Temptress

by Lisa Jackson

  “Or else some husband caught him raising the skirts of his wife,” Anne confided.

  Chuckles erupted and Alexander let out a disgusted breath. “Women,” he muttered as Morwenna lengthened her stride and maneuvered away from the nattering crones.

  She walked swiftly alongside the armorer’s hut. The steady ping of a hammer molding chain mail could be heard over the nasty hiss of a goose as it chased a small, interloping rooster out of Morwenna’s path.

  As she passed through a final gate, Morwenna glanced at the heavens. The clouds were ominously gray and thick with the promise of more rain.

  “I know not what you expect to find today,” Alexander said gruffly as they reached the stables and Mort found a favorite post, where he lifted his leg.

  “Nor do I, but mayhap my curiosity will be satisfied.”

  He tossed her a doubtful look as she walked inside. The smells of hay, horses, leather, and dung assailed her and the wind no longer pulled at her hair. Morwenna walked unerringly to a stall where her favorite little jennet was already saddled and waiting.

  Dark eyes bright, Alabaster snorted loudly and tossed her white head, jangling her bridle.

  “Ready to run, she is,” John, the stable master, said. He reached down and patted Mort’s head. “There’s somethin’ in the air that’s got all the horses ill at ease this morn.” Straightening, he frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Somethin’ they don’t like.”

  “Like what?”

  He glanced at her as he reached for the reins to Alabaster’s bridle and shook his head. “Don’t know, but I feel it, too.” He stroked Alabaster’s neck.

  A frisson of fear slid down Morwenna’s spine. John seemed a solid man, a sensible, staid soul, nothing like the cackling alewives or the disturbingly quiet priest.

  “ ’Tis only the cold and the winter, John,” she said lightly, though she sensed he didn’t believe her and, in truth, she, too, was unnerved.

  Ever since the damned dream about Carrick.

  Dream?

  Or omen?

  She pushed her wayward thoughts aside and followed as John led her horse outside. Ever eager, Alabaster, nose to the wind, tail plumed, stepped into the crisp morning and began to pull at the reins. “Calm down, there,” the big man said, smoothing the horse’s neck. As white as a ghost, with gray stockings and muzzle, the jennet had been Morwenna’s horse for the past four years. “Be careful, m’lady,” John advised. “ ’Tis slippery this morn, the ground frozen. You take care.”

  “I will, John,” she said and, at the skeptical rise of his bushy blond eyebrows, added, “Promise.”

  “Oh, I’m not doubtin’ ye,” he said quickly, though his face flushed and his bulbous nose turned even redder as she swung onto the mare’s back. Footsteps flapped along the path, and Bryanna, her face chapped from the wind, her dark curls flying behind her, rushed around the corner. “Wait for me,” she said breathlessly. “I’m coming with you. John, I need a horse.”

  Morwenna inwardly groaned and the stable master looked up at her. She nodded to him and he motioned to a boy who was mucking out the stalls.

  “Kyrth, saddle Mercury for the lady. Did ye hear me, lad?”

  The boy tossed down his shovel and, brushing his palm across the seat of his breeches, gave a quick nod. “Aye. ’Twill be but a minute.” He ducked under the low-hanging roof and disappeared into the stable while Alexander mounted his own steed, a bloodred stallion who pranced near enough to Alabaster that she turned her white head and tried to take a nip out of the larger horse’s flank.

  “Steady, girl,” Morwenna cautioned. “You don’t want to pick on someone so much stronger, now.” But as she spoke to the horse, an image flashed through her mind, a picture of herself with a sword, going toe to toe with Carrick. He was far stronger than she, over six feet tall and muscular. Though she was quick on her feet and deadly with a sword, he had easily disarmed her, leaving her breathless as he pointed his weapon at her heart. They had been in a castle courtyard, alone, the sweet scents of honeysuckle and roses wafting through the evening air, and her back was pressed hard against the stones of one wall.

  “You lost, m’lady,” Carrick had told her, his eyes glinting in the coming dusk.

  “This time.” She’d tossed her hair out of her face and met his gaze as the sword didn’t move. She was breathing hard, sweating from exertion, her heart pumping. Carrick, too, was flushed, a sheen of perspiration covering his brow.

  “Every time.”

  “You flatter yourself.”

  His smile had been slow and sensual. “Mayhap I must, for no one else will.”

  “And now you’re begging for a compliment.”

  His grin had nearly been evil. “But you won’t give me one, will you?”

  She’d tossed back her head and laughed. “That’s where you’re wrong. I believe with all my heart that you, Carrick of Wybren, are the most handsome and arrogant and prideful snake I’ve ever met.”

  “Snake?” He feigned shock. “I’m wounded!”

  “Asp?”

  “ ’Tis the same.”

  “Both speak with a split tongue, do they not?” she’d teased, and as a spark had flared in his eyes, he’d dropped his sword, letting it clatter to the stones, and swiftly pinned her against the wall with his body. His lean muscles had strained over hers, calf to calf, thigh to thigh, chest to breast. She’d barely been able to take in air, he was so tight against her.

  “You’re a vexation, Morwenna,” he’d said, his breath whispering against her ear, his hands holding hers over her head, then moving slowly downward, stroking her muscles. Her heart had been a wild thing, pounding and pumping. He’d kissed her then, his face pulsing hot, his lips hard and insistent and that tongue she’d so recently decried working its magic upon her. With an unwilling moan, Morwenna had melted against the courtyard walls. . . .

  “Let’s be off!” Bryanna’s voice sliced through Morwenna’s daydream as if it were a cleaver. She let out her breath, noticed Alexander staring at her, and flushed hot in the cold air. Clearing her throat and giving her head a sharp little shake, she pushed the memory aside as Alabaster trotted from the stable, Mercury in tow.

  With the stableboy’s help Bryanna mounted and took the reins in her gloved fingers. “Let’s be off,” she said again breathily, excitement flaring in her eyes.

  “Aye.” Alexander nodded.

  Losing no time, they rode through an open gate to the outer bailey, where sheep, cattle, and more horses were penned. In the orchard, skeletal trees stood, shivering in the wind. Only a few hardy winter apples and a scolding black crow were visible in the naked branches.

  As they passed under the raised portcullis of the back gate, Alexander mumbled something under his breath about a “fool’s mission.” He lifted a gloved hand to the guard and then spurred his mount down the frozen road leading toward the river.

  Outside the protection of the thick castle walls, the wind raced fiercely, once again slapping at Morwenna’s face and tugging at her hair. Ignoring the cold, she urged her mount to keep up with the swifter horse and felt Alabaster stretch out, her legs extending into an easy gallop as they veered off the road, raced across a fallow field, and headed toward the woods on the north side of the keep. Whooping happily, Bryanna clung like a burr to Mercury’s neck and followed gamely. To her younger sister, this morning was a lark, a welcome breath of excitement. To Morwenna the situation was far more grave and troublesome, yet she, too, felt exhilarated with the rush of the wind and the clods of dirt flying up from beneath her horse’s hooves. It felt good to escape the castle walls. Her spirit seemed to soar, to be unburdened, for as much as she loved Calon, there was something within the keep, something dark and sinister that she didn’t understand, a gloom she was all too glad to shed this morning.

  You’ve listened to Isa too long.

  You’ve had one too many disturbing dreams.

  Alexander slowed at the edge of the forest, and as the horses b
reathed loudly, hot breath streaming from their nostrils, he found a deer trail that had been recently trampled by many horses’ hooves.

  “This way,” he said, and Morwenna’s short spurt of elation faded with the darkness of the surrounding woods. Following behind Alexander upon his mount, Morwenna heard the sound of voices drifting through the forest. As they passed beneath a tattered canopy of leafless trees and through a patch of scrub brush, the voices became louder. In a small clearing they found the sheriff, two of his men, and Jason, the huntsman. All the men had dismounted and were studiously surveying the ground beside a near-frozen creek. They looked up at the sound of the horses, and hats were quickly swiped from their heads as they lowered their eyes.

  “M’lady,” the sheriff said as she climbed off her jennet.

  “This is where the man was found?” Alexander asked. He hopped to the ground and Bryanna, as well, slid off her horse.

  “Aye, behind that log, near the big rock.” Jason pointed to a large boulder with flat surfaces, sharp edges, and several dark splotches that ran in reddish rivulets to pool in small puddles upon the ground.

  Blood.

  Inwardly Morwenna shivered.

  Alexander asked, “Have you discovered anything?”

  Payne, the sheriff, shook his graying head. He had wild silver eyebrows, a high forehead, and lids that drooped over the corners of his eyes. Even so, Morwenna thought he saw more than most people. “There is not much to see. The remains of a campfire over there”—he pointed to a small pit where charred wood was visible and then moved his hand toward a stand of yew—“horse dung over there, and of course the blood on the rock along with some dark hairs. Probably a head—his head—smashed against it.”

  Bryanna let out a sound of protest, but the sheriff continued. “There are hoofprints, of course, and boot prints all around.” He motioned to the ground. “Many of the impressions are unclear, but . . .” He squatted as he stared at the ground. “It seems that there are at least two different sizes of feet involved, and I would guess from the trodden underbrush that there was a struggle near this rock.” He scowled as he glanced about the copse of trees lining the small clearing. “Some of the smaller branches of a few trees are broken, but we can’t be certain they were snapped in a struggle, though that would be my assumption.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully and his eyes narrowed upon the area, as if he was imagining the events that had occurred. “I’d say that the man Jason found here was ambushed at this spot, fought off his attacker or attackers, lost the battle, and was left for dead.”

  “Or whoever was attacked prevailed and the man we have in the keep is the criminal. With what we know, we cannot determine who began the struggle here.” Alexander walked over to the rock and eyed it. “The man Jason found may well have been the assailant and his intended victim escaped.”

  “Or his body is yet to be found in the woods,” Payne said as if to himself, and Morwenna shuddered. “But the beaten man’s weapon had no blood upon it—his dagger was sheathed when he was found.” Payne stood, a knee popping as he straightened. “ ’Tis a mystery. The best answers will come from the prisoner once we talk to him.”

  “He’s not a prisoner,” Morwenna said.

  “A guest then?” Payne snorted as if he thought the idea absurd. “Something happened here, Lady Morwenna, something violent and criminal.” As he said the words, a gust of wind rattled the branches of an old oak tree, almost as if it were the whisper of fate. Payne’s gaze focused hard on Morwenna. “As I hear it, the wounded man is wearing a ring with the crest of Wybren, and one has to wonder how he got it.”

  Morwenna nodded stiffly, her mind wandering again to the identity of the wounded stranger.

  “Was the ring stolen?” Payne continued. “A gift? Is he somehow connected to Wybren? There’s been much trouble at that keep ever since the baron Dafydd’s family was killed and his nephew Graydynn became lord.” Payne scowled, his face grim, his nostrils flaring, as if he’d smelled something rotten. “I suggest you keep the stranger under lock and key, at least until we can determine his identity.”

  “A guard will be posted at his door.”

  The sheriff glanced at the bloodied rock. “Let’s hope that’s enough.”

  “He’s near death. I doubt we have much to fear from him.”

  “But what of his attacker? What if he returns?” the sheriff asked thoughtfully.

  Alexander said, “If he was attacked.”

  “There are many questions here and few answers.” Payne clucked his tongue as the wind swept through the forest with a keening sigh. “Far too few answers.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Every bone in his body ached as if the pain would never stop. Muscles he hadn’t known existed throbbed and his face felt afire, as if someone had taken a dull knife and peeled away his skin. He heard sounds . . . disembodied voices talking over and around him, as if he were truly dead, the words whispering across his burning skin like the wings of moths. Still he was unable to move. Couldn’t so much as flinch.

  He tried to speak, but no sound escaped his lips.

  Where was he?

  His mind was blurry and dark, as if he were lying in a fog-shrouded forest.

  How long had he been here?

  He tried to open an eye, but pain sliced through his brain, and he could do little but let out a moan and try to fight the blackness that pulled at the corners of his consciousness and threatened to drag him down in that blissful abyss where there was no pain, no memories. His mouth tasted foul, his tongue thick. He attempted to move a hand.

  Agony ripped through his body.

  He made another stab at speech, but his lips would not move and his voice failed him except to murmur a groan. As if from a distance, bits of conversation pierced through his pain from voices who had no faces.

  “He stirs,” one old woman said.

  “Nay, ’tis only the moan of a dying man. I heard he whispered Alena of Heath’s name when he was brought in.”

  Alena . . . Deep inside he felt something stir. Alena.

  “But he weren’t awake then, nor is ’e now.”

  “But—”

  “I’m tellin’ ye, he’s not awake. Watch.” He felt a hard hand upon his shoulder and all the fires of hell swept through him in a painful blast. Yet he could not move. “See . . . he’s as close to death as any man should be, and ’twould be a blessing if he passed.” The heavy hand was lifted.

  “Do ye think he’s a highwayman?” one worried female voice asked nervously. “An outlaw, then?”

  “Mayhap” was the response from a surer, steadier voice. That of the older woman. “I believe ’e were a ’andsome one. I wouldna be afeard of ’im searchin’ me skirts.”

  “Oh, ye’re awful, ye are,” the voice said. “How can ye tell, what with all his bruises and swelling? ’E looks more like a hog’s carcass after Cook has hacked off the meat fer sausage.”

  Both women cackled before he blissfully drifted off again.

  Later . . . how much time had passed he knew not, but his pain had lessened considerably and in his half-oblivious state, he heard prayers, intoned without inflection, from a man he presumed to be a priest, a man it seemed who thought his soul was about to leave his body, and it sounded, from the tenor of the priest’s words, that that very soul was about to plunge straight to the depths of hell. So days had to have passed . . . several days, he thought.

  He tried to lift an arm to let the priest know that he could hear, but his bones were too heavy and he was able to only listen as the priest, without much conviction, asked that his sins be forgiven.

  His sins.

  Had there been many? Or few?

  And what had they been? Against man? Woman? God?

  As he lay aching in the darkness, he didn’t know, couldn’t recall, didn’t care. He only wanted the remaining pain to go away, and as the priest left, he wondered if it would be better to embrace death rather than endure.

  His periods of consciousness wer
e thankfully brief and this one was no exception. As he began to slip away again, he heard a door creak open and then quiet footsteps.

  “How is he?” This voice was that of a woman. Whispered, so as not to disturb him, he presumed, but clear and filled with an underlying authority. A voice that touched a far corner of his memory, a voice he knew instinctively he should recognize.

  “About the same, m’lady” was the response from a gruff male voice.

  M’lady? The lord’s wife? Or daughter? He had to fight to keep from slipping back into the murk of unconsciousness.

  She sighed loudly and the delicate scent of lilacs reached his nostrils. “I wonder who he is and why he was found as near to the castle as he was to death.” What was it about her voice that was familiar? Had he known her?

  Think, damn it! Remember!

  “We all do,” the man said.

  More footsteps. Short. Hurried. Nearly frantic. “Has he awakened?” Another woman, older, he thought, with anxious threads running through her words.

  “Nay. Not yet.” The priest again.

  “By the Great Mother, I trust him not.”

  “Aye, Isa, we all know,” the man said.

  The older woman is Isa. He tried to commit her name to his memory and remind himself that she believed in the old spirits as he battled the blackness picking at the edges of his brain.

  “As you’ve said.” The younger woman again.

  “Lady Morwenna, he is healing. Mayhap we can now transfer him to the prison,” the older woman suggested.

  Morwenna?

  Why did that name strike a chord in him?

  Try to remember the younger woman, the one who seems to have some power here, is Morwenna.

  “Look at him, Isa. Does he look like he could harm anyone?” Morwenna demanded.

  “Sometimes things are not as they appear.”

  “I know, but for now, we will not treat this man as a prisoner.”

  A prisoner? What had he done for anyone to think that he should be locked away?

  More footsteps. Louder. Heavier.

  He struggled to stay awake, to learn of his plight.