by Lisa Jackson
“Ahh.” A benign smile pulled at the corners of the baron’s wide mouth. A huge fire burned bright in the grate, illuminating the whitewashed walls, the intricate tapestries, and the high dais upon which the lord of Marwood posed. Black curls framed a face on which the barest of beards tried to sprout, and his purple tunic, trimmed in gray velvet and fur, made him appear all the more like a monarch. “So now we discuss the true nature of your business,” he said, snapping his fingers at a comely maid who was hurrying toward the stairs.
She stopped midstride. “M’lord?” Her rosy cheeks flushed a more vibrant hue, and she glanced nervously from the baron to Abelard and the other men, two burly soldiers who stood in attendance near the door.
“More wine,” he ordered, pointing to the floor where his empty silver cup sat. “For me and Sir Abelard here.”
Abelard cringed a bit. It had been years since his title had preceded his name, and being within the walls of Marwood, where soldiers were teeming and preparations for war were visible in the bailey, made him anxious. Upon his arrival, he’d been searched by the sentries before he was allowed to pass through the outer bailey, where carts and wagons were being loaded with supplies. Destriers, jennets, palfreys, and sumpter horses had neighed and tugged at their leads as they’d been herded together by dozens of soldiers. Abelard had seen crates of weapons—longbows, crossbows, knives, and swords, as well as hammers, saws, picks, shovels, and other tools—casks of food and wine, crates of torches, flint, and all manner of supplies that had been hauled from the castle stores and were waiting to be carried to battle. A skeletal trebuchet had been partially assembled in preparation for hurling missiles over Twyll’s vast walls. The battering ram was ready to roll on its sturdy wheels toward Twyll, where it would be used to bash the heavy gates of the castle.
Cavan’s attack would be vicious, the siege arduous and prolonged.
The serving girl nodded curtly at Cavan’s request. “Aye, m’lord,” she said, scurrying off, her blue skirt swirling around her ankles.
“A fair lass, Meghan,” Lord Cavan thought aloud, his eyes following the girl, one ringed finger tapping the arm of his chair thoughtfully.
“Aye.”
“Now, tell me.” The baron crossed his long legs and focused his distrustful eyes upon Abelard. “What is it you want in exchange for all that you offer?”
“A keep.”
“Aaah,” Cavan said, nodding and raising one hand. “A keep. Such a small request.” Sarcasm flavored his words as he glanced at the men standing by the grate, where huge andirons in the shape of wolves’ heads held a massive log that burned hot.
“The emerald ring will prove that you were the true issue of Gilmore. Many who have been secretly loyal to the old baron would easily change their allegiance from Tremayne and accept you as the rightful baron of Twyll.” Abelard nodded to himself. “ ‘Twould undermine Lord Tremayne from the inside, from the heart of the castle. His people would rise against him.”
“Some of them,” Cavan agreed, tapping a finger against front teeth that overlapped a bit. The girl returned with an empty cup and a full jug. She filled both mazers and Cavan’s gaze wandered to her bodice and the sway of her hips. As she disappeared from sight he sighed, then brought his thoughts back to matters at hand. “So who does the ring belong to?”
“Pardon?”
Cavan leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, eye-brows elevated. “Well, Sir Abelard, if I am to follow your reasoning, the ring belongs to the true ruler of Twyll, given to him at birth, when, as the myth indicates, the son of Gilmore was stolen from his keep just before his father’s death. My own father, Innis, claimed ‘twas me. That I was the missing babe. Yet you have come up with the ring … this is what you are leading me to believe?”
“Aye.”
“So either it was given you or you stole it.” He took a sip from his cup, and firelight played upon the shining silver surface. Though he appeared outwardly calm, there was a restlessness burning within him, a hunger. Before Abelard could answer, Cavan added, “And where is the ring now?”
“Safely stowed away.”
“Not on you?” His fingers rubbed nervously against the mazer.
“Nay.”
“So I am to take your word as truth, though there is nothing to prove it?”
“My men are willing to join with you.”
“So you say. But your men are cutthroats, murderers, rapists, and robbers. Their loyalty could be bought with a single coin or the promise of a wench lifting her skirts.”
“They are willing to go before you, to open the castle doors of Twyll and offer up Lord Tremayne to you.”
“Or leave us open for slaughter as we pass through. How know I that this is not a trap, that you are not sent from Tremayne? His spies have been here before.” He shook his head. “Why should I trust you?”
“Because I hate Tremayne of Twyll as I hate no other.” Abelard lifted his hand, showing his stump of a finger. “I have him to thank for this.”
“ ‘Twas not his fault that you are slow with a weapon.” Cavan took a huge swallow of wine, draining his mazer, and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “Nay, ‘tis no reason to trust you.”
“I ride with Rhys.”
Cavan’s head snapped around. Every muscle within his long body tensed. “The Bastard Outlaw?”
“Aye.”
“Yet he is not here with you, is he? I have heard of this, that you and he are sometimes seen together. Why is he not here now?”
“Because he is the keeper of the dark emerald.” Abelard smiled inwardly. This meeting had gone just as he’d expected. “Were I to bring the stone to you, what would stop you from taking it from me?”
“What would stop me from taking you hostage and trading your life for the emerald?”
“Nothing.” Abelard tossed back the last of his wine.
Cavan waited, his smile disappearing.
“Nothing except that you would gain the wrath of the Bastard Outlaw and all the men who ride with him. The emerald would never be yours, and for the rest of your miserable life, you would never be able to sleep without the knowledge that at any moment Rhys of Twyll could slit your pathetic, scrawny throat.”
Cavan shot to his feet, and from the height of his dais he glared arrogantly down at Abelard. “With one word, I could have the rest of your fingers cleaved off at the knuckles!”
“Aye, ‘tis powerful you be, Lord Cavan, but if you make that mistake, you will regret it for the rest of your life.” Abelard’s voice lowered. “This I promise.”
“And then I could start with your toes.”
“And you would never see the emerald. Also, you would lose a good advantage in your battle. Want you not revenge against Merwynn’s son?”
Lord Cavan settled back into his thronelike chair. His eyes snapped with the fire of bloodthirst, for Cavan, though spoiled by an aging Lord Innis, had never known his mother or the love that only she could have given him. The old man had been heartless and cold.
Abelard had the audacity to smile. He worried not about having his fingers or toes severed. This whelp of a lord didn’t intimidate him. He knew that when the new baron thought about his choices, he would throw in with the outlaws. ‘Twas lunacy to do otherwise, and Cavan of Marwood seemed very sane, extremely vengeful, and exceedingly greedy.
In the silence of the still afternoon, Rhys stared at the rubble that had been Broodmore. Smoke still drifted from the blackened timbers, and even the walls that had not been charred before were now stained by soot and smoke, many reduced to ash.
“No one is here,” he said as he walked through what had once been the bailey. The grass was singed and dry, the old wagon where the horses had been tied was but a scorched skeleton.
Tara’s face had drained of color. She stood on a small rise near the eel pond, one hand to her mouth, tears filling her eyes. The wind tore at the folds of her mantle, swiping off her hood, and causing her loose black curls to fall over her face.
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nbsp; “You did this.” The condemning words were out of his mouth before he thought. Pain, raw and blinding, cut to his very soul. Rosie. Leland. Kent. Pigeon. Johnny. Benjamin. And so many others. Holy Christ, were they all dead? His skull ached, despair pierced his heart.
“Nay.”
“Aye—’twas your own self-serving purposes that killed them.”
“Nay, oh, nay!” She wobbled unsteadily for a second, then forced some steel into her spine. Her small shoulders straightened. “I set not the fire.”
“No?” Turning swiftly on his heel, guilt propelling him across the bent, dead grass, he strode up to her. “Then who did?”
“I—I know not. But I saw the flames, the guards ran to douse the fire, and I … I slipped through the window. I could not have set the fire had I wanted to. I was locked in my room, guarded day and night. And … and you were here, were you not? Was not the blaze extinguished?”
He snorted. Blast the woman, he wanted to believe her, wanted to trust the innocence he saw reflected in her eyes. “Not quite.”
“Mayhap they are not dead,” she said, her voice trembling with the need to believe her own words. “We have yet to find any bodies, or … or … skeletons,” she added in a whisper. “The horses are missing and … could it not be that they escaped?”
“And went where? Why did we not meet up with any of them?”
“Because we were hiding, as were they. Or … or mayhap they traveled in another direction.”
“All of them?” he sneered.
“Why not?”
Aye, why not? He shoved the hair out of his eyes and experienced an overwhelming sense of guilt. Never had his band stayed in one camp so long, but he’d been lulled into believing that living here in a supposedly cursed castle was safe.
He’d been wrong.
He hadn’t moved fast enough. Though he’d sensed that there was danger, he’d ignored it and chased after the witch, believing that fate would be with him for a few more days.
And now those who had trusted in him had paid, perhaps with their lives.
“Did you not see them—all alive, the fire only embers?”
“Aye.” He remembered the smoldering piles of rubble, which had been far less than this, and the damage had been contained to the old apothecary’s hut. “But a spark must have ignited again and …” His heart was heavy when he thought of those who had trusted him. Relied upon him. Thought him their savior of sorts. Deep inside he ached. “… and no one saw the fire restarting.”
“Did you not leave someone to watch it?”
“Aye. An overburdened, weary man.” He closed his eyes, disgusted that he had put finding Tara and the damned stone above the safety of his men. All the members of his band had been far too tired from battling the blaze earlier and rounding up the horses and searching for Tara to do justice to tending the smoldering timbers.
Rhys fought the urge to shake his fist in the air and rage at the heavens.
Kicking a piece of mortar into a pile of rubble, he told himself that what was done was done. He would bury this pain in the darkest places of his heart. He hoped that Rose, Kent, Pigeon, and the others had escaped, but he didn’t believe it. People had died.
Because of Tara.
Because of him.
And because of the damned dark emerald.
Well, now ‘twas time for the stone to pay them back.
“Come,” he said, grabbing her hand and tugging her back toward the portcullis, where their two horses were prancing nervously from the smell of smoke. “ ‘Tis time to set things right.”
“Set them right?” she repeated, half running to keep up as he strode across the bailey.
“Aye. You are about to give up your prize, witch.”
“I—I don’t understand.” But he saw in her eyes that she was lying. She knew full well what he was suggesting.
“The stone.” He reached for Dobbyn’s reins and smacked them into her hand. He was furious with her, with himself, and he dared not think of their lovemaking, so wild and hot, so overwhelming. When he kissed her, he lost his mind, and therefore he knew he could never take her into his arms again. “Your damned emerald.” He put a foot into Gryffyn’s stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle. “ ‘Tis time for you to give it up.”
She hauled herself onto Dobbyn’s back and tugged lightly on the reins. “Give it up? Why?”
“Abelard is striking a deal with Lord Cavan of Mar-wood. The stone and our allegiance to join up with him in the defeat of Tremayne.”
“Nay, I will not surrender what is mine.”
Rhys felt a cruel smile creep over his lips. “You have no choice, I fear—because, m’lady, others have surrendered far more.” He swept the ground with his angry gaze. “These men and women have died, Tara. Died. Because of you. Now, ‘tis your turn to sacrifice a little of yourself.” He wheeled Gryffyn around and glared down at her from the back of the rearing horse. Refusing to give in to the overpowering urge to forgive her, to climb down from his steed, drag her off her mare, take her into his arms, and kiss her until they both could no longer think, he hardened his heart. She had caused all this misery by escaping from Broodmore.
And were you not to blame for bringing her here? his conscience insisted, but he ignored it. Before he changed his mind, he said, “You will give up the emerald.”
“Nay—I—”
“There will be no more arguments.”
“But—”
“Listen, woman, either you will remove it yourself when we get to the village where I am to meet Abelard or I will strip you of your clothes, unknot the cursed cord myself, and take it from you.” He scowled down at her, and she met his gaze with bristling defiance. Rather than cower and shiver and swear that she would do his bidding, she offered him a haughty, frigid smile as she held the reins tight and her little mare pranced backward, shaking her head against the bit.
“Know you this, Rhys. I will never—do you hear me, I will never—let you or anyone else tell me what I shall do.” She released her tight hold on the horse’s reins, kicked her sides, and the bay sprang forward as if shot from a catapult. Her head tucked low, Tara rode as if all the furies of hell were chasing her.
And they were. Rhys kicked Gryffyn hard in the flanks. The gray bolted, racing across the bailey in swift ground-eating strides that brought him closer by the minute to the escaping mare and her rider. Tara’s hood fell away from her face, her black curls streamed, and her mantle billowed behind her as her mount disappeared through the open gate. But it didn’t matter. ‘Twas a futile effort.
In a matter of minutes Rhys would catch her and then, by the gods, would show her what it meant to cross him.
His jaw clenched so hard it ached, and his lips were twisted into an evil smile. Oh, yes, the witch was going to learn a lesson. A sensual, erotic, but oh, so difficult lesson. One she needed and needed badly.
He couldn’t wait to give it to her.
Chapter Ten
He caught up with her at the creek.
“Do you never learn?” he demanded, the two horses running neck and neck as they splashed wildly, legs churning, through the racing brook. Cold water sprayed Dobbyn’s belly and Tara’s boots.
Rhys and Gryffyn were within inches of her.
She saw the fury in his eyes, read the consternation in the flattening of his lips.
“Leave me be!” she warned, yanking on the reins.
He laughed out loud, a brittle bark that rang through the trees and held no mirth. “Never.”
“Hi-ya!” She kicked Dobbyn and the bay scrambled up the opposite bank, but Rhys anticipated her attempt at escape. He stayed right with her. As one, the two horses scrambled up the bank, leaping exposed roots of the trees guarding the creek and rocks that jutted out of the mud. Rhys leaned over, dangerously close to her—to her horse. With one hand he held to the saddle and reins; with the other, he reached out—
“Watch out!” she cried, hoping that he would straighten up in the saddle
, but he didn’t. He was daft! At any second he might topple to the heather- and rock-strewn ground. Tara jerked on the reins, trying to angle off through the bracken.
Rhys grabbed the reins. With one sharp tug, he threw his weight back into the saddle and stripped the leather straps from her unwilling fingers.
“No—don’t you—”
Dobbyn skittered, wrenching her head away from Rhys, but he held fast, his fingers strong as steel.
“You’re addled! You’re going to kill us both!” Tara screamed. “Let her go.”
From the taller horse, he threw her a look that pierced to her core, a sizzling, intimidating glance that drove deep into the most feminine part of her. She clung to the saddle. Her throat went dry and she knew the despair of those who were cursed. Rhys, damn his irreverent smile, would seek his own justice from her.
’Twas only a matter of time.
She didn’t know whether to anticipate his sweet torture or fear it.
She reached for the reins again, but he held fast, standing in his saddle and leaning back, forcing both horses to slow to a quick walk.
Breathless and embarrassed, Tara avoided his eyes, staring straight ahead to a point in the path between Dobbyn’s ears.
“So this is the way it must always be with you,” he said, and she thought she heard just a touch of sadness over the steady plop of the horses’ hooves and the hammering of her heart.
Remaining shards of late-afternoon sunlight penetrated the clouds and branches overhead, dappling the ground in spangles of yellow light, but the winter air was cold and high above, clouds were already gathering, threatening rain before nightfall. A few birds and squirrels rustled in the undergrowth, and the earthy smell of the forest surrounded them, ferns and fungi mixing with the odor of loam and horses.
As the path narrowed, Dobbyn followed docilely after Gryffyn and Tara was forced to watch Rhys’s back, his broad shoulders, the set of his spine, the way his buttocks molded to the saddle and swayed with his mount’s gait, the strength of his legs as he clamped them tight over Gryffyn’s sides.
She remembered all too vividly the strident muscles of his thighs pushing hard against hers, and she cleared her throat and looked away. He was furious with her and unfairly so. She had not caused the fire at Broodmore, she had not even suggested it to Pigeon— and yet he would not believe her if she told him the truth. Nor would she want his wrath aimed at the poor moonstruck girl.
