Impostress

by Lisa Jackson

  “Aye, I thought so, but I was mistaken,” he said, throwing a hard glare at the ashen-faced serving woman. “ ’Tis a long story, one that I do not fully understand myself. The marriage ... it occurred, but there may have been some deception to it.” He explained it all quickly, including the stableboy’s mission to Oak Crest and his capture of Sir Brock. With a weary sigh, he added, “It appears that I may have been duped and I was not alone.”

  Nor was she, Wynnifrydd thought, but she had no patience for the stupid old man. Nor did she care about Kelan of Penbrooke’s marriage to Elyn, except as it had to do with Brock. Reluctantly, only to appease her own father, she accepted a bit of the food that was offered. But she was going out of her mind. Where the devil was Brock? Who cared about anything else? “What of Brock?” she asked. “He was here, as your prisoner, but he’s escaped?”

  She suspected that he’d ridden to Penbrooke, even knowing that his beloved Elyn was dead. He would probably have to see for himself that she hadn’t somehow survived and even now slipped into her rightful place as Penbrooke’s wife. When all else failed, Wynnifrydd supposed, he would scour the towns and castles along the river, searching for Elyn’s body, hoping to convince himself that she was alive.

  Unfortunately Wynnifrydd understood the man she intended to marry far better than he understood her. With the knife she’d been given, she picked at a bit of pheasant and started plotting. She’d ride much more quickly alone and she wouldn’t have to put up with her father’s orders or Baron Nevyll’s groans about his aches and pains. She could go where she wanted and as fast as she had to. Nothing could stop her. Not her father. Not the threat of outlaws. Nothing.

  Her fingers clutched the knife a little harder. Brock of Oak Crest would rue the day he’d left her for another woman, the day that should have been her wedding day. It mattered not that he was probably forced from the keep. He was a strong man, a great warrior, so the fact that some mere stableboy had been able to overpower him and drive him away from Oak Crest seemed ludicrous. Unless he wanted to leave, to have a ready excuse to avoid his own marriage. Stupid, stupid man.

  Did he really think she would let him go? That she wouldn’t chase him down and mete out his punishment for her humiliation? She cut off another morsel of the bird’s carcass and ate slowly, savoring the few bites she’d taken as she considered her revenge.

  If by some miracle Elyn had survived the river, or if the story that she’d died was only a part of an intricate plot to deceive them all, then Brock would pay. As would Elyn. And Kiera and anyone else who dared to think that he or she would get the best of Wynnifrydd of Fenn. Nay, she wouldn’t let it happen. She’d had plenty of suitors. Plenty. Rich men, handsome men, men whose prowess at lovemaking was legendary, but she’d spurned them all to be with Brock.

  Because she loved him. With all of her foolish heart. And he’d betrayed her ... Anger burned up the back of her neck and she set her jaw.

  He would pay.

  And soon.

  At her hand.

  Until he came crawling back to her. It would happen. As she pushed her trencher aside, Wynnifrydd sent up a silent, determined prayer for vengeance. It need not be swift, nay, but it would be sweet. She would set out tonight for Penbrooke.

  “That’s it, I tell ye, Lord Kelan,” the farmer insisted nearly two days after being robbed, his expression hard beneath his beard. The sun was high in the sky but the day was winter cold as Kelan, the constable, and this farmer stood in front of a weathered shed where five half-grown pigs rooted, oinked, squealed, and grunted in a small pen. Frost covered the dry grass and muddy dirt clods. Ice glittered from small puddles.

  “Just at dawn, it was,” the man said, nodding to himself. Dressed in a patched tunic and baggy breeches, he kept the pigs at bay with a pitchfork that he held in his good hand. His other was wrapped in cloth that was crusted in blood. “I was out to check on me pigs here, and I found this wild-eyed woman tryin’ to steal me best horse. Just comin’ out of the shed she was, and startled, near as much as I. She ran as if possessed and I yelled, runnin’ to catch up with her.

  “That’s when she turned on me, came at me with a knife, she did. Slashed and cut me arm. She acted as if she was hurt, y’see. Seemed about to swoon as she tried to climb onto old Sadie’s back. But when I yelled at her to get off me horse, she ignored me. She dragged herself into the saddle. Still holdin’ her middle, she took off at a gallop, and by the gods, that witch could ride.” Giving out a breathy whistle, the farmer held his bandaged hand and stared across his fields and into the woods, his gaze presumably following the path of the crazed horsewoman.

  “Did she take anything else?” the constable asked.

  “Nay. Nothin’ else is missin’. But I’m thinkin’ she’s the outlaw who’s been givin’ us all so much trouble.”

  “Who was she?” Kelan asked, disturbed at the image. “Did you recognize her?”

  “Me, nay.” He shook his head and rubbed the back of his neck. With his head bowed, he rolled his eyes up so that he could focus on Kelan. “That’s the oddity, y’see. Even though she rode like a man, she had an air about her, acted like she was better’n me, as if she was a noble lady or such.”

  “What did she look like?” the constable asked.

  “As I said, it was dawn, just gettin’ light, and she was close enough to cut me with a knife, so I got a good look. She was regal-like, with white skin. Long hair, kinda curly, dark brown with some red in it.” He motioned toward the tip of his jaw. “She had a pointed chin, but it was her eyes that I noticed. Wild, like I told ye already, but a deep green color. Dark.”

  Hair, skin, and eyes like Elyn’s, Kelan thought with a smile that faded quickly when he remembered his wife’s strange admission the night before, that she wasn’t Elyn, but Kiera, her younger sister. Nonsense of course, and yet ... he felt the first little tingle that things were not as they seemed.

  “What was she wearing?” the constable asked, and Kelan tried to dismiss his concerns. What was he thinking? He left his wife sleeping in bed ...

  Or the woman you think is your wife.

  “A white dress covered with a dark mantle. The dress, it looked like a peasant’s. Me own wife has some from the same rough fabric. But the mantle was from a noblewoman or from the wife of a rich merchant, a thick, deep blue that was near to black and lined in fur.”

  A noblewoman.

  “The mantle could have been stolen,” Kelan said aloud, to convince himself, for Elyn’s confession along with this strange tale was beginning to pull at the underpinnings of his trust.

  “I suppose,” the farmer said.

  “Was there anything else distinctive about her?” the constable inquired.

  The farmer snorted, then glanced sideways at Kelan. “Aye, that there was.” Jabbing the toe of his worn boot into the dirt, he said, “As she left, she yelled that I could get me horse back. All I had to do was to ride to Penbrooke.”

  “Why?” Kelan asked as an ill wind kicked up, but the underpinnings of trust began to fall away and the premonition of ill he felt was stronger. Something in the farmer’s eyes warned him of bad tidings. His fingers clutched the reins in a death grip.

  “‘Cuz she said, ’I’m just borrowin’ your horse, farmer,’ ” the man said, rubbing his wounded arm. “ ’The horse, he’ll be at Penbrooke tomorrow, and I’ll see that my husband returns him to ye.’ I asked her who her damned husband was and she laughed and said, ‘Don’t you know, farmer? Surely you recognize me.’ I told her I didn’t and she laughed that crazy laugh again, and tossin’ her hair over her shoulder, she dug her heels into old Sadie’s sides and said, ‘I’m the lady of the keep. Elyn of Penbrooke, Lord Kelan’s wife.’ ”

  The skin over Kelan’s scalp crinkled. His heart dropped to the cold stones of the earth. Christ Jesus, what kind of fool had he been? He had dismissed as a joke what his wife had told him the night before he’d left. How could she not be Elyn? He tried not to consider it, but there had bee
n so many questions since he met her, and as he thought about it, images swirled in his mind, images of the short time he’d known his wife, the few days since he’d met her. There had been the wedding when she’d only hazarded a few glances at him from beneath her heavy veil, then her unexplained illness directly after taking the vows, a sickness that kept her from joining in the celebration of her marriage, their marriage. Not only was Elyn missing from the great hall, but her sister, Kiera, had not shown her face the entire time Kelan had been at Lawenydd.

  Kelan felt a slow dawning, and it was a dark dawn as he realized there were other hints as well, signs that indicated all was not as it should be, foreshadowings that he’d ignored. The vials he’d found hidden in the rushes, blood and some potion that surely kept him from thinking clearly, and Elyn’s unexplained absences as she’d nearly kept him prisoner in their bedchamber while she’d gone off riding in the forest ... her reticence about returning to Penbrooke, the hushed voices of the women of Lawenydd, as if there were secrets within the castle walls ... and then when he and his new bride had finally arrived at Penbrooke, Morwenna’s assertion that his wife wasn’t Elyn of Lawenydd after all. He’d pushed aside all of these little inconsistencies, didn’t want to think that he’d been duped, but now ... now with the black dawn, he was beginning to wonder if he had not been a greater fool after all.

  At the constable’s insistence he had ridden across the barony to talk to several peasants who were suffering at the hands of thieves, those whose livestock and goods had been stolen, no doubt by a band of rogues and outlaws, but this farmer’s story was different.

  “I’m the lady of the keep. Elyn of Penbrooke, Lord Kelan’s wife.”

  The thief’s own words. They cut deep into Kelan’s heart, and though he wanted to deny the suspicions that swirled darkly through his mind, he could not. He’d seen the torture in his wife’s eyes—nay, not his wife’s, but the traitor’s eyes. He’d thought it was due to separation from her family, from her loss of home, from her unhappiness at the marriage, but now he knew different; he knew that she’d lied, the impish sprite who had teased him, flirted with him, eagerly loved him in her bed, the virgin who had been frightened and curious ... His jaw tightened.

  Deep in the pit of his stomach he felt the cold stones of betrayal gather and rub, causing pain, creating doubts, reminding him that his beautiful, intriguing wife was a stranger to him. And a liar.

  Rage burned through his soul. Dangerous fury blasted through his bloodstream. He thought of his wife, his lying, beautiful Judas of a wife. By the gods, how could she do this to him? To her own family? What kind of calculating, heartless bitch was she? His teeth clenched so hard they ached, his hands around the reins were stiff, and he imagined grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her and ... An image of her smile, teasing and naughty, seared through his mind. He remembered the lift of her eyebrow, coy and seductive in one gesture, and the way her hands played magic along his spine.

  Bile rose in his throat. He’d thought he’d loved her, and she’d used him. Played him for a fool. Oh, cunning, heartless woman, just wait until I see you again.

  ’Twas time to return home.

  Time for the woman claiming to be Lady Elyn to bare her soul and face his wrath.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “There’s someone here to see you,” Morwenna announced, breezing into the great hall, where for most of the time since Kelan’s unannounced departure, Kiera, sitting in a chair near the fire, had been besieged by the servants, one after another.

  She’d spent hours listening to their questions, making decisions, and telling herself that she did not miss Kelan. She’d talked with the cook about the next week’s meals, with the steward about the need for more cutlery and linens, with the priest about distributing alms, with the carpenter about building more tables and chairs. Her head was spinning with all the choices she’d made, choices that weren’t hers to make.

  “Who is it?” Kiera asked from her spot at the table.

  “A messenger from Lawenydd.”

  Kiera’s head snapped up and Morwenna lifted an eyebrow. “He says his name is Joseph.”

  “Joseph?” Kiera’s pulse leaped and she jumped up so quickly she banged her knee on the table. “Ouch!” He must have news of Elyn! Finally she would know the truth, discover why her sister had not returned to take her place as Kelan’s bride.

  Perhaps Elyn had returned! Yes, that was it! Why else would he have ridden here?

  Then what will you do? You don’t want to leave Penbrooke. You love Kelan. Oh, God, but you want word of your sister, to know that she’s well.

  Kiera felt ripped in two, but she was grateful for word of Elyn, any word. From the corner of her eye she spied one of the servants loitering near the wash-basin. “Rhynn. Please, see that my guest is sent in, then get him something to drink and something to eat. And ... and have someone prepare a room for him, as he will be weary.”

  “Aye, m’lady,” the surly maid agreed.

  “Who is Joseph?” Morwenna asked as Rhynn slipped out of the chamber.

  “The son of the stable master.”

  “He’s visiting you?” Kelan’s sister couldn’t hide her surprise. “A peasant. And you’re preparing a room for him?”

  “Yes!” she nearly snapped. “He ... he must have news of my family,” Kiera said. She started for the door as Joseph, his clothes caked in mud, his hair lank, his face weary, barreled his way into the great hall.

  Escorted by Rhynn and a burly guard and limping slightly, Joseph grinned as he saw her. “M’lady.” He swiped his cap from his head.

  “Joseph!” She ran to him, and despite the curious stares of the servants and Morwenna, she threw her arms around the stableboy, nearly sending them both sprawling. The hell with social stations. She didn’t know until that moment how much she had missed Lawenydd and everyone within her father’s keep. Her heart lurched and tears burned behind her eyelids as Joseph, stunned at her demonstration, awkwardly embraced her. “By the saints, it’s good to see you,” she said, her voice catching as she finally pushed off his shoulders to stare at him. “Please, come in, come in. Warm yourself. Rhynn!” She turned to the woman, who stood rag in hand, mouth agape at the lady’s display. “Get food and wine for our guest.” When the woman remained as if rooted to the floor, Kiera said more harshly, “Now.”

  “Oh, er, yes, m’lady.”

  Kiera motioned Joseph toward the fire when she finally noticed his expression. It was more than weariness that tugged at the comers of his mouth and eyes. His countenance was hard. Angry. His jaw worked as he tried and failed to repress emotions that burned through his soul.

  Oh, God ... something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Her lungs constricted as horrid image after horrid image burned through her mind. “You must be tired and cold. Here, sit by the fire.” Shepherding him toward the chair she’d just vacated, she motioned for one of the boys carrying firewood to add the logs to the flames. “Oh ... forgive me, this is my ... Kelan’s sister, Morwenna.”

  “M’lady. A pleasure,” Joseph said, but his expression remained grave and there was a flatness in his eyes that frightened her.

  “Sit,” she said, dropping into one chair by the fire and motioning him into another. “You have news? Something is wrong, I can tell.”

  Morwenna dallied.

  “Aye.” His throat worked and Kiera knew the darkest dread of all.

  “ ’Tis your sister, lady.”

  “My sister?” she repeated, and a roaring started in her ears.

  “We think she’s dead.”

  “Nay!” Kiera shot to her feet. Elyn dead? Nay, oh, nay! She felt the color wash from her skin. Her voice, when she spoke, was raw. “There must be some mistake.” She wouldn’t believe it. Much as she loved Kelan and wanted to stay as his wife, Kiera couldn’t believe that Elyn was dead. Even though it was odd that she hadn’t returned when she’d promised, Elyn had to be alive. She was young. Vibrant. Strong. “No, it cannot be.”
>
  But even as she uttered the words, a dozen questions rattled like bones through her mind. Have you not wondered if she’d been harmed? Haven’t you in your darkest hour suspected that she might have died ... and yet you kept your secret, remained here with Kelan in happy oblivion, denying your fears, living a lie, rather than finding a way to help Elyn.

  “She was out riding, and disappeared,” Joseph explained wearily.

  “But surely she’ll be found.” Was that her voice? It sounded so weak. So far away, though she was certain the words had fallen from her own tongue.

  “Nay, I think not.” He rubbed his jaw and shook his head.

  No, no, no! Elyn was just hiding somewhere. Aye, that was it. She would be found. Alive. Mayhap she was injured, but not dead. Never dead. “This is a mistake, Joseph ... she’s missing, I know, but ... you said ‘We think she’s dead.’ So no one is certain. You have not seen her body.”

  Joseph stared at the fire. “She was to meet someone and he saw her horse later. Without her. She ...” He cleared his throat and looked down at the fists he’d clenched over his knees. “She fell into the river and was pulled under. Swept down. No trace of her found.”

  “No.” Kiera was shaking from the inside out. Her hands were trembling, her legs threatening not to hold her. Despite the fire, she felt cold as death, shivering outwardly at the thought of Elyn drowning, being pulled under swift, winter waters, her lungs filling ... no, oh, no. Her bones seemed to crumble beneath her. She could barely stand as she thought of Elyn, panicked and bailing, battling a deadly current. “This is wrong. Who saw her?” she demanded.

  “Sir Brock of Oak Crest.”

  Every muscle in her body became rigid. “That cur saw her drown and was unable to save her? No, I don’t believe it. Nor do I believe him. He’s a liar ... and a horse thief and a rogue.”