Dark Emerald

by Lisa Jackson

  His fingers dug into her flesh.

  Her heart jolted.

  “Ahh, sweet witch Tara,” he said, her name torn from his throat. “ ‘Tis a sin to be with you.”

  “Aye.” She didn’t want to think about right or wrong.

  His eyes found hers. “Then willingly I condemn myself to hell.”

  He thrust into her.

  Hard.

  Pain burned through her.

  She cried out.

  Hot, blinding, a rending deep within. Her maidenhead gave way.

  She gasped. Tears came to her eyes. Her muscles tensed and for a moment she thought it was over. Then he kissed her. More gently. Again and again and again. He began to move within her and slowly the pain became pleasure, the ache within her sweet torment. Her skin flushed, her fingers delved into the hair of his chest. Faster and faster he moved. Her body found his rhythm with an answering beat of its own.

  “Tara, sweet, sweet …” His voice was rough. Her fingers dug into his chest. She felt as if she were riding a dozen horses all at once, that they were galloping wildly toward the edge of a wide abyss. Her breath was lost somewhere in her lungs. Her thoughts had vanished. Closer to the brink. Faster and faster. The edge loomed before them, and in her mind’s eye the horses soared into the air. Took flight. Into the stars.

  She bucked upward. Cried out and heard his own primal cry ringing through the trees. Head thrown back, teeth bared in ecstatic pain, Rhys spilled himself into her. His muscles flexed. His voice rang through the trees. Tara convulsed again and he held her tight.

  “Ah, witch,” he moaned, as he fell against her, heaving. His weight flattened her chest, his neck and torso were wet with sweat.

  Her arms surrounded him, clinging to his slick muscles, holding him against her as if afraid he would vanish into the rising mist. She basked in the wonder of joining with him, of becoming one, of learning the secrets of womanhood.

  The forest was dark, the fire long since dead, and she sighed in contentment. At last. At last. Oh, Rhys.

  Slowly he stirred, his heartbeat quieted, and his breathing became regular and even once more.

  “Son of the devil,” he whispered raggedly, his words edged in torment as he lifted his head and stared down at her. His eyes were grave, his voice raw, his expression a mask of regret. “Curse the fates, woman. Curse them all to hell.” He lifted a strand of hair off her face, and the corners of his mouth turned down in self-derision. “Now what have I done?”

  Chapter Nine

  Tremayne’s skin crawled as he looked upon the deserted and eerie walls of Broodmore. Blackened by fire, overgrown with weeds and vines, splitting apart where the battlements crumbled—’twas a sinister castle, a fortress fit for Satan himself. As the moon rose behind the ruins, the lord of Twyll reminded himself that he was a Christian, that pagan rites were foolish and curses didn’t exist. Yet he knew deep in his heart that he was a liar. In the darkest reaches of his soul, he feared all that he didn’t understand. Astride his mount at the edge of the forest, Tremayne stared at the foreboding keep and felt more than a small frisson of fear skitter down his spine and settle like lead in his gut.

  As if a dark spirit were reading his thoughts, the wind picked up, lifting his hair in cool, damp gusts that smelled of the dank forest floor and brushed the back of his neck.

  “ ‘Tis haunted,” Red whispered as he halted his broad-chested steed alongside Tremayne’s and stared, transfixed, at the charred behemoth resting on the cliff.

  “Cursed,” Sir Lawrence agreed. A big man with thinning blond hair and eyes that missed nothing, Lawrence, riding high upon his white destrier, eyed the wreckage that had once been a thriving castle teeming with freemen and villeins, pulsing with a life-blood all its own. His fingers worked nervously in his mount’s reins. “No one survived the pestilence.”

  “ ‘Tis said ghosts lurk in the dungeons and stand guard in the tower,” still another chimed in.

  “Foolishness!” Tremayne didn’t need any of his men to add to his own silly trepidation.

  “Nay, look!” Red’s hushed voice quivered, and he pointed a wavering finger at one of the square towers rising above the decaying stone wall. “There be one now.”

  Tremayne froze, then fixated on the silhouette of a guard standing watch. His fear gave way slowly and he swallowed a smile. “ ‘Tis no ghost,” he said, as even in the pale moonlight he recognized a thug who had eluded his own sheriff for far too long. “ ‘Tis old Bertrand, the pickpocket. See how he walks, dragging one leg. I gave him that wound.” Tremayne nearly laughed out loud. He looked at each man in turn— loyal every one of them. Or so he hoped. Sir James’s theory that there was a spy hidden in the circle of the most trusted men in Twyll worried him. Could one of these soldiers—all of whom had pledged their fealty to him, be a traitor? A Judas who had been watching him, following him throughout his days? Each man met his gaze evenly. “Spread out,” Tremayne ordered. “Do as we planned. Just before dawn we strike.”

  Red gulped but yanked on his destrier’s reins.

  Sir Lawrence’s jaw became solid steel. “Aye,” he whispered, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

  Tremayne could almost taste his victory. Rhys, damn him, was about to learn a valuable lesson. “Kill as few as possible. The rest we’ll bring to Twyll and if anyone”—he let his gaze wander from one loyal man to the next—”discovers the bastard or this woman he be with, you are to bring them to me immediately.”

  ’Twould be sweet revenge to see the expression on his irreverent half brother’s face when Rhys realized he was to be taken prisoner and tried for his crimes in the very castle from which he’d been banished so many years before.

  “Is there anything else?” Sir Lawrence asked.

  “Yes.” Tremayne’s horse danced, and he gripped the reins more tightly. “When we have the prisoners, set fire to the castle.”

  “But, m’lord, ‘tis already burned it is.”

  “Not completely.” Tremayne scowled at the blackened spires of Broodmore’s towers and thought of all the myths surrounding the ancient keep—myths of ghosts and omens and curses. “Destroy it. All of it.”

  Sir Lawrence hesitated but a moment. “ ‘Twill be done.”

  “See to it. As soon as Rhys is captured.” The cockles of Tremayne’s icy heart warmed a bit. Aye, Rhys … brother, now ‘tis the time for our reckoning.

  Tara stirred, her eyes opening and adjusting to the dark light of predawn. She was in the forest and a strong arm sprinkled with dark hair held her fast. Rhys! So, ‘twas not just a wanton, wild dream. Her heart thumped madly in her chest. The throbbing between her legs reminded her of their joining, the passion of their bodies, the feel of his manhood driving deep into the most intimate part of her. Even now, hours later, the memory brought with it yearnings that came from her very core. Yearnings to which she couldn’t fall victim. Ever again. She had to leave now, while he slept. Once he was awake he would not release her.

  Biting her lip, she decided to slip away this very second. Painstakingly, she inched out of his grasp, sliding her naked body away from his, disentangling legs and arms, ignoring the heady male scent that clung to him and the earthy odor of sex, so recent. Holding her breath, she cringed with each rustle of the leaves beneath her, freezing at the sound of a wolf’s lonely howl far in the distance.

  Rhys snorted and turned over. Tara was certain he was reaching for her, his fingers searching the area around him, but he sighed deep in his sleep, his broad back white in the moonlight, the web of scars visible across the muscles.

  Naked save for the emerald ring bound to her waist, Tara fumbled for her clothes. Locating her boots, chemise, and tunic, she inwardly prayed that the stone truly was magical, that it held some power that would let her escape her seductive captor without waking him.

  Her mantle lay crushed beneath Rhys’s body and she couldn’t risk retrieving it. Nay, she would go without.

  Shivering, she dressed without making a soun
d. Her gaze never left Rhys. What would he do when he woke up and found her gone? She shuddered at the image of him in her mind’s eye when he realized that she’d duped him. Never would she want to be the target of his wrath; he was too volatile, too dangerous. And yet her silly heart was filled with regret at leaving him. She started for the horses, stepping soundlessly, slinking behind a tree so that, for just a second or two, he was out of her line of vision.

  Only a few more feet.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” A big hand grabbed her ankle.

  “Oh!

  She screamed before she realized the fingers gripping her leg so possessively belonged to Rhys, who, stark-naked, had stretched his arm as far as it would reach to capture her.

  “I—I—” So astounded that no words would form in her mouth, she could only stare at him. The fingers around her boot tightened for a second, then he released her and sprang lithely to his feet—directly between her and the horses.

  She forced her eyes to remain on his face. Though she’d lain with him, even felt his coarse chest hairs rub against her breasts as he fell against her, spent, after spilling his seed into her, she averted her eyes from the thick mat of hair, dark and curling, that arrowed down past his navel to the thatch where his legs joined and his manhood, as she could see even in her peripheral vision, seemed intent upon making itself known.

  Her throat tightened.

  Her heart was beating like a drum. Surely he could hear it. Surely all of Twyll could hear it.

  “I asked you a question,” he said, advancing upon her. She backed up one step. Two. She didn’t fear him—nay, ‘twas herself she didn’t trust, the emotions she couldn’t control when close to him.

  A third step backward. Her buttocks slammed into the rough bark of a giant oak tree.

  “I know … and I … I was trying …” Oh, Lord, she couldn’t think. She focused on his eyes again. Luminous and silver, they gleamed with wicked satisfaction.

  “You were trying to escape.”

  “Yes!”

  “And trying to get to Twyll. By the gods, woman, will you never learn?” He stepped closer to her, so near that her tunic brushed against his bare skin and the scent of him enveloped her. Her skin tingled and she told herself she had to ignore him, to get away, to run as fast as her legs would carry her and pray that she could lose him in the thickets.

  She glanced past him to the horses and knew there was no way she could reach them before he caught her.

  “Do not even think it,” he warned. “Whether you like it or nay, you are staying with me, little witch, and you can curse, claw, chant spells, draw runes, flee, and plot your escape from now until forever, but until I decide ‘tis safe you will stay with me.”

  “Until you decide?” she repeated, seeing red. “Until ‘tis safe?” She glared at him and considered shooting her knee upward and connecting hard with his manhood. “’Tis not for you to choose my fate.”

  “No? ‘Tis wrong you be.” With both hands he grabbed her shoulders, and for the first time she heard a sense of regret in his words.

  “Why? What care you?” she said, but a needle of understanding pricked her mind. “Oh, God’s eyes, this be about the stone.”

  His fingers gripped tighter through her clothes. “I need the ring.”

  “Why?”

  “To use against Tremayne.”

  “ ‘Tis mine,” she said, disappointed to think that his attention had been because of the damned emerald. ‘Twas why she was kept captive. Why he kept her close. Why he’d lain with her. “So you were not talking of my safety but of the ring’s.” Sick inside, she tried to pull away, but his hands were strong, his fingers digging into her muscles like the jaws of a gentle trap. When she thought of what she’d done, how wantonly she’d lain with him, the way his tongue and lips had explored the most intimate reaches within her, she felt nothing but shame—though no regret. Oh, vile, vile heart, to be so betrayed.

  “Aye, we need the ring, but I be concerned about your safety as well.”

  Don’t believe him, Tara. Trust him not. He cares for you not one little mite. Had you not the ring, he would not have chased you down, found you, and bedded you.

  Her cheeks flushed scarlet in the darkness, and she stiffened when he pulled her close, his arms surrounding her, his lips slanting urgently, anxiously, over hers. She forced herself not to respond. Though inside she was aching, her breasts tightening, the newfound fires of passion sweeping through her blood, she refused to fall victim to them. To him, again. Rhys was using her, wanting her only for the hard stone bound to her waist. She willed herself not to give in to him.

  Yet the sweet, slick pressure of his tongue against her mouth, the movement of his hands upon her back, and the pressure of his hips molded to hers weakened her resolve.

  His lips were warm, the smell of him enticing. With one hand he twined his fingers in her hair, gripping and pulling gently, forcing her head back. She stared up at him. “Trust me, Tara,” he said, drawing his face away from hers in order to look at her.

  “Never.”

  “I do what is best for us both.”

  “Nay, I do not think—”

  His mouth crashed down on hers and he kissed her hard, roughly, his tongue insistent as it pressed against her teeth. Her mind screamed at her to stop. This is madness. He wants you not. Tara, don’t do this again. He has robbed you of your maidenhood, now will you let him steal the ring from you as well?

  Her mouth opened to him.

  Her body quivered at his touch.

  Nay, nay, nay! Do this not. Run! For the love of all that is holy, Tara, run!

  But she couldn’t. And when she felt his fingers find the hem of her tunic and draw it over her head, she allowed the garment to be stripped from her. His hands surrounded her breasts and the heat, that glorious, wondrous rush of warmth, invaded every part of her.

  Her nipples hardened as calloused fingers expertly rubbed them, her skin was on fire, and deep within her she began to ache, the pain of the night before fading with a new, throbbing need that she knew he could satisfy.

  His lips traveled slowly from her mouth and down the column of her throat to a small place between her neck and shoulder, a sensitive spot that caused her heart to beat as rapidly as a hummingbird’s wings. All thoughts of denial faded and she gave herself to him. Willingly. Eagerly. Anxious for the moment of elation when their bodies became one.

  “Oh, lady,” he whispered into the night. His voice was rough as his hands caressed her naked breasts, pearly white with the faintest webbing of blue veins barely visible through her translucent skin in the shimmering light from the stars.

  Kissing her, he lowered himself and lifted a breast in his trembling fingers. Eagerly he took her nipple into his mouth.

  Her breathing stopped and her brain thundered with the want of him. Teasing, toying, nipping, he suckled hungrily and slipped one hand around her waist, his fingers stretched over her spine, dangerously close to the cleft of her buttocks.

  Tara could barely stand, her knees went weak. He slipped lower still, leaving her nipples wet for the winter air to blow across them. He kissed her abdomen and licked the slit of her navel.

  Inside she was quaking and tears sprang to her eyes. Need, a throbbing, pulsing ache, burned within her. Her back pressed to the tree, she tried to writhe away as, kneeling, he parted her legs with his face. She jerked backward, but his hands had slid to her buttocks and he held her close. As he kissed the insides of her thighs she gave herself up, leaning against the trunk and moaning softly, anxiously. Cold air caressed her for a second before his warm breath stirred the curls at the tops of her legs, and then he found her.

  She convulsed at the feel of his mouth and tongue, tried to back away, but he held her fast. Gasping, she sensed him probing and kissing and … and … oh, sweet ecstasy! She closed her eyes, gave herself up, and sagged against the mossy bark as he created a maelstrom of desire, a wild, rushing whirlpool of need that pulsed t
hrough her. Hotter. Hotter still. Faster and faster. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Her mind spun in wild, sensual circles. She tossed her head back and cried out, her hair caught on the bark and her rump pressed hard into the tree. She felt a wild, reckless abandon as something deep inside broke and she jolted.

  The fingers digging into her buttocks held fast.

  Rhys didn’t stop. He lifted her slightly and leaned forward, kissing her again in the most intimate of places.

  Breathing hard, she tried to pull away, but he held her fast, his tongue and teeth and lips exploring, his breath causing sweet, sweet ecstasy to race through her blood again. The stubble of his beard was rough against the inside of her legs.

  Her world began to tilt. A long, low moan escaped her throat, and heat poured from her.

  Again she convulsed.

  Oh, God! She was going to die. Right here, naked in the woods with Rhys … sweet, horrible Rhys kneeling before her, kissing her, touching her, plying his sweet, sweet magic. The heat built yet again, the pressure so intense she thought she would burst. She squirmed against the tree, trying to get away and closer all in one instant.

  He touched her—finger and tongue.

  Her body slammed against the hard bark. The stars in the sky streaked through her brain, colliding, spinning, shooting tails of incredible color as she collapsed, spent, into his waiting arms.

  “… so I am to understand that you be willing to give up the ring—as valuable as it be—and pledge your loyalty as well as that of all the criminals who are part of your band to join up with me and do battle against Twyll?” Lord Cavan was seated in his ornately carved chair in the great hall of Castle Marwood. His beringed fingers tapped together under his chin as he stared at Abelard with suspicious eyes.

  “I would want to be compensated.”