, his voice ringing against the ceiling. “Now”—he motioned to Rhys—”see that she doesn’t leave again. And you”—he stepped closer to Tara—”do not bother the men with your tricks.”

  “ ‘Tis not tricks I practice.”

  “Bah! Take her away!” Abelard ordered Rhys, and Tara wondered who ran this thieves’ lair. ‘Twas as if each man was accountable to the other.

  “ ‘Twill be my pleasure. Come, runaway, ‘tis late.” Rhys pulled her arm, forcing her to leave the room with him.

  “Wait.” Abelard caught up with them in the hall-way. Whispering so that he wouldn’t be overheard, he said, “I want to see the stone once more.”

  “Again?” Rhys asked.

  “ ‘Tis with me,” Tara said.

  “Show me.” Abelard blocked her path.

  She glared at the older man.

  “Enough.” Rhys stepped between them. “If the lady says she has the ring, then we will trust her.”

  “She tried to leave.”

  “And she would not have done so without the emerald. Now, I will stay with her.”

  Abelard opened his mouth, snapped it shut again, and threw his hands into the air. “ ‘Tis on your head, Rhys. If the emerald is lost, ‘twill be you I blame.”

  “So be it.” Rhys’s mood had blackened. Tugging on her arm yet again, he hurried her along the smooth stone floor of the corridor. His jaw was set, every muscle in his body strained, his strides long and swift.

  Some of her bravado slipped.

  Angering this man was dangerous.

  He hauled her to the old chapel, where the glow of dying embers gave off a feeble scarlet light. “How you vex me,” Rhys said, kicking the door shut.

  Thud! Tara nearly leaped out of her own skin.

  “Give me no more grief,” he growled at her.

  “And you give none to me.”

  His cleaved eyebrow lifted a fraction. One calloused hand raised, as if he were searching for something to grab. “Listen, woman, ‘tis my throat that will be slit if you lie about the stone or if you try again to escape.” He crossed to the grate and tossed a mossy chunk of oak into the hot ashes. Flames sputtered and snapped, consuming the new fuel, casting the dark chamber in shifting shades of gold.

  Using a piece of kindling, Rhys bent to one knee and adjusted the charred logs. Tara watched his shoulders move beneath his tunic, noticed the stretch of his breeches across his muscular thighs. With a sinking feeling, she realized how utterly alone she was—alone with this blackheart, a man who with one look could turn her blood molten, though she dare not trust him. Not a bit. Never in her life had she met a man who with just one glance could cause her womanhood to pulse with a wicked lust that brought a blush to her cheeks and confusion to her mind.

  Satisfied that the fire was blazing once again, he straightened and dusted his hands. The look he sent her made her silly heart skip a beat. “You … you lie,” she said, as much to keep their conversation going, to avoid silence with him, as anything else.

  “Do I?”

  “Abelard would never slit your throat.”

  “Let us not test him,” he said, and his eyes held hers. Dear God, why was she melting inside? “There are those who would rather see me dead.”

  Leaning down, she tugged at the wet leather of her muddy boots, finally kicking them both toward the fire.

  “But not Abelard,” she said.

  Beneath the stubble on his jaw, his mouth twitched. “He is not known for his patience.”

  “Nor are you,” she guessed as he approached. Surely he didn’t mean to sleep so close to her. Certainly he intended to take up his post at the doorway again.

  “All the more reason for you not to try me. Now, witch, ‘tis time for bed.”

  Sweet Mary. She read the passion simmering in his eyes, knew that she’d pushed him far enough that any reluctance or nobility in his heart had now fled. “I—I be not tired.”

  “Well, I be. So, lie down, Tara.”

  Her throat turned to dust. His gaze slid to her mouth. Involuntarily she licked her lips.

  He groaned and his hands reached out and captured her shoulders. She trembled slightly and knew in a second that this was a night that could change her life forever. “You are a witch,” he whispered, and there was a new tone to his voice, as if he were disgusted with his own weakness.

  “Nay.” She shook her head.

  “Then why do I feel that you’ve cast a spell on me?”

  She opened her mouth to answer and he kissed her. Hard, anxious lips pressed to hers. Warmth invaded her bloodstream. Sinewy arms dragged her even closer, forcing her body up against the hard length of his.

  Tara’s heart pounded. Her pulse raced. She knew she should stop this madness. Kissing him, touching him, trusting him was a mistake. Yet, her arms lifted, as if of their own will, wrapping around his neck. Deep inside, she began to ache, to yearn for that which she’d never felt. Tense male thighs pressed against her own. The breadth of his chest crushed her dress and flattened her breasts. Anxious and hot, desire sped through her bloodstream.

  He lifted his head, his features seeming more sinister in the shifting light from the fire. His mouth twisted into a frown. “Now, woman, lie down and sleep.”

  She could barely breathe. Her heart was pumping wildly, thumping out a hard, irregular tattoo in her chest. “Nay—”

  “Do it now,” he ordered, his patience thin, passion still burning in his gaze. “Before I do something we will both regret come the morning.”

  His words were like cold water splashed upon her. She dropped onto the pallet, angry that she was obeying him and yet knowing she had no choice. Her skin was still hot with desire, her heart thundering, and her mind, while screaming at her to find a way to run
from him, wasn’t convincing. A part of her wanted to push him away for his boldness, to swear that she hated him, but another part was wickedly seduced and needed to feel him touching her in the most secret of places. Oh, vile, hideous desire. Why did she want him to kiss her and never stop? Her cheeks burned with despair, her heart ached for his touch, and her body, traitorous as it was, wanted him to lie with her.

  To her horror he lay down on the bed beside her.

  “Please, do not—”

  “Then go to sleep,” he growled. “Now. Before I change my mind.”

  “ ‘Tis a brute you be.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Deep in his beard one side of his mouth lifted into a crooked, knowing smile. As if able to see into her mind, he pushed a wayward strand of hair off her cheek. “Worry not, little witch.” His voice had softened a bit. “ ‘Tis weary I am. Your virtue is safe with me.”

  “You cannot sleep here.”

  “To argue is pointless.”

  “But—”

  “Turn over and close your eyes.”

  “Nay.”

  “Oh, by the gods, do as I say, Tara.”

  Even in the darkness, she saw the spark of passion in his eyes, knew that if he kissed her again all would be lost. Furious with herself, with him, furious that she was still his prisoner, she turned over. She was determined to find a means of escape. Fleetingly she thought of Father Simon and Twyll, the fact that she could be the daughter of Gilmore, but when Rhys’s arms encircled her and dragged her close, all images of her plans vanished. He pulled the fur coverlet over them, but even though her dress was slightly damp, she was already warm, her blood heating at his touch.

  Determined to close her mind to him, she squeezed her eyes shut. But he was still with her. Holding her. Touching her. His warm breath ruffling her hair. Her gown was smooth, no folds bunched between her rump and the pressure of his loins. Stiff and hard, his manhood fit perfectly against her. She felt it twitch.

  Her eyes flew open. Morrigu, help me.

  Inside, she trembled and ‘twas not from fear. She tried to shift away, but with each tiny move she made, he pulled her closer still. She could do nothing but stare at the wall, where the fire’s shadows played in shifting golden hues against the cracks and cobwebs.

  “Sleep,” he whispered against her nape.

  Swallowing with difficulty, she forced her eyes closed, but it was impossible to ignore the heat that pulsed wickedly through her blood. Though she silently swore that the bastard was the last man in Wales she would ever want, her body was on fire and wanton thoughts claimed her mind.

  She even wondered what it would feel like to kiss him one more time. As if reading her thoughts, he brushed his lips across the back of her hair. Her skin tingled. “Rest, little one,” he whispered. “ ‘Tis nearly morn.”

  Tara bit her lip and prayed for daylight, for she knew that she was doomed. This night, with the smell of Rhys teasing her nostrils and the feel of his manhood so boldly pressed against her backside, she knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink.

  “Leave me,” Tremayne ordered after the wench had tried her best to satisfy him. Her hands had been gentle, her mouth exquisite, and yet his temperamental cock had refused to rise. He’d felt the need, the gut-burning want of her, and there had been a pulse or two as she’d kissed and licked and pretended to desire him, but even her wet, pliable lips were no substitute for what he really needed.

  “Did I not please you?” she asked, nervously biting her lip. Naked, her red hair tousled, she was a lovely thing.

  But she wasn’t Anna.

  He’d never found another woman who could satisfy his lust as she had. Oh, there had been a few times in the past decade when he’d been able to discover temporary solace in a particularly apt wench, but ‘twas only when he pictured himself mounting the one woman who had reached into his soul that he was able to spill his seed into another woman’s body.

  Anna.

  Wife.

  Lying whore.

  He scowled and tossed off the covers. Deceit sliced through his heart and blackened his mind.

  “Get out,” he snarled at the confused kitchen maid.

  “But, sire—”

  “Now!” he ordered, and the girl scurried off the bed, scrambling for her clothes, her lovely body and slightly freckled skin gilded by the reflection of the fire. She was out of his chamber as quickly as a startled cat, and he was grateful to be alone. Only when she’d shut the door behind her did he reach down and touch himself. Closing his eyes, he envisioned his wife as she had been in the single year of their marriage. Her eyes had been as blue as a summer morn, her hair flaxen. Never happy, often petulant, sometimes outwardly defiant and ofttimes scared to death, she’d never denied him. Her body had always been willing. ‘Twas her mind that had not been his.

  She had never loved him—he knew that sorry, bitter truth. But she’d warmed his bed with a fever born of fear. Night upon night he’d mounted her, taking her from every position, feeling the velvet softness of her body envelop him, sensing her tighten and draw away because of her pride, then slowly give in to him as he claimed her for his own. With pure animal force. He had never felt the same sense of power with another woman, never experienced the surge of omnipotence that came with making her submit to him. She was the one woman, the only woman, that he’d loved.

  Even though she’d betrayed him.

  With his own bastard of a half brother.

  His vision was shattered and his cock again went limp.

  Rhys.

  “Damn you,” he snarled, his lips curling back. He should have killed the bastard when he’d had the chance.

  Angrily he rolled off the bed, found a half-full mazer of wine he’d forgotten the night before. He gulped down the cool liquid but found the wine to be as tasteless as his attempts at lovemaking.

  “Hell.” Walking naked to the window, the lord of Twyll attempted to shut his mind to the demons that were forever tormenting him—gnawing at his brain, teasing his angry heart.

  Rhys and Anna. What vile deception.

  Staring out toward the bailey, he scowled at the coming day. The first gray light of dawn washed over the fortress to illuminate the inner grounds with pitiful light. Twyll was coming to life. Girls had already been sent to the roosts to gather eggs, and boys in wool caps were dipping their nets into the eel pond. The farrier’s forge was giving off a soft red glow, and Father Simon, the silent old priest, was already taking his solitary walk through the bailey, around the inner perimeter, his eyes focused ahead, his hands folded in prayer. Just as he did each morn. An odd one, Simon. A pious man, but a man with demons that, if prodded, would rival Tremayne’s own.

  Twin towers still dim in the coming dawn surrounded the main gate, where sentries were changing guard. The portcullis clunked and clanged, gears grinding as it was winched upward.

  A nervous bat flew past the window, and Tremayne flinched. He finished his wine in one swallow, wiped the back of his hand across his lips, and dropped his cup onto the floor. ‘Twas time for him to get outside, into the fresh air, to ride like bloody hell into the forest to hunt. His need for vengeance was hot this morning. It burned through his blood and pounded with an ache in his skull.

  Memories he’d locked away crept back into his mind—Anna running through the bailey as morning broke. Her pale hair had escaped her hood, and she had glanced nervously up at this very window. Her blue eyes had been filled with worry, her lips had trembled from the guilt of her whoring.

  Damn it all! Why did he still think of her? His knees weakened a bit, then he braced himself. She’d lied. She’d given herself to another man. Nay—the beast had raped her. Remember that! Above all else. He would not forget that the loss of her virginity was not her fault but that of his bastard half brother.

  Angry at the turn of his mind, he found a fresh tunic and breeches and dressed quickly. Drawing the string of his trousers, he contemplated the hunt yet again. This very morn he would track a stag and
kill it swiftly, relieving some of his bloodthirst.

  A bell pealed from the chapel, and the sound of muted voices reached him—voices of bondsmen and freemen who had sworn fealty to him, Baron Tremayne of Twyll. But he found no satisfaction in being lord over this domain. Not this day. Nay, he was empty and hollow—a poor husk of the man he’d once believed he was destined to become.

  Angry with the fates, he flung on his mantle and reached for his sword. He fingered the blade as it reflected the blood-red embers of the fire. Oh, if only he were to run across the bastard Rhys this day! He would kill him without a second thought. And the woman. If Rhys had found a woman for whom he cared, Tremayne would take great satisfaction in raping her, just as Rhys had taken Anna. ‘Twould be sweet, sweet justice.

  Slamming his deadly weapon into its tooled scabbard, he picked up his quiver, saw that it was filled with new, sharp-tipped arrows, then stormed into the corridor. There he was unfortunate enough to run into Percival, who, he suspected, had been lurking in the shadow waiting to accost him. Old idiot!

  “Sire—wait!”

  Tremayne strode past the bent old man without so much as a glance in his direction. As Percival struggled to keep up, Tremayne’s boot heels clicked down the stairs. Flames of freshly lit torches quivered as he passed.

  The old man hobbled after him.

  By the time they entered the great hall, Percival had nearly caught up with Tremayne. The castle dogs, always alert, jumped up from their sleeping spots near the fire and gave off disgruntled “woofs.”

  “Hush!” Tremayne ordered, slinging the strap of his quiver over one shoulder. “Stay!” The spotted hounds had the decency to look abashed as they circled before settling back down and resting their heads between their paws. “Mangy curs,” Tremayne muttered under his breath.

  “M’lord.” Robert, the sentry at the main door of the keep, offered a smile. “Good day to ye.”

  “And to you.” Shouldering open the door, he heard Percival’s shuffling footsteps as he hurried along behind him.

  Outside, the wind was fierce and cold, the sky a deep, shifting gray, the promise of sleet heavy in the air.