by Lisa Jackson
Heart threatening to jump out of her chest, she slid the bridle over his nose and up over his flattened ears. Her fingers felt stiff and uncoordinated as she buckled the chin strap and then, praying that he would step over the snoozing guard, led him outside.
The horse’s eyes were rimmed in white, his muscles quivered beneath his coat as she hobbled on her right ankle, gritting her teeth against the pain.
Come on, Gryffyn, you can do it!
Nervously he followed her out of the shed, stepping over the guard and out into the driving rain to a low fence. Nostrils distended, ears cocked, he neighed anxiously.
“Hey!” The door was flung open and light poured into the stables.
“What the—?” The boy stirred, and Tara stepped onto the lowest board of the fence, then the second.
“Halt!” Rhys’s voice boomed through the shed.
No!
Horses neighed, Gryffyn sidestepped.
’Twas now or never.
Tara threw herself across Gryffyn’s wet back.
Rhys sprang out of the shed. “For the love of God, woman, don’t—”
“Hiya!” She kicked Gryffyn hard in the flank. Rhys was already upon them, running swiftly, one hand reaching for the reins. “Run, you devil!” she cried. “Run, run, run!” The horse bolted. Hooves thundered, flinging mud and water.
“Tara!” Rhys yelled, but his voice faded as Gryffyn barreled into the night.
Through the rain, Tara chanced a glance over her shoulder and saw him, furious, hands on his hips, rain slashing over him. She felt a second’s hesitation, a silly tug on her heartstrings, then turned her face forward, to the black, stormy night. To Twyll.
She didn’t fool herself for a second. Leaning low, she urged the fleet stallion ever faster. In seconds, Rhys would be after her, and though whatever horse he chose would be slower than this destrier, he, an outlaw who had lived in the forests surrounding Twyll for ten years, would know the shorter, quicker path to the castle.
Nay, she was not safe.
But, then, she would never be. Not as long as the Bastard Outlaw chased her.
Chapter Eleven
“ ’Tis … ’Tis … sorry I be,” the stableboy apologized, his Adam’s apple working up and down like a hungry chicken pecking at a nest of ants as Rhys, seething and wet, strode into the stable area. Licking his lips nervously, the boy stared at the straw-covered dirt and fiddled with the handle of his pitchfork. “I … I … believe that mayhap I fell asleep.”
“You believe?” Rhys repeated, his temper snapping. Drenched, angry, and humiliated, he had watched Tara disappear around the bend in the road leading out of town. Every muscle in his body ached with tension, his hands were balled into tight, quivering fists and his jaw was clenched so tightly that his teeth ached. Damn the woman. “We ride now!” he declared.
“For what purpose?” Abelard stood near his horse, stroking the stallion’s thick neck. He and the guard who had allowed Tara to escape had followed Rhys out the back door of the inn. The sentry had the grace to look embarrassed, but Abelard acted as if losing Tara was of no consequence.
“We ride to catch her, of course.”
“Why?”
Was the man thick as blood pudding? He glanced at the guard and the boy. “Leave us.” Neither needed further encouragement; they were out the door like twin shots from a catapult. Hanging on to his temper by the merest of threads, Rhys wheeled on Abelard and crossed the short distance between them. “ ‘Tis for her safety,” he said through clenched teeth. Each second that ticked by gave Tara a better chance of eluding him, of racing headlong into trouble. He grabbed a bridle from a nail and slid it quickly over the nose of Abelard’s steed.
The other animals, Dobbyn and an aging cart horse, were restless, shifting nervously, nickering and snorting, sensing the tension that crackled between the two men.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Abelard demanded as Rhys buckled the bridle into place, then with swift, sure motions found a blanket and saddle and slung them over the beast’s broad back. “Just because the witch tricked you out of your mount is no reason to steal mine—”
Rhys whirled on the older man once again. “You were paid and paid well for the animal,” he growled. “Have you not the stone?”
“Aye, but—”
“Leave me be, Abelard.” He pulled on the cinch as rain pounded against the roof and a keening wind tore at the thatching.
“Let Tara go.”
“To Twyll? To Tremayne?” Tightening the strap, he buckled it, then swung easily into the saddle. “I think not.”
“ ‘Tis her choice.”
“Is it? Like the choice she had of giving up the emerald?” Rhys bit out. He pulled on the reins, turning the beast in the small confines, and stared through the doorway into the black, wet night beyond.
“You be a fool.”
“At the very least.”
“Loving her will only cause you pain.”
“I love her not!” With a kick, he urged the horse through the opening, then slapped the beast’s rump with the reins.
The stallion launched down the muddy road, slipping and galloping wildly, as if spooked by some invisible, terrifying demon. Sleet sliced down from the dark heavens, cold as ice, a shimmering veil that hid and protected. Water as frigid as a winter sea poured down Rhys’s face and blurred his vision, but he spurred the horse ever onward, ever faster.
The odds were against his locating Tara. She had enough of a head start on a swifter horse to make it to Twyll long before Abelard’s slower mount could catch her, but Rhys was undaunted—a fool of a man who thrived on adversity.
He would find her. Swearing to himself, he vowed that he would catch up to her before she entered the gates of Twyll. And when he did overtake her and look into that beautiful, deceitful face again, he would extract his own personal kind of vengeance.
The witch would never forget the cost of defying him.
“What do you mean, ‘he’s missing’?” Tremayne demanded, his gaze riveted on the man who was his constable, a man in whom his faith was rapidly deteriorating. Tremayne had been leaning back in his chair, swirling wine in his cup, watching the embers of the fire glow red, and contemplating battle. Word had come that Cavan was only days away from marching, and Tremayne had been working out his battle plan, a surprise of his own for the upstart. He had considered ordering Mary or some other wench to his room to relieve his frustration. His only reluctance had been the thought that his manhood might fail him again—he didn’t want to risk being fodder for women’s ugly gossip and the sniggering of his men behind his back.
The lord of Twyll, limp as a dead chicken’s neck.
The baron whose cock is as soft as doeskin.
Tremayne of Twyll, master of a barony, unable to rule his own bed.
He could just imagine the taunts and cackling comments.
But Regan had broken into his unhappy reverie. Now Tremayne was on his feet, his wine and his weak member quickly forgotten.
Regan braced himself, as if he expected to be struck. He stood rigid as oak, his mouth twisted into an unhappy frown. “As I said, the spy is missing.”
Tremayne’s brain clamored within his skull, his patience drawn thin as a butcher’s blade and twice as sharp. “Did I not tell you to put James under lock and key?”
“ ‘Twas done. He was in one of the cells earlier, but no one has seen him since the criminals from Broodmore arrived. The bloody cur must have slipped away while the jailers were busy with the new prisoners—when the cell gate was open.” Regan’s blond eyebrows drew together in annoyance, and he chewed anxiously on the inside of his cheek.
“How did this happen?” Tremayne demanded. “Was no one watching him?”
“We know not. As I say, mayhap in the confusion—”
“The confusion? In the confusion?” Tremayne bellowed and threw his mazer onto the floor. It clanged and bounced, startling a cat that had been searching the rushes for mice a
nd causing the dogs lying near the fire to scramble wildly to their feet. Hissing. Howling. Scratching, scurrying claws. Tremayne swore. God in heaven, he was cursed. “Find him,” he snarled, his lip curling as if he, too, were a beast.
He stalked to the constable and grabbed Regan’s tunic in one large hand. Crumpling the fabric, gathering a few chest hairs in the process, and pulling tight, he whispered, “Locate the spy. Bring him to me and let me deal with him. Say not a word. Hear me? I will handle this myself.”
He felt the other man flinch beneath his grip, then slowly released him and continued, “If he be not found, Sir Regan, I will hold you personally responsible—do you understand? Personally responsible.”
“Aye, m’lord.” Was it his imagination or did the constable’s voice actually quaver? His skin was white as thin milk, his eyes round. For the first time in nearly a week, Tremayne’s manhood stirred. So there was life in the old rod yet. The lord of Twyll watched the miserable, useless, weak constable slink away, and he considered finding a woman. But he would wait. He had too much on his mind right now, too much to do.
Soon, when he found the right woman, he would haul her to his bed, strip her of her clothes, and make her do anything he wanted. Anything! He’d force her to please him, and she would be only too happy—or afraid not to do his bidding. He was, after all, the baron. His will was law. ‘Twas time everyone understood this one simple, undeniable fact.
“By the saints,” Tara whispered and hastily crossed herself as she stared at Twyll, dark and foreboding in the night. This sinister-looking behemoth of a castle was her heritage, her home? She told herself she was being silly, a ninny. Twyll was alive and vital, unlike Broodmore. ‘Twas just the night that was causing her nerves to be strung tight, her mind to conjure up dark images. Clucking softly, she urged Gryffyn out of the cover of the forest. His nostrils quivered as the breeze lifted his mane, and she realized that he recognized his home. A sliver of fear pierced her heart.
Mounted high upon the crest of a hill, Tower Twyll rose cathedrallike toward the heavens, where but a slice of moon and a few brave stars winked behind a thin veil of clouds. The storm had passed, its fury abated, leaving only a cold, clear night where puddles reflected in the weak moonglow and the winter air did little to dry her soggy clothes.
Shivering, she patted the sleek horse on his neck. He’d been surefooted and swift, and though she’d expected Rhys to cut her off at every crossroad, to have somehow ridden ahead of her, he had never appeared.
She rubbed her arms, hoping to force the chill of winter away, and regarded the edifice where, if Lodema was right, she’d been born.
The castle was dark. Silent. Though she strained to hear any noise emanating from the tower, no sounds of laughter, no murmur of muted conversation, not even the bark of a hound permeated the thick stone walls of the keep.
Could this be her home? She felt an ungainly lump in her throat. Her heart thudded as she considered her plan to sneak into the castle sometime after dawn, joining the peasants, soldiers, peddlers, and villagers who came and went once the portcullis was lifted in the early-morning hours. With the gray mists of morning light as her cover, she intended to blend into the throng that would pass through Twyll’s gates.
And what about Lord Tremayne—the baron who had flogged Rhys and left him for dead? What if you have to face him? Her fingers gripped the reins more tightly. He knew not who she was. As long as her identity remained secret, she had naught to fear from him.
She rode into the woods again and dismounted in a dense thicket where she wound her cloak more tightly around her body. She and Gryffyn were hidden. Exhaustion overcame her and she closed her eyes. She would rest but a few minutes. Just long enough to regain her strength, for she could not risk anyone discovering her, especially Rhys.
She hated to think what would happen if he found her. Oh, she could not risk that. But as she drifted off, she couldn’t help imagining that he was lying beside her, holding her close, whispering that all would be well. She could almost feel the scratch of beard stubble against her cheek, smell the scents of leather, horse, and man that clung to him, hear the steady sound of his heartbeat, and look into eyes as hard as newly forged steel.
Ah, outlaw, how you vex me, she thought. Aye, he had taken her eagerly given virginity as well as her unwilling gift of the ring, yet the feelings she held for him were strong and the pull he had on her heart was impossible to ignore. ‘Tis a fool you are, she told herself. Caring even a bit for him was insanity, pure and simple, a stupid girlish whim, but right now she was too tired to argue with herself. Once she was rested, her mind would clear and all her romantic fantasies would be chased away.
They had to be.
Lodema whispered a prayer over the shallow grave. ‘Twas an omen, she thought, and felt a deep sadness for her Luna, who had been little more than a kitten when Tara had come to her. Though the cat had been old, had lived years longer than anyone could have hoped, Lodema would miss the comfort of her warm body curled beside her on the bed. There would be a new emptiness in the little hut.
Not only was her daughter gone, mayhap never to be seen again, but now the cat was gone as well. Fool that she be, she felt a warm tear in her eye as she walked through the first gray light of morning, the mists of Gaeaf rising in the forest to join the curling smoke from her fire.
She could get another cat to keep the mice and rats out of her stores of flour, but ‘twould not be the same. Luna had been more than a mouser, she’d been a friend. Ah, well, ‘twas the way of things.
As she hobbled down the path to her door, she felt the rush of wind—bitter-cold and from the north. The wind of death. Goose bumps rose on her flesh, for this was not about the cat. Nay, this gust was about Tara. She knew it deep in the farthest reaches of her soul.
Inside her little home several of the hens squawked, not knowing that they had been saved from the butcher’s knife. She’d already killed an old black-and-white one that had given up laying, and before she prepared it for the stewpot, she picked up the carcass and spilled its entrails onto the table.
She’d had a feeling of death—an omen as cold as the waters of the North Sea had seeped into her blood. Waking up to find the cat dead was the beginning, but there was more, and it had to do with Tara. Lodema felt it deep in the marrow of her bones. Frowning at her task, she strewed the guts in front of her and whispered a prayer to the Great Mother for Tara’s safety. Surely she was wrong, just borrowing trouble. The movement of the smoke had been her old eyes playing tricks on her, nothing more, and the wax that had dripped in its ominous manner in her cup had been a mistake. Surely.
With a crooked, spotted finger she moved the heart and intestines, exposing the dead fowl’s liver. “God’s eyes,” she whispered when she saw the reddish brown and slick mass, shining in the light from her candle. The hump of the organ was missing. Usually there was a projection, a piece of good luck, the larger the better. If the hump was cleaved, ‘twas a sure sign of trouble, but this … this absence of it, was the gravest omen of all.
Morrigu, Earth mother, protect Tara, she prayed. Her heart thudded erratically. She had trouble breathing and leaned heavily on the table. She had to draw a rune and chant a spell … she would need mistletoe, Saint-John’s-wort, fern, and snapdragon for the spell, then she would draw runes for protection. She only hoped she wasn’t too late.
Rhys rode like a demon. He pushed his borrowed horse faster and faster, determined to catch his quarry before she reached Twyll. The stallion labored, but Rhys wouldn’t let up. For if Tara ever found Tremayne, all would be for naught.
As the horse dashed through the forest, Rhys told himself that he could save Tara, that it wasn’t too late, that he would somehow be able to keep her from whatever horrid fate Tremayne would mete out if he discovered who she was. ‘Twas best that she no longer had the stone, he told himself, best that she was carrying no proof that she was the daughter of Gilmore.
If, in fact, she be his daughter.
The rain had stopped and dawn was fast approaching. Trees sped past and the stallion’s coat was flecked with lather, bits of white foam surfacing on his wet, dark hide.
Still Rhys pushed the animal.
Tara’s life was at stake.
At that thought, a hard pulse throbbed in his temples. His jaw clenched to the point of aching, and he felt an overwhelming sense of panic for a woman he had barely known for a fortnight, if that. A woman he didn’t trust.
What was she?
A witch—one who believed in magic and the Earth Mother. A woman who chanted spells, drew runes, and yet prayed to the Christian God? What manner of sorceress was this?
Or was she truly the stolen babe, daughter of Lady Farren and Lord Gilmore, the true ruler of Twyll?
Did it matter? Nay. He was trapped in the web of her beauty, lost in the feel and touch of her. Never had he felt this way about any woman.
Not even Anna.
At that thought his heart jolted and he denied to himself that he cared for the witch, a harsh-tongued woman who was forever eluding him and making him appear a fool. By God, he couldn’t think of the emotions she engendered in him. Not now. First he had to find her and somehow keep her safe.
The horse was wheezing, his legs slowing. “Come on, come on!” He stumbled a bit and Rhys realized he was finished. If he rode him any further, he would die. He thought about slapping him hard on the rump, but he couldn’t. The damned beast had run bravely. Rhys slowed him to a walk. He felt guilty at abusing him but was still fired by the driving need to get to Twyll. The stallion would never make it.
But another horse would.
He smiled to himself. All he had to do was locate a fit animal and steal it.
As he had dozens of times in the past.
Clang!
Tara opened one eye at the noise. It took a second for her to realize that she’d slept on a bed of fir needles and leaves in the forest outside of Twyll. With a grinding of gears, the portcullis was being lifted. Soon, unless she was discovered, she would be within the walls of her home castle and searching out Father Simon. “Gods help me,” she whispered, crossing herself.
