Temptress

by Lisa Jackson

  “Mayhap we’re making too much of this,” Morwenna said. She was seated near the fire and staring past the sheriff’s legs to the flames. “A man was found beaten and left for dead. ’Tis a crime, yes, but one we can’t solve without the victim’s word. We’ve acted as if our own keep was threatened, but could this not have been a simple highway robbery?”

  “Then why not take the ring? ’Tis valuable gold for melting down.”

  “Maybe someone or something scared the attacker off before he could snatch it.”

  “Or if this man we’ve got here was the attacker, his victim was somehow able to escape with his horse and leave him behind.” The sheriff clucked his tongue and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What does the physician say?”

  “He now expects him to live.”

  “Good.” Payne adjusted his hat upon his head and his eyes glittered with a hardness that Morwenna had never before witnessed. “Then when he awakens, we’ll see what he has to say.”

  “If it be the truth.”

  Payne’s mouth twisted cruelly. “What are the chances of that?”

  Twilight had descended upon the keep, and the Redeemer slipped silently through the corridors. Moving stealthily, he hastened down the staircase to what had once been the archive chamber. Thirty years past, after a particularly nasty bout of thievery, the room had been changed into a storage chamber, where seldom used items had been left to collect dust and become vermin-riddled and forgotten. Few even remembered that the room existed.

  Listening for footsteps and hearing none, he slid a rusted key into the lock. With a low, resonant creak the door swung open. Stale air greeted him as he held his torch aloft and then quickly closed and locked the door behind him. Quietly he walked unerringly to the small grate on the floor, reached between the rusted bars, and found a latch that he unhinged. Straightening, he walked to the back of the chamber and pushed against a notched stone. Immediately the back wall moved on noiseless hinges, opening to a yawning dark staircase and a web of narrow corridors that had been built into the old keep during its construction.

  His shoulders brushed against the walls on both sides as he slid into the corridor, where the air was dry and lifeless. He heard the scratch of tiny claws as rats and other unseen vermin scrambled out of his path. Yet he smiled. No one knew of these ancient, hidden hallways, and those who did believed them to be a myth. Only he knew how to access them and use them to his advantage.

  He came to a V in the narrow passage and turned unerringly to the right, climbing ever upward, the soft leather soles of his shoes making no sound over the accelerated rate of his own breathing, the pumping of his heart. For in a few minutes he would be in his viewing chamber near he ceiling of the keep, where hidden he would be able to look down on her.

  Morwenna.

  Lady of the keep.

  Sensually innocent.

  His groin tightened at the thought of her, of watching her, and a dryness settled in the back of his throat. Unseen, in weeks and months past, he’d viewed her slipping out of her tunic and chemise. He had spied upon her as she’d settled into a scented tub, the round, rosy nipples of her breasts visible beneath the dark water. He imagined suckling there, tasting her, touching her, the sweet ecstasy of dominating her. As he’d watched, his agony had been exquisite. Gingerly he’d slid his fingers into his breeches and slowly caressed himself, restraining his eagerness, extending the torture of not having her. He’d been careful not to speak, determined not to let out so much as a soft groan to give away his presence. Nor had he relieved himself of the discomfort. Nay, no matter how long he was hard, no matter how much sweat and desire ran down his skin, no matter how much his muscles strained and his cock ached for release, he’d forced himself to wait.

  For her.

  All of her.

  In his mind’s eye, he imagined his lips behind her ear, his teeth at her throat. . . . He shook at the image, and beneath the folds of his tunic, his member responded. Gritting his teeth, he climbed ever upward in the slim, forgotten staircase.

  On the third level aboveground, the corridor split into two pathways. He veered toward her chamber and again up a narrow set of flat stones.

  Almost there!

  He left his torch in an empty iron holder and then continued upward, his fingertips running along the rough, familiar walls as he mentally counted each step. As quietly as a cat, he slunk to his hiding spot, where, through the slits between the stones, he peered downward. Though his view was partially blocked, he saw most of the chamber. Licking his lips, praying that the fire was stoked bright enough so he could see her upon her bed, he pressed his face to the crack between the stones, his nose flattening with his effort. His heartbeat was pounding a wild tattoo in his eardrums, his fingers damp with anticipation, his cock ever thickening as he scanned the dark chamber.

  It was impossible to see her, but he strained and he listened hard, holding his breath, hoping to hear her gentle breathing, the rustle of bedclothes, the soft rush of a sigh as she dreamed.

  Nothing.

  He strained. Yet he couldn’t see her, didn’t hear a sound over the hiss of the fire.

  Anxiously he moved his gaze over the chamber so far beneath him, past the bed and the stool holding a basin, along the rushes of the floor to the alcove where her clothes were hung, past the chairs positioned at the grate . . . Damn!

  A rising sense of panic flooded him. His hands began to shake.

  Look again! Do not be fooled by the shadows!

  Was she not in the bed?

  He squinted hard.

  Were the bed sheets rumpled but empty?

  Nay! The miserable dog was there, curled into a useless ball. But the beast was alone, breathing shallowly, guarding no one! Wretched, useless cur.

  Disappointment welled deep within and rage seared the corners of the Redeemer’s brain.

  Where the devil was she?

  Where? The question echoed and ricocheted through his brain, and his erection began to wither and die. All his plans for this night, ruined! He leaned his forehead against the rough stones and slowed his breathing. As he did, an ugly realization began to dawn upon him.

  Suddenly he knew with a deadly certainty where he’d find her. Cold sweat slid along his neck and shoulders, and his nostrils flared as if he’d encountered a rank smell.

  Carrick! The Redeemer’s lips curled in silent fury. A hatred as dark as the very heart of Satan curdled through his bloodstream.

  She’s with her lover. With Carrick of Wybren. She is forever drawn to him!

  The Redeemer’s hands became impotent fists.

  Patience, he silently warned himself, patience. ’Tis not only a virtue, but a necessity.

  He turned so quickly he nearly stumbled, but caught himself, scraping his fingers upon the wall.

  Mentally chastising himself, he raced along the hallway, snagging his torch and then slowing to creep past the juncture leading downward. He sucked the spittle from his lips and moved as swiftly as possible.

  Along the less-familiar corridor, he had to fumble for the bracket and then left his torch in the waiting holder. Fury pounding at his temples, he edged upward to another viewing post, a spot that would allow him to look down upon the prisoner, who lay motionless upon his bed.

  Alone.

  Yes!

  Relief slipped through the Redeemer. Mayhap the fascination he sensed Morwenna had for the prisoner was only his own fear getting the better of him.

  Then where is she?

  A good question, he thought. A very good question.

  One that bothered him.

  He could search the castle, but he didn’t have the time. There was a chance that he would be missed.

  It was a chance he dared not take.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Who are you?” Morwenna whispered as she slipped into the room and stared down at the beaten man. Biting her lip, she ran a fingertip along his bruised cheek as she gazed upon him. The room was dark, only the glow from th
e firelight allowing her to view his distorted features. Swollen eyes, discolored skin, and a beard covering his jaw. Was he really Carrick?

  Her throat constricted at the thought.

  Don’t believe it. This man could be anyone. A thief who stole the ring with its crest of Wybren. A man with hair as dark as Carrick’s. An imposter who happens to be of the same height.

  But why would he pretend to be Carrick of Wybren, a man who was thought to be either dead or a traitor to his family, even a murderer?

  Murderer. She shrank from the thought. Surely not Carrick. Aye, he was a blackheart. True, he took her virtue along with her heart, but a killer? Nay. She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Looking intently at the stranger, she attempted to see Carrick’s face beneath the bruised features, imagine the man she’d loved so recklessly lying upon this bed, his eyes shut, his chest barely rising and falling with his shallow breaths.

  Over the past ten days, he’d begun to heal, yet the scabbing and swelling destroyed the natural contours of his face.

  Think, Morwenna, think. You saw him naked. Were there not old scars or marks upon his skin that would confirm that he is Carrick? She closed her eyes for a second, envisioned the rogue she remembered.

  Tall, with a chiseled jaw and a nose that wasn’t quite straight, teeth that flashed in sarcastic humor, eyes that seemed to see to the far reaches of her soul. His hair had been black, with a bit of a wave, his muscles taut and close to the skin, not an ounce of fat upon his frame. Scars? Had there been evidence of an old wound upon his body? A birthmark or mole upon his skin?

  For the past three years she’d tried to forget him, to force her mind away from the vibrant images of a man who had so heartlessly left her, a man who everyone had warned her was a callous rogue, a man to whom she’d so recklessly offered her heart.

  Now, looking down at him, studying the battered lines of his face, she knew not who he was.

  So her efforts had been wasted.

  Unable to sleep, she had risked leaving her chamber and made her way to the latrine and then waited until the guard himself had gone to relieve himself before slipping inside the prisoner’s chamber. She would be found out, of course, but at least she wouldn’t have to have the discussion or argument at the door. And, truth be known, the guard, Isa, Alexander, even the sheriff himself could complain mightily about her conduct, but there was little anyone could do about it. She was the lady of the castle. Her word was law.

  Again she glanced down at the man, studying him intently. Could it be? She cleared her throat and then whispered, “Carrick?”

  No response. Not even the slightest movement of an eyeball beneath his discolored eyelids. She bit her lip. Carrick had blue eyes. She wondered as she stared down at the wounded man just what color his were.

  There was one certain way to find out. Carefully, her finger trembling, she touched his eyelid. Some of the swelling had decreased over the past week, and she was able to force his eyelid upward. The bloody orb beneath made her cringe. The white part was bright red but the iris was as blue as a morning sky.

  Like Carrick’s.

  Her heart jolted as the pupil shrank and seemed to focus on her.

  Because of the light?

  Or because the bloody bastard was awake?

  “Can you see me—hear me?” she demanded and then let the eyelid close and felt a fool in this chamber where the embers of the fire glowed a deep scarlet. She braced herself and tried again. This time she touched his bare shoulder and whispered into his ear. “Carrick!”

  Was it her imagination or did the muscles beneath her fingertips tighten a bit?

  Her heart jolted.

  You conjured up his response.

  Ignoring her doubts, she cleared her throat. Felt her pulse leaping.

  “It’s Morwenna. Remember me?” I’m the woman you lied to. The woman you promised to love. The woman you turned your back on. “Carrick?”

  Again that tiny tension beneath her fingers.

  Could he hear her?

  Footsteps sounded outside the door. “What the devil?” a gruff voice muttered. “Bloody hell!” The door flew open to bang against the wall.

  Was it her imagination or did she again feel a reaction where her fingers touched the wounded man’s skin?

  “M’lady?” Sir Vernon the guard demanded. A big brute of a man, he’d already unsheathed his sword and was surveying the interior of the chamber as if he expected to be ambushed at any second. “What’re you doin’ here?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted.

  “You shouldna come into this room alone, especially when I’m not at my post.” At his own admission some of the bristle seeped out of him. “I mean, I was just down the corridor, in the latrine takin’ a . . . Oh, m’lady, forgive me. I shouldna have left my station.”

  “ ’Tis all right,” she assured him, stepping away from the wounded man’s bed. “I let myself in and nothing is amiss.” She offered the guard her best smile. “Worry not, Sir Vernon.” Sliding one last glance at the man on the bed, she added, “I don’t think he will do anyone any harm for a long while.”

  “But if he’s Carrick of Wybren, he’s a murderin’ bastard and he canna be trusted.” Vernon pointed at the unmoving man with his sword and then, realizing the inanity of his actions, rammed his weapon into a sheath strapped to his thick waist.

  “I don’t think I have any concerns from him.”

  Vernon glowered, bushy eyebrows slamming over furious, dark eyes. “Even sleeping, Lucifer is dangerous.”

  “I suppose you’re right, Sir Vernon,” she said, though she wasn’t convinced the man was evil. Nor could she say for certain if he was Carrick. Only he, and perhaps his assailants, knew his true identity.

  So what if he is Carrick? What will you do then?

  “Good night, Sir Vernon,” she said.

  “And you, m’lady.” As if determined to prove his valor, Vernon stood with his feet apart, spine stiff as steel.

  Morwenna walked the few feet to her chamber, kicked the door closed, and flung herself onto her bed. What had she been thinking? What had she expected to learn by slipping into the man’s chamber? By touching him?

  Mort let out a soft woof, his tail pounding the covers for a second, and then he sighed loudly and slipped back into slumber.

  Absently Morwenna petted the dog’s thick ruff, but her thoughts were jumbled and far away. She owed Carrick nothing: no allegiance, no concern, and least of all love. Her lips compressed as she remembered the day he’d ridden away. Cowardly. Before dawn. Leaving her alone in the bed.

  She’d felt a breath of wind stir and had awoke to find him gone, the sheets where he’d lain still warm and rumpled, the small room where they’d taken shelter still smelling of the dying fire and the musk of the morning’s sex. She’d heard a cock crow as she’d walked to the window and imagined she’d seen him and his horse on the horizon, the fog shrouding his image, the pain in her heart so suddenly intense her knees buckled and she’d had to bite down on her lip not to cry out.

  She’d known then he wasn’t returning. Would never. And yet she’d gone after him, intent on confronting him, on telling him what she suspected, nay, knew to be the truth. . . . Oh, she’d thought she’d come away from the meeting with a shred of dignity, a bit of pride. And she’d been mistaken.

  That’s what you get for trusting a rogue, for giving your heart away so recklessly.

  Now, lying upon her bed, her jaw tightening and tears threatening her eyes, she forced her mind back. She’d cried her last drop for that coward.

  And what about you? Why had you not told him the truth when you had the chance? Were you not just as cowardly as he? Why did you give him the chance to flee?

  She gnashed her teeth at the unanswered questions that had chased after her for what seemed a lifetime. Had she secretly known that he would abandon her and had she tested him, unwilling to force him to her, keeping her lips sealed and waiting for him to leave her? So that she co
uld chase after him, find a horse, hop on the beast’s broad back and . . . and . . .

  She squeezed her eyes shut. A hot blush of embarrassment flooded her face. What good was it now to think of what had happened or what could have been? Blinking rapidly, she banished the wayward images, refused to conjure up any forlorn, self-pitying feelings for herself. She’d survived his betrayal. Had become stronger for it.

  As it turned out, the beast had done her a favor!

  What if the near-dead man is proved to be Carrick? What will you do?

  ’Twould serve the blackheart right if she was to return his lying hide to Lord Graydynn. Wybren was less than one day’s journey on horseback, even shorter if one took the old road and forded the river near Raven’s Crossing. Graydynn might pay well to have the traitor returned.

  Elsewise, she could, as Sir Alexander suggested, jail him in the dungeon. Let him suffer a while. ’Twould serve the scoundrel right!

  Nay.

  She sighed at her silly fantasies.

  She knew better than to try to get back at a man who had wronged her. ’Twas petty. And foolish. Besides, the beaten man was most likely not Carrick but a simple thief who had been attacked on the road.

  And yet . . . there was something about the stranger that jogged her memory and caused her pulse to quicken.

  “Idiot,” she chastised herself as she pulled the bedclothes up to her neck, causing the dog to reposition himself. Before she closed her eyes, she glanced around this chamber that had been her own for less than a year. Sometimes . . . ’twas silly, she knew, but . . . sometimes she felt as if she was being watched, as if the room itself had eyes.

  By the gods, what was she thinking? ’Twas only her tired mind playing tricks upon her. Besides, ’twas something she could not voice, for if she did, her brother would surely take away her privilege of running this keep. She’d had to beg Kelan, who ruled over several baronies, including Penbrooke, to give her the chance to become the lady of Calon. Now, if Kelan knew she was thinking the castle was haunted, or someone was glowering at her from the shadows, or that there was a chance Carrick of Wybren was sleeping in a bed across the hallway, Kelan would surely interfere and, mayhap, think again about letting a woman be in charge of this castle. Mayhap Kelan would order Tadd, who was off fighting for the king, back to rule. Perhaps he would want Bryanna, sent to Calon as Morwenna’s companion on the hope the girl would grow up, to return to Penbrooke to be with him and his wife, Kiera. Kelan was still the ultimate ruler.