by Lisa Jackson
“Oh, ‘tis certain.” She licked her lips and her fingers fluttered. “He is …” She thought for a moment and storm clouds gathered in her eyes. “Bewitched. Aye, there be no other explanation.”
Tremayne swirled his drink and thought. “What is it about her that bewitches him?”
“A spell, of course,” she said quickly, and for the first time Tremayne sensed another emotion running through the girl’s words. Envy? Nay, more like jealousy. Why? He smiled inwardly because he knew he’d found a chink in this girl’s armor.
“Of course,” he said dryly, and something shifted in Peony’s small face. “Is she beautiful?”
One scrawny shoulder lifted. “Some might say,” she said grudgingly.
“Is she a lady?”
“Nay—the daughter of some old midwife.”
This didn’t make any sense. “Then why did she take up with Rhys? And tell me not again of the spell she cast upon him. There must be another reason.” Leaning back in his chair, he sipped his wine and observed the woman/child over the rim of his mazer. “Mayhap he is in love with her,” he guessed.
She tensed. Her little nose wrinkled in disdain.
“Because she is so beautiful,” he nudged, seeing Peony’s girl’s cheeks flush with color, her lips purse as if she’d just tasted something poisonous. “Is she not?”
“ ‘Tis because she is a witch,” the girl maintained. “She … she cast a spell on him, and she has an … an amulet that has mystical powers.”
Now she was making things up. “I think not.”
“Oh, but ‘tis true. I overheard Abelard talking about it when he thought I wasn’t listening. He wants it.”
“The amulet?” Tremayne asked, his interest piqued.
“Aye, ‘tis a ring or … or a stone … I could not hear which, and me mum, she doesn’t like me listenin’ …” Her voice drifted off and she looked away, as if she realized she’d spoken too much.
But now Tremayne was interested. “So Rhys is chasing after a witch who has a magical stone?” His thoughts drifted to another time when he’d heard of such a ring … but … could it be? Nay! Yet at the thought his blood pounded through his veins.
Though Peony studied the rushes, he saw the movement of her eyes beneath her eyelids. She looked quickly from one side to the next, as if trying to come up with an answer. “I … I … don’t really know what I heard. ‘Twas in hushed voices they spoke,” she admitted, her thumbs rubbing the insides of her fists. “Could be I be mistaken.”
“But Rhys is in love?”
“Nay! He … he … is bewitched. That’s what me mum says.”
Tremayne had heard enough. He wouldn’t get anything more from this scrawny girl with the wild hair. “Take her away,” he ordered a guard, and as she was half dragged back to the dungeon he thought long and hard. Where was the bastard? Had he aligned with Cavan? What about the amulet or stone … the only jewel he knew of was the dark emerald of Twyll, and surely this witch-woman did not have it.
Or did she?
The headache that had been with him all day raged even stronger, pounding at his temples, echoing through his brain. Regan, who had been listening without saying a word, came forward. “Well?” Tremayne said. “What say you?”
“About?”
“The stone,” he said. “The ring. Could this woman with Rhys have the dark emerald of Twyll?”
“There are many rings.”
“But few that are magical.” Regan’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Do you think the stone exists?”
“Do you?” Regan countered.
At that moment Percival entered, and the dogs lounging by the fire lifted their heads from their paws and gave off disgruntled “woofs.”
“Shh, you bloody mutts.” Tremayne was in no mood for the hounds’ ill temper.
“I could not help but overhear,” the older man said, his eyes bright. “Is it possible? Does the dark emerald of Twyll exist?” His face was flushed, and he hurried toward the dais with hardly any help from his cane.
“If it does, why would the witch have it? Why not Cavan, if he be the true issue of Gilmore?” Tremayne pulled at the hint of a beard that darkened his chin.
“Mayhap he is not.”
“Then old Innis lied.”
“ ‘Tis possible he did not know. He was addled, they say.” Percival hitched himself close to the fire, and the flames cast his bony features in shifting shades of amber. “But”—he raised a crooked finger as he thought—”if the ring exists, then the old tale is true.” Turning, he pinned Tremayne in a gaze that was alight with anticipation. “And if the tale is to be believed then there really is a true heir to Gilmore.”
Tremayne snorted. “But not Cavan of Marwood.”
“Nay …” Percival scratched his hollow cheek, and the dogs, as if sensing a presence in the corridor, both lifted their heads and peered into the shadowy hallway. One growled. The other sniffed, then thumped her tail. Tremayne’s own gaze followed the animals’ line of sight. That all-too-familiar feeling that he was being watched whispered across his skin. “Mayhap the witch herself,” said Percival.
“The witch?” Tremayne snorted and drained his mazer of wine. “A woman?”
“A woman with magical powers.”
“Bah.” Getting quietly to his feet, Tremayne told himself he wouldn’t believe it. “ ‘Tis all old women’s wagging tongues and far-flung dreams.”
“A woman with the dark emerald.”
“If the child is to be believed.” He didn’t like the feeling that was stealing through his blood. He walked past the old man to the arch leading to the corridor. He heard the scrape of boots on stone and was certain he would find someone listening to his conversation with the old man, but as he stood near the rushlights, peering down the gloomy hallway, he saw no one.
But someone had been watching him. He was certain of it, for the candles in the sconces at the far end of the corridor flickered, smoke trailing unevenly, as if someone had just hastened away.
His stomach curdled at the thought of treachery within his own keep. Who? Which of his men would play the role of Judas? Sweat prickled his scalp, and he touched the hilt of his dagger for reassurance.
“Send the spy to me,” he said, as he strode to the fire and wished the flames would somehow chase away the chill in his soul.
“James?”
“Aye.” He slid his dagger from its sheath and studied the fine, sharp blade in the shifting light. ‘Twas a heavy weapon and deadly, honed to a fine edge that would slit a man’s flesh easily. “ ‘Tis time the spy and I come to an understanding.”
“Undress.” Rhys’s voice was firm. Uncompromising. He stood at the door in the tiny room of the inn, his shoulders pressed against the thick planks, his arms folded across his chest. His gaze was cold. Without a trace of warmth. “Do it. Now.”
“Why?” Tara asked, knowing the answer before it passed his lips.
“I want the ring.”
“But—”
“Either take the damned tunic off yourself or I will help you out of it.” His mouth compressed into a hard line of determination; his eyebrows pulled together, becoming one dark line over eyes that gleamed a cold, inflexible gray. She knew him well enough to realize that he wouldn’t back down. Not at all.
She had no choice as she stood near the narrow bed pushed under a small, solitary window. “ ‘Tis no gentleman you be, Rhys of—”
“Aye. So you’ve said. Get on with it.” He pointed at her and moved his finger in a quick, tight circle. “Now.”
“Bastard,” she said in a whisper—just loud enough that he could hear over the pounding of rain on the roof and the sounds of laughter, conversation, and someone—a woman—singing that drifted through the floorboards from the alehouse on the floor below.
Turning so that her back was to him, she lifted her tunic over her head, did the same with her chemise, and realizing that her entire backside was exposed, felt a warm rush of color climb up her n
eck and spread over her face. “ ‘Tis a true blackheart, you be!”
He didn’t argue.
Anger and shame burned through her. How could she ever have thought she loved this man? How? He was a beast. A cruel, hard-edged monster with a heart of stone. Outside, the wind was fierce, the sound of rain pebbling against the roof as if it never intended to stop.
“This is … this is robbery,” she accused, fumbling with the cord that strapped the ring to her naked waist.
Again no answer.
“Do you hear me? Thievery!”
“But then, I be a thief. You know ‘tis so.”
But not from me, Rhys. I never thought you would steal from me! Tears of humiliation burned in her eyes, and she wished for just a second that she’d never seen the cursed ring, never been told the story of how she happened to be adopted by Lodema, never heard of Gilmore’s missing baby. Swallowing against a lump in her throat, she worked the knot, but it had tightened, the cord having swollen with rainwater, sweat, and time.
“Trouble?” His voice was mocking.
She didn’t answer, just worked harder and more fruitlessly. Damn! But the knot wouldn’t budge, refused to be unraveled.
“Come, come,” he said and she sent him a glance over one shoulder filled with venom. Angry gazes locked and she quickly looked away, her hair falling around her face as she yanked and pulled at the cursed tangle.
She heard him step forward, closing the distance between them. She held her breath. Did he dare kiss her? Her skin tingled in anticipation. Hissss. His dagger was drawn swiftly from its sheath. Cold steel touched her back.
She flinched. “What—”
“Hold still.”
“But—” Ssst. The cord tightened for a second, then parted as it was cut cleanly. It would have fallen to the floor had he not caught it, his big fingers finally capturing the stone in midair.
Scooping up her tunic and holding it over her breasts, she whipped around. “How could you?” she cried, distraught. Her heritage—the link to her parents—was being stuffed into a thief’s pocket, hidden away in Rhys’s tunic. He ignored her question. Rammed his dagger into its sheath. “Abelard waits downstairs.”
Hurt—nay, wounded—by how easily he could make love to her one minute, then rob her blind the next, she wanted to argue. To rant. To rave. To scream at him and call him vile names, then pummel his chest with her fists.
“ ‘Tis a cruel man you be,” she said, her chin trembling.
“So ‘tis said.” His eyes darkened.
Leveling a haughty glare at him that she hoped hid the hot tears lurking behind her eyelids and the pain ripping through her soul, she said, “I hope Abelard is satisfied.”
“Oh, he will be.” His smile held not a drop of warmth, not a glimmer of humor. “Wait for me.”
She didn’t answer.
“Tara.” His voice was low. Firm. Again he crossed the short distance and glared down at her. “Stay in this room. Do not move. I will be back within minutes.”
“Of course,” she replied, sarcasm lacing each word. “Where would I go?”
“I hate to think. But there is a guard posted in the hallway, another outside below this window.”
“And if I needs relieve myself?” she asked, her throat tight.
“Use the bucket.” He motioned toward a pail near the door.
“Ah, yes. The bucket. You be so kind, Sir Rhys. A true gentleman.”
His jaw tightened. His fists clenched, then slowly relaxed. For a second there was a hint of regret in his silvery gaze, and she thought that he would grab her, hold her tight, and kiss her until the breath was sucked from her lungs. “Stay.” He turned on his heel and was out the door.
Bang! It slammed shut.
Tara started. Her skin was suddenly cold.
She heard his voice as he paused in the hallway to issue orders to whoever was standing guard. “Bastard. Curse you, Rhys of Twyll, curse and damn you.” Warm tears tracked from her eyes, and her fists were so tight that her fingernails drew blood from her own palms. How had she trusted him? Why? Because he made love to her. But he was and would always be an outlaw.
His footsteps rang on the steep wooden steps. Fading away.
This was her chance. She knew that if she didn’t take this opportunity to slip away from Rhys, she would have no other. And she had to leave him. Had to find out the truth. Had to run from him.
Because you love him, you pathetic fool. You’ve given your heart to the Bastard Outlaw.
“Nay!” she cried, refusing to believe the horrid words. She shoved them out of her mind. She had to get out. Away. Now. There was so little time. Yet the hallway was guarded. She climbed on the bed and opened the shutters to the night. A sudden rush of cold, wet air blew into the room.
Squinting into the blackness, she spied a guard, a big man huddled out of the slanting rain against a building on the far side of the narrow, rutted street. He bit a fingernail, spat, then moved on to the next finger. Every once in a while he hazarded a glance at the inn.
Though the rain afforded her some cover, Tara couldn’t climb out the window without him spying her. She looked down and judged that the drop to the street wouldn’t kill her. If she did dare make an attempt, the soft and muddy ground would provide a cushion when she landed.
Now! You must do it now! There is little time.
Her heart pounded and she felt a moment’s hesitation, a stupid desire to stay with Rhys, to trust him.
But he’s an outlaw. A thief. He stole from you, Tara. Took your stone without a moment’s hesitation! Run! Now!
But it was too risky.
Or was it?
She licked her lips and her palms began to sweat. A plan started to form in her mind, and she set to it. She didn’t have much time; Rhys had said he planned to return soon. When he did, she wouldn’t have the chance to leave again, nor, mayhap, she thought angrily, would she want to, for the outlaw truly did have a piece of her heart.
Fighting back tears and a painful sense of despair, she scooped up the empty pail, filled it with most of her treasures—the candle, the cord, and even her precious flint. The sparse room offered few things to add to the pail except for a bit of soap.
She blew out the single candle that burned upon a tiny table near the bed—the only furniture in the cramped space—and tossed it, as well as its holder, into the bucket. Her gaze lingered on the mattress for a second, and in her mind’s eye she imagined that she and Rhys were sleeping together on it, and her throat went dry.
“Don’t think it,” she whispered under her breath, though the pain in her heart was a heavy stone. “Don’t think it ever again. He’s got what he wanted from you. The cursed ring is now in his pocket.”
Angry all over again, she climbed onto the bed once more. Peeking over the windowsill she bit her lip. Morrigu, be with me.
Using all the strength she could muster, she pulled her arm back, then snapped it forward and flung the pail through the opening, sending it and the items inside hurtling through the night, as far from the inn as possible.
Bam!
The bucket hit.
Pop! Pop! Rattle! Clunk! Pop! Clatter!
The contents spewed everywhere, causing a wild racket as the pail rolled down the street.
“What the devil?” the guard growled and Tara didn’t waste any time. Praying that he’d gone to investigate, she hoisted herself onto the window ledge, lowered her feet on the outside of the building and as her hands slipped, let go, sliding down the wooden frame and tumbling to the ground. Her feet hit first. Her right ankle twisted. Pain blasted up her leg.
She gasped, then bit her tongue. She couldn’t let anything, not even a broken leg, deter her. She had to keep moving. As soon as the guard figured out that she’d intentionally distracted him, he would sound the alarm.
Rain pounded the street, showering into puddles, offering a shifting curtain that was cold as death. It rattled against roofs and gurgled in the ruts of the road.
At the back of the inn she hobbled into a lean-to shed that sheltered the horses, a wooden building attached to the lower floor of the alehouse.
Her ankle throbbed. Water ran into her eyes, and she had trouble seeing. By now the guard had probably discovered the pail and its contents. In a matter of minutes he would inform Rhys that they’d been duped, and then—oh, then, there would be hell to pay.
The spit dried in her throat as she contemplated Rhys’s ire. Help me, she prayed silently and didn’t care what deity paid heed. The door to the shed was open, and light from a small window in the alehouse gave enough weak illumination that Tara was able to make out shapes. A stableboy was curled on the straw near his pitchfork, his legs blocking the entrance. Snoring softly, dead to the world, he lay only feet from the horses. Her heart beating a wild cadence, she stepped over his long legs and slipped inside, hardly daring breathe.
A horse snorted. Hooves rustled in straw. The over-powering scents of horseflesh, urine, and manure hit her nostrils. A few drops of rain found their way through a roof that leaked, but all in all, the stable was some protection from the wind and rain that raged outside.
Expecting the door to the inn to be thrown open at any second and Rhys’s angry visage to be cast in stark relief, Tara fumbled her way along the wall, found a bridle hung on a nail, and creeping softly so as not to disturb the sleeping guard or unsettle the horses, took it and reached out for the first horse she came to.
Gryffyn!
Her heart was pounding wildly.
Fear surged through her blood.
At any second Rhys was sure to find her. Do not think it. Just get out of here!
The destrier was nervous. She could feel his hot breath on her hands, and he flung back his head and stomped a foot. She had to take this horse. Rhys’s mount. The fleetest horse she’d ever seen.
