by Lisa Jackson
She glanced at Rhys’s battered face. Her throat worked and her lips moved, but no words could be heard.
“Say it.”
“I—I—”
“So be it.” He dropped the whip, slid his dagger from its sheath, and strode purposefully up to Rhys.
“Nay!” she cried as Tremayne grabbed his half brother’s hair, snapped his head back, and brought the wicked little knife up to eye level. “Nay, do not, please, I beg you—anything— For the love of God! I will do anything!”
His neck bowed back so far it felt as if it would snap, Rhys watched the blade with one eye. “Shh!” he yelled at Anna. “ ‘Twill be all right.”
“Never, you filthy bastard. Never will it be all right.” Tremayne set his jaw. Raised his hand. The dagger flashed downward, the curved blade gleaming hellish orange in the light of the burning rushes.
A thin line of pain scorched down the side of Rhys’s face. Blood spurted and blinded him as it washed over his eyes.
Anna screamed as though she herself had been sliced. “Stop, oh, sweet Mary, please stop, Tremayne,” she begged, her voice so low Rhys could barely hear the words. “I will … I will be yours forever.”
“Then we start now. Here.”
Rhys could see nothing through the curtain of blood, but he sensed that Tremayne crossed the small space, his boot heels ringing like a death knell.
“Please, m’lord, not here, not now …” Anna protested weakly. Rhys again tried to free himself of his bonds as he heard the soft rending of silk, of cloth being torn.
“Nay!”
“Why not?”
“We be not married yet.”
“Nor were you married to the bastard, and yet you rutted with him like the whore you are.”
“Please … nay, nay … oh, God, no.”
There was the sound of fiendishly jubilant laughter from one of the cells.
Anna protested, crying and sobbing. “Oh, please, not here. The guards … the prisoners … they all … oh!”
“Hush, woman!” With guttural noises that scratched at Rhys’s brain like talons, the lord of Twyll claimed his wife.
Over the snickers and cheers of the guard, a wild, pained bellow echoed through the dungeon. Only much later, after once again he’d lost consciousness and awakened in the frigid forest, his throat as raw as his flogged skin, did Rhys realize that it had been his own scream.
He’d never seen Anna again.
’Twas only by chance that Abelard, a thief who had himself felt the humiliation of Tremayne’s sword, had found Rhys in the steep ravine and brought him back from the edge of death.
Their bond ran deep.
Each had reasons to seek vengeance against the man who still ruled Twyll.
Now, as they rode through the silent, night-shrouded forest, Rhys glanced at the other man.
“We need the ring,” Abelard said again over the rush of the wind. “ ‘Tis time. The fact that you’re besotted with the witch is of no consequence.”
“Besotted?” Rhys spat out the word. The horses were straining, plodding upward along a steep, forested slope. Ears flattened, they climbed.
“I’ve seen it before,” Abelard insisted. “ ‘Tis the reason you be in such a foul mood.”
Rhys’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. Abelard was an idiot. There was no other explanation. Aye, he wanted to lie with Tara, to kiss her again, to feel the sweet promise of her body wrapped around him, but ‘twas not as if his thinking was addled. Nor would he allow himself to feel the pain of love ever again.
“The ring belongs to everyone at Broodmore. ‘Tis how we’ve always shared the spoils.” Abelard turned in his saddle and pinned Rhys with his glare. “This be the opportunity we’ve been waiting for these past ten years. Do not let love blind you.”
“I am not in love.”
Again Abelard snorted in disdain. “So be it, then. And good it is, for if Tara be the true heiress of Twyll she will be your sworn enemy. Forget not that your father slew Gilmore and his wife. Any issue of theirs would seek not only his or her birthright but a fair measure of revenge as well.”
“As we seek ours.”
They reached the summit of the hillside and rode along the ridge, guided by the sparse moonlight.
Rhys was lost in his own grim thoughts. Abelard, damn him, was right about the dark emerald of Twyll. The stone, with its legacy of fortune and mystery, could buy an army that would bring Tremayne to his knees. However, ‘twas one thing to consider bedding Tara, yet another to steal from her. She would not give up her ring easily, and though he’d lifted many a fine bauble from any number of ladies, this time ‘twas different. Why, he didn’t know, and he didn’t want to examine his hesitancy too closely. He could not think, would not deign to believe that the old man was right and he was falling in love with the sorceress—if that was what she truly be.
He glowered at himself and hiked his mantle closer around his neck as the wind blasted and keened over the hills.
Tara was everything Anna hadn’t been.
Anna had been a lady, a pious, soft-spoken woman who flirted and smiled and touched his heart with her kindness. She’d come to him willingly, unhappily betrothed to Tremayne against her will. Tara, though beautiful, was raised a peasant, a sharp-tongued woman who was as hardheaded as any mule, an independent sort who thought she could do whatever she pleased, a rebellious soul intent on her own purposes.
Aye, she had a softer side, a bit of vulnerability that he’d only caught a glimpse of now and again, but outside she was bristly, tough as leather, and prideful to the point of not bending, even when ‘twas to her benefit.
She was not the kind of woman he would ever love.
The path curved downward and the horses picked their way cautiously through the brush. At the bottom of the ravine, Abelard took the lead, maneuvering his mount along a stream where swift water rushed and splashed loudly, carving a crooked path through the narrow canyon. On the far side the way continued through dense woods.
Eventually they came upon a wide, pebble-strewn path that had once been a road leading to a rock quarry, now abandoned.
They rounded a bend, and the trees gave way to a broad expanse of stone that had been hacked away years before. Rhys pulled up short and whistled sharply. The noise echoed and bounced off a sheer rock wall. Another whistle answered, and a minute later a lone man jumped down from his hiding spot on the ridge to land in the middle of the open space.
“James?” Abelard asked.
“At your service,” was the cocksure reply.
Always irreverent. Always one step away from an enemy’s blade.
“I’m surprised you be here,” Abelard said.
“Did I not promise it?”
“But ‘tis sometimes difficult.”
James lifted a shoulder, dismissing the older man’s concerns. “Then ‘tis up to me to be more clever.”
Rhys climbed off Gryffyn and embraced the bold spy who had the nerve to betray the lord of Twyll.
“What happened to your horse?” Abelard asked as he dismounted. His boots crunched on the gravelly ground.
“It seems, if my story is to be believed, that I lost the beast when I was captured by Cavan’s men.” James brash smile, a white slash upon his dark jaw, showed in amusement.
“Was not another spy with you?”
“Aye,” James said, nodding as he spun his tale, “but at the sound of Cavan’s men we were split, riding off in different directions to avoid being caught.” He hooked a thumb to his chest. “I, unfortunately, was captured.”
“And what if the other man was captured as well?”
“Red?” James thought for but a second. “It matters not; I will claim I escaped my mindless and drunk captors, then spent days walking back to Twyll.”
Abelard snorted. “You have more balls than brains.”
“Sometimes ‘tis best.” James rolled up his sleeve and tightened a leather band around his wrist, pulling the laces with his teeth, wi
ncing as the leather gouged his skin.
“What is that?”
James laughed wickedly. “Know you not my bonds? If I am to have been held prisoner, would it not be best if there be marks and bruises around my wrists?”
“Have you also flogged yourself?” Abelard asked.
“Nay, I thought I’d leave that to you.”
Abelard snorted again. “Be careful, James. Tremayne is not a fool.”
“Is he not?” James spat on the ground. “That, my friend, is where you are mistaken.”
Rhys clapped the spy upon his shoulder. “Take heed. Abelard is right. ‘Tis best if you use caution.”
“As you did?” James asked, feigning innocence. “When you stole the lord’s horse from under his nose?”
“Bah! You both be without minds!” Abelard dismounted and threw up his hands in disgust.
“I take care. Always,” James said, but Rhys knew he was lying, brushing aside their fears and heeding not Abelard’s advice.
“Tremayne is treacherous.”
“Worry not. I can fool him. I can fool anyone.”
“For the love of Saint Peter, lad, you’ll get yourself hanged, you will.”
“You worry too much.” He glanced expectantly at the horses. “Did you not bring some ale? Or mead?”
“Nay. This night we need clear heads,” Abelard insisted as they huddled together and the first clouds floated across the moon. “What have you learned?”
“Tremayne is worried. Not only because his prized stallion was stolen from the keep”—James rubbed the hard spot between Gryffyn’s eyes and the gray lowered his head, silently asking for more—”but because Cavan is on the march.”
“ ‘Tis time to strike, I tell you,” Abelard insisted.
“Aye. He has sent troops looking for you—troops led by Edwin.” James studied Rhys carefully. “And there is more. Some of the men claimed to have seen you with a woman.”
“Did they?” Rhys asked, and he sensed Abelard tense.
“Aye. Tremayne has instructed that she be brought to the castle as well. Any man who brings you and the woman in will be rewarded.”
“Damn!” Abelard growled, kicking angrily at a stone and sending it flying.
“So there is a woman?” James asked.
“Nay,” Rhys said, before Abelard could speak. James frowned.
“If ye say.”
Rhys moved on. The thought of Tremayne’s knowing anything about Tara caused his gut to tighten and his fists to curl. “Edwin—” he said through suddenly clenched teeth. “He is loyal to Tremayne?”
The spy shook his head. “He can be bought. For the right price.”
Abelard cleared his throat, and Rhys knew what he was thinking. The dark emerald of Twyll could buy many allies. Mercenaries, thugs, and those who cared not who ruled but how they could profit from it, along with those who still felt the sting of injustice for Gilmore’s death and the others who hated the current baron. Aye, a sizable army could be led against Tremayne.
James patted Gryffyn’s sleek neck. “But Abelard is right. Never again will there be the same opportunity to overthrow Lord Tremayne. While he is distracted, not only worried about your criminal deeds but also concerned that Cavan be the rightful ruler of Twyll and is ready for war.” He paused for a second, as if wondering how much to divulge, then said, “There is talk that Cavan can prove he is the true issue of Gilmore, that he has the stone in his possession, the dark emerald.” James frowned and looked from one man to the other.
“Does he?” Rhys asked, though he knew the answer.
“Nay.” James was thoughtful, his eyebrows drawing together as if pulled by an invisible string. “No one knows if the cursed ring really does exist.” He rubbed his jaw, scratching the stubble on his chin. “ ‘Tis a myth. Nothing more.”
Abelard and Rhys exchanged glances, for as much as they believed in this man who lived as one of Tremayne’s most trusted soldiers, they kept their thoughts to themselves. ‘Twas not the time to disclose that they had seen the true gem, that the dark emerald of Twyll belonged to a woman who at this moment was being held prisoner in Broodmore.
“ ‘Tis a sorry excuse for a woman you be,” Tara chastised herself as she drew the gray dress over her head. ‘Twas the color of a dove’s underbelly and trimmed with forest-green velvet upon the bodice and sleeves. Again, it was a little too large, but she cared not.
For the past three days she’d tried to find a way out of this keep, but never had a means of escape revealed itself to her. Everyone from Big Rosie to that pimply-faced Johnny appeared to be watching her, and the only time she was alone was when she claimed a need to relieve herself.
She was tired and restless, and she needed to put distance between herself and the outlaw. He’d been forever at her side day and night, and always when she thought she’d found a minute to herself, she would discover that he was not far away, observing her through slitted eyes, studying her as if she were some strange creature he could not fathom.
And all the while she should be off to Twyll. ‘Twas time to discard the fine, worn clothes that had once belonged to the lady of Broodmore, time to put her dagger in her pocket, sneak off to find Dobbyn, and leave this creepy old castle far behind.
This morn when she awakened Rhys had not been in the chamber with her. The pallet had seemed empty and cold. She felt a shaft of disappointment, then told herself that she was being silly—a ninny of a girl. Aye, they had shared the same bed. Aye, she’d grown used to cuddling up to the strength of him and had slept well in his arms. And aye, she felt a curling want deep in the middle of her whenever his finger grazed her bare skin or his breath, in slumber, stirred her hair, but ‘twas all for naught. He was a thief. An outlaw. Her captor. Nothing more.
Padding on feet that didn’t make a sound, she listened at the door but heard nothing. Crossing herself for luck, she edged the door open and started to creep through, only to find Kent leaning against a corridor wall.
As he often did, he was using the tip of his dagger to clean his fingernails. “You be awake. Good. Big Rosie asks for you.”
“Why?” Something was amiss. “Where is Rhys?”
Kent’s eyes, a pale, icy blue, were shuttered.
“Away.”
“When will he return?”
“When he chooses.”
“And Abelard?”
“Who knows?”
The man was forever sour. He sheathed his knife and the corners of his mouth pinched, as if he were in pain. ‘Twas easy to see that he didn’t like his position as her keeper, and Tara intended to make his job miserable. For when Rhys was not within the imprisoning walls of Broodmore, she intended to find a way to make good her escape.
Tension in the keep was as thick as Rosie’s greasy rabbit stew. The men were restless. They grumbled and snarled at each other as if they were expecting a fight, and with each passing night new faces had appeared, joining the ranks of the criminals, anxious for some kind of battle, a battle that was spurred by the coming war between Twyll and Marwood.
“Ah, there ye be!” Rosie waddled down the hall carrying Tara’s clothes in her arms. “Here, just let me put these inside, and then I’ve got some work for ye.” She pushed open the door to the old chapel and laid the folded clothes on the pallet where Rhys and Tara had spent three nights. Glancing at the four walls of the old room, she frowned. “Come along, now, ye’ve spent far too many hours here as it is.” As if she didn’t notice that Kent took note of Tara’s every movement, Rosie escorted Tara outside to what had once been the inner bailey.
The sun was out, streaming pale winter light past a few filmy clouds. The ground was soggy, long-bladed grass bent, an overgrown herb garden hardly recognizable with its dead plants.
Water could be drawn from a well in the center of the bailey, and fish swam in what had once been the pond, but no ducks or geese scattered feathers over the ground, no chickens clucked, no children laughed, and the mill wheel no longer turned. The m
ill itself was crumbling, and most of the huts that had once housed potters, bakers, candlemakers, armorers, and the like were burned and tumbled, their thatched roofs missing, their timbers rotting. Aye, Broodmore, once so full of life, was little more than a tomb now. A sentry stood guard in the old watchtower and the horses were tethered near the remains of the old stables. Gryffyn and another stallion were no longer part of the small herd.
Tara wondered where Rhys had gone and was surprised to feel a pang of loneliness, as if she truly missed him.
’Tis a ninny ye be, she told herself for the dozenth time. Why would she miss a man who bullied her, shamed her, even laughed at her? A few stolen kisses did not wash away all his sins, and she guessed that he had amassed enough transgressions that were he to ever confess, he would certainly be on his knees for years.
“Abelard and Rhys. How know they each other?”
“Ah. ‘Tis a long tale, that,” Rosie said as they walked along an overgrown path to a hut that still stood. Though the thatching on the roof was rotting through and the wattle-and-daub walls had eroded over the years, inside a fire burned hot. A large kettle of lamb stew simmered over the flames, and Pigeon sat on a stool near the grate. She was peeling onions and fighting tears. She glanced up, spotted Tara, and quickly looked away. Her small mouth flattened into a line of dislike, and she sniffed loudly, using a slim shoulder to wipe her nose.
“Here, ye can help by kneadin’ this dough,” Rosie suggested to Tara. Measuring flour from a sack, she dusted a tabletop, then reached for three pans that sat near the fire. Dumping the rising dough from each onto the table, she punched down each grainy lump. “These be yours,” she said, gesturing to Tara. “We’ll be needin’ five loaves and as many trenchers. Get what you can out of ‘em.”
Leaving Tara to the bread, she tasted the stew and added handfuls of cut onions to the pot. After ordering Pigeon to find more firewood and water, she began greasing pans with lard. Alone with the woman who seemed to know so much about everyone at Broodmore, Tara asked a question that had been plaguing her since the first time Rhys had spoken to her.
