Finally, she had him resting on his back, in his bed, with the now-bloodied coverlet under him so she’d at least save the sheets and mattress. Remembering the bag, she untied it and inside found several rolls of bandages and some ointment, which reeked to high Heaven.
There was some water left in the washbasin so Scarlet proceeded in wiping blood off the man as best she could. She’d done it enough times for her female friends, those more unfortunate than herself who’d fallen prey to nasty patrons. As a mere thief for Werner, she was afforded at least some security.
Strangely, for all the blood covering him, there weren’t that many wounds to find. Bruises were plentiful and swollen, especially on his face, where one of his eyes was crusted shut. He had cuts and scrapes as though he’d been pulled backward through a rosebush—these abounded, but other than that, no really deep gash that could explain the blood loss. Unless it wasn’t his own. His ankle though, was severely torn, with some hard, whitish tissue showing through the ruined skin. Scarlet bandaged it nice and wide so the cotton wouldn’t roll under the manacle. When she did so, she took a closer look at the lock, for purely vain reasons. She’d been thinking about this lock. It wouldn’t prove too much of a challenge. All she’d need…
Scarlet stopped herself. It wasn’t her place.
To give herself something to do while she tried not to mentally pick the tempting lock, she went looking for the silver buttons of his tunic. She wasn’t exactly sure how many there were, but after she’d dug around under the bed, the table and lifted every corner of the carpet, she had a handful and figured that had to be it. Most of them glistened crimson, filling with blood the tiny wolves’ mouths. She shivered.
Coming back to the bed, she rinsed the buttons and set them noiselessly on the small dresser. Scarlet sat on the edge of the mattress.
The sight of him drew a stake in her heart. She knew what it felt like to be powerless, overwhelmed by the odds and an unfair situation. She’d bled too, as he did now. And she knew just whom to blame. Lothar. It was all his doing. Coward. Why didn’t the lady do anything? She had the power, the status to have him thrown out of Castle Innsbruck. Why keep him around? Scarlet’s shoulders dropped.
Because she’s scared.
Fear had that effect on women, made them keep men around even when they shouldn’t, despite knowing they were the worst sorts of characters. When women were afraid, they froze. Scarlet knew too well. Poor Lady Katrina, to be so powerful yet ultimately as helpless as any other woman confronted with a man she couldn’t refuse.
“Why would the sick bastard do this?”
“Because he can.”
Scarlet leapt cleanly off the bed, both hands raised to fend off blows. Her wits quickly came back to her and she lowered her hands, staring into the man’s strange eyes.
“I’m sorry I rocked the bed,” she offered, trying to force her hands from reaching out to him. Though her heart felt no such limitation. She’d always had a weak spot for the underdog. And underdog he was, but only because of the chain around his ankle, otherwise, she’d no doubt he could take very good care of himself. Still, to see him this way, bleeding, naked…
Naked.
Sweet Mary.
She hurriedly pulled what portion of sheet she could from under him and hid his lower body with it. While she fussed with the ends of the sheet, Fredrick only stared at her with his good eye. When she was done, she clutched her hands behind her back, shifting uncertainly from one foot to the other.
“Are you thirsty? Hungry perhaps? I could go—”
He squeezed his eye tightly as though to shut her up. She did. A master at appreciating facial expressions, she’d learned early in her life how to read people. And this man wanted silence.
Poking his chained foot from under the sheet, exposing his lean and well-formed thigh, he raised it slightly to check on his bandaged ankle. “You’ve done this before.”
She nodded, torn between her judgment, which was telling her to stay well away from his reach, and her heart, which clamored that she wrap her arms around his shoulders and hold him tight.
“You’ve wasted your time and skill then,” he went on, the red eye never leaving her face. “I’ll be back this way in four weeks.”
A strong gust buffeted the tiny flame in her heart. “What do you mean?”
Anger flashed across his face, but was quickly replaced with something that melted her insides. Anguish. He looked away.
Never let your guard down, show fear or doubt or guilt. Never let anyone close.
The mantra she’d chanted to herself since she was a little girl couldn’t help her now. It hadn’t helped her in the last weeks either as she tried to ignore the budding feeling in her heart.
It was all too late, Scarlet realized—she’d already let her guard down.
Chapter Seven
Fredrick would have shaken his head. There was no deflating this girl. To look at her now, standing straight as a poker, well inside his reach, one would think there was no danger being near him, that perhaps this woman felt no fear. She did, of course, he could smell it faintly, though not the overpowering stench of the others before her.
And he’d never noticed before how beautiful she was, with a mane of unruly copper curls and the darkest eyes. Of course, he’d noticed her enough to kiss her and try to use her—a lot of good that did him—but he hadn’t yet taken the time to really look at her. She’d been working for him what, a moon now? An ache in his chest flared, an old ache, one he thought long gone. Fredrick pushed it down below the surface. Only pain there. Nothing else.
Anyway, he was too old for her by at least eighty-five years. The thought made him grin, which triggered a scree of painful spasms along his sides and neck. That bitch of a cousin. He’d rip her heart out if he ever had the chance. But he forced the murderous thoughts away and concentrated on Scarlet and trying to win her over once again. He’d been so rash to grab her wrist, and he’d cursed his stupidity many times in the last month. She’d been so distant. So guarded. Now he had to climb that same hill all over again. And it would undoubtedly be steeper than the last time.
“How’s the rose garden? Has someone been taking care of it?”
She blushed beet red. “The rose garden…? Ah, yes. Someone must take very good care of it. It’s very beautiful.”
Her strange attitude piqued his curiosity. Why would she blush so completely when all he asked about was the state of his garden? Nonetheless, pride swelled his heart. He’d worked damn hard on that garden. It was even older than he was. “Good. Are there any orange roses left? Near the corner, beside the fountain?”
With her cheeks still rosy, Scarlet nodded. “Most are in full bloom now. Did you plant it all?”
“Almost,” Fredrick replied, trying to hide a stitch of pain when he fiddled behind him to adjust a pillow. She drew near and did it for him but retreated right away. “But the orange ones are my favorites. It took me a while to learn how to handle them. They have very prickly personalities.” He tried not to smile. “They remind me of you.”
“They do?”
Was she blushing again? She was.
Fredrick wanted to pat himself on the back and at the same time, he’d like nothing more than give his backside a good kick. He was shamelessly tricking the only decent person he’d come in contact with in the past several months. It would seem his cousin had exacerbated some traits he would’ve preferred remained dormant. God, he hated himself right then.
“You should leave while you can, Scarlet,” he let out under his breath. “This is no place for the likes of you.”
He winced inwardly. Fredrick couldn’t remember ever showing such candor to anyone. What was wrong with him? Since when had he begun to speak openly about…well, anything? Lying didn’t come easily around her. Using Scarlet wasn’t going the way he’d planned, not at all. She wasn’t supposed to be this…decent, this likable. Bury it, he told himself for the tenth time this day.
“The likes of
me?” she replied, those two dark gems for eyes flashing in anger.
Before he could say another word, she marched to the door and left. The sting her departure elicited surprised him. She’d obviously misunderstood him. He’d only meant…
Why should he care? After—if—he succeeded in convincing her to pick his lock, he’d owe her his life and would make sure she had enough coins to make a new life for herself. But then she’d leave. For what woman in her right mind would stay around here, around him?
The thought of not seeing her again brought with it such a pang of sadness that Fredrick had to press his hand against his chest. He’d been there too long and couldn’t think straight.
Moments later, he felt a presence in the stairs but heard nothing. Scarlet. Only she could be so stealthy. He watched as she maneuvered the doorway balancing a plate in one hand and a teapot in the other. Balance, stability and strength. All rolled into a very thorny but lovely package.
Scarlet crossed the circular room and set her things on his side of the table. She stood clearly inside the semicircle worn in the rug.
So strange, he was already getting used to her tiptoeing right inside his reach, though he couldn’t guess why she did it, knowing he could easily overpower her, hurt her. As he’d told her, tiptoeing was for frightened children. She was no child. But clearly, she was frightened. Yet she managed to dredge courage out of herself and face him every day. And if this was the only thing he knew about her, it’d still be enough. Scarlet had a good soul.
“Here, have some tea. It always helps me when…the heat will help you.”
Outside a night bird threw a shrill note. He looked up at the cleft in the wall, which was supposedly someone’s idea of a window. It was barely wide enough for his face. A sigh struggled up his chest. He forced it down.
“You’re obviously Dutch. Where are you from?” The question made him cringe. He shouldn’t ask questions, shouldn’t let her become more…more than what, exactly?
“Amsterdam.”
Short and to the point. He was beginning to like this woman a bit much.
“What were you doing before she hired you?” Thieving, he knew it as surely as he knew the moon was round. But what else? He wasn’t sure why he wanted to know, but he did. Foolish male pride, no doubt.
Scarlet shrugged. The mask was lowered again, hiding her feelings, guarding her soul.
“Were you a whore or a thief? Or both?” Shame at being so rude to her made him even angrier with himself. Yet images of her bedding other men angered him beyond caution. He had to know.
“You sure have a strange way to show gratitude, Master,” she replied evenly, though he could tell he’d upset her.
She poured a cup of tea and set it on the table. Coming to the head of his bed, she piled pillows under him. Calluses marked her palms and knuckles. Her touch, both rough and gentle, triggered an awareness he could’ve done without. The way she’d bathed him a few weeks back stabbed at his brain with merciless clarity. His shaft remembered too. But every week afterward had been different. She’d stood by while he bathed, not looking at him, an expression he couldn’t read on her face.
She was proving to be a tough nut to crack. But he was desperate and patient. Not a good combination when he came to think of it.
When she raised the cup to his lips, the heat emanating from it indeed did him good. “My thanks,” he muttered after taking a small sip.
“Where did all the blood come from? I haven’t seen any wound on you deep enough for this,” she asked, pointing to the dark stain on the stone floor.
He froze with his lips against the cup. She must have noticed his reaction for she arched a copper eyebrow.
“The blood isn’t mine.”
Again, frankness. Fredrick wanted to roll his eyes but it hurt too much. Already his body was healing, closing cuts, smoothing down bruises. His swollen eye had begun to open again. He knew the extent of his condition’s healing capability for having tested it repeatedly, especially over the past two years with his cousin’s sadistic tactics. She used to come up to him only on full moons, and then a couple of times a month. Recently, she’d taken to tormenting him every chance she had. The hated bitch.
There had been times when he’d transformed out of rage. But never in the tower, much to his cousin’s chagrin. That had been before, long ago, back when he had no self-control. He did now. He’d get out eventually, and when he did…God help them.
Only this moon, someone had noticed the incongruous amount of blood given the state of his body. Too smart this woman. But he could never tell her why he had the ability to heal so fast. She wouldn’t understand. She would think him a freak, a monstrous aberration.
“Whose is it then?”
Questions! Had she no sense? Anger bubbled dangerously close to the surface. Coming here, asking questions, remaining where he could touch her. Touch her. God, how he wanted to! To again feel her lean body against his, her lips on his.
“Aren’t you afraid of me? I could kill you with one hand.”
A guarded smile lifted a corner of her exquisite mouth. “If you wanted me dead, I would be. Here, have a biscuit. The cooks had them cooling on the rack.”
I’m trying to warn her, and she’s offering me a biscuit!
The sight of her smile—no beaming grin but a smile nonetheless—felt as though a choir of angelic voices had just struck a crystal-clear note. The pathetic imagery left him depressed and cross.
Who was using whom now? He felt a puppet in a tangle of strings because of her.
Feeling moodier by the second, Fredrick took one of the offered biscuits and slowly bit into it. Warm butter seeped onto his tongue. By God, they were good. Fredrick gobbled up two in a row then took his time with the third. With the steaming tea and the succulent biscuits in his belly, he did indeed feel much better, contrary to his regular meals, which always left him with a thick tongue and a headache. So Lothar hadn’t had access to this food.
Fredrick’s brow darkened at the thought of Lothar and his “medicine”. When he got free, he’d begin with Lothar. Oh, and he’d make it last too.
Scarlet sat on the edge of the bed, looking at him while he ate. Though he didn’t care at first, her continued scrutiny began to make him uncomfortable, pulled him out of his satisfying mental imagery of revenge. Was she staring because of his pale skin, his white hair? Did she think him a freak? He could deal with curiosity. It wasn’t everyday someone met a man who towered over the rest by a good head, one with white skin and hair. One with red eyes. Even before his attack, as a child, he’d suffered under strangers’ stares or worse, the barely veiled pity.
He needed no one’s pity.
“Leave,” he snarled. “Now!”
The look of pain on her face as she stepped away from the bed tore at his chest, made him wince. She gathered the remnants of his meal and left without another word.
He’d have no chance now convincing her to help him. Fredrick snarled and threw the cup she’d left behind against the far wall. He’d failed. In another month or two, his cousin would grow tired of Scarlet and begin searching for another unfortunate, another orphan. Another disposable.
And it was all his fault.
Chapter Eight
Tears welled in her eyes. Even now, more than a fortnight later, Fredrick’s words still hurt. Angrily she wiped the tears away. Why should she care what he said? All she wanted was her money so she could make another life for herself. Never mind the enticing lock at his ankle, a lock she itched to pick.
“Are you all right there, Scarlet?” Frank asked, his riding crop ever-present in his hand. His weathered face looked tight with worry.
As much as she enjoyed being around the old driver, today, with the clouds and implacable wind tearing at her face and the weight pulling at her heart, she didn’t want company. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.” The interior courtyard was deserted. No one in his or her right mind would be out on such a day.
Through the meta
l gate, she could spot the rosebushes fretting in the wind that managed to reach the walled enclosure. Bright spots of orange caught her eye. His favorites, he’d said. Right before yelling at her to leave. She gave a good shake to the rug she’d just beaten.
Frank looked past her at the rose garden. “I’ve been the one caring for them ever since. I do what I can, but I don’t have the master’s skill. Nor his patience.”
She stopped wrestling with the rug. “The roses?”
He nodded. “They’re old,” he said. “Very old.” A grin lifted the old man’s mouth. “Master Fredrick got you working ragged, hasn’t he? He was always harder on himself than others, though.”
“What was he like, before his…illness?” She’d realized by now no illness was keeping him in the tower. Something else did, much darker, much more sinister.
Frank snorted in disgust. “Illness, my eye.”
Shocked, Scarlet leaned into the old man, keeping the rug stretched on the line as barrier against potential onlookers. “What do you mean? I saw him. He’s all flushed and feverish.” Beaten and bloodied and half-poisoned as well. But this, she left unsaid. Guilt was gnawing at her on a daily basis now, and haunted her nights too. She was part of the dark affair, willingly kept her mouth shut even though she could smell the lie for what it was. All because of coins. What did this make of her?
“I’d be this way too if I were stuck in that place for two years. He hasn’t come out once since they put him there. And no one here’s managed to pass that damn test recently…except those the lady hires from away.” He threw her an oblique glance. One she avoided.
Two years. Good Heaven. Scarlet hadn’t even thought to ask. Her guilt flared. And he hadn’t come out once? Her anger at his harsh words subsided in the face of his greater plight. She wouldn’t know what she’d become if she were confined to a tower for two years. No wonder he’d lost his temper.
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