by Lisa Jackson
Pain screamed through his body.
He was on fire.
Burning up from the inside out.
He felt the sweat, the salt seeping into his wounds, and was barely aware of anything other than the intense agony that ripped through his body.
I’m alone, he thought, for he heard no voices, no scrape of the soles of boots upon the stone floor, no breath rasping in and out of lungs as someone hovered over him.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed aside the pain, tried to think beyond the agony.
Think! he told himself. Where are you? Who are you? Why are you here?
But, Christ Jesus, the pain . . .
No . . . think not of it! Concentrate, damn it. Figure out what is happening. Look about you! Now!
With all his willpower, he attempted to open an eye and failed. His lid didn’t so much as twitch.
I’m blind, he thought miserably. I can’t see.
No! You can’t lift your eyelid . . . yet. Try again! Time is slipping through your fingers.
His fingers . . . oh, God, how they ached.
God in heaven, how long had he lain here?
Where was he? Some castle, though he couldn’t remember hearing its name.
There had been talk of placing him in the dungeon but she—Morwenna—had been against it, and it seemed that she was the lady of the keep. Morwenna. By the saints, why was that name so familiar? It echoed through his mind . . . Morwenna, Morwenna, Morwenna . . . teasing at him, conjuring up memories that came so close to the surface only to submerge again.
How do I know you?
What did it matter? He was dying. No one could survive this kind of pain and live. His eyes burned, his head felt as if it were twice its normal size, his body ached, and his hand . . . Christ Jesus, his right hand felt as if it was splitting apart. ’Twas as if Satan himself had severed the finger . . . or all his fingers. Clenching his muscles, concentrating so hard his head pounded, he tried again to raise his hand, to open his eyes . . . but could not. . . . His body trembled . . . his empty stomach wrenched and suddenly the blackness beckoned him again, slowly and seductively pulling him under.
Sweet, sweet oblivion was calling to him, promising him relief, and, curse his cowardice, he let himself fall willingly into her waiting, comforting arms. . . .
’Twas dark.
The castle was fast asleep.
The Redeemer crept through the secret corridors and stepped carefully, his ears straining to hear any noise that seemed out of place. Though he believed no one else knew there were hidden hallways and tunnels within this keep, or those who had once heard the rumors of secret passageways didn’t believe them, he was still cautious. Wary. So he strained to listen.
But he heard nothing other than the sound of his own heart pumping madly. Excitement sizzled through his bloodstream as he made his way through the tomblike corridors. He felt a sensation of power that was nearly godlike and it pleased him. He had much to do tonight.
First, a stop with the prisoner.
Noiselessly he moved through a narrow passage and up the stairs to an alcove where a body could barely squeeze through. Then, in this nearly airless cubicle, his fingers touched the wall in front of him and inched across the rough stones until he found a tiny crevice wherein the mortar was missing and a latch was hidden. Deftly he fingered the lock, and pushing with his feet, he moved a small section of the wall inward.
Agilely he slid into the room where the wounded man lay.
His blood was pumping, racing through his veins. His body tingled in anticipation. It would be easy to kill the bastard now, when the castle was asleep and the guard was snoozing at his post. So easy. Perhaps too easy.
There would be risk with his sudden death here at Calon. Questions. An inquisition.
But if the man were to die at Wybren, all the questions and theories about the fire would die with him. A morbid justice would be served if Carrick returned to Wybren to pay for sins not his own, a traitor hanged for all to see. . . . Aye, that would be so much better, and yet the Redeemer found the wait agonizing. As long as the man lived, there was a chance that all the Redeemer’s plans were for naught. ’Twould be so easy to place a hand over the man’s nose and mouth and hold him down as the hellion struggled for air that would never reach his lungs. Or it would be simple enough to bring a vial of poison to this locked room, break the seal, and pour the deadly liquid over the man’s cracked lips.
’Twas tempting.
So seductively enticing.
He itched to put an end to the man’s pathetic life.
In the near darkness, the Redeemer eyed his adversary. Still clinging to life. Still a threat. And yet still useful. Somehow this beaten pulp of an individual had to be blamed for the carnage at Wybren. Had to.
The Redeemer would see to it.
It had been a blessing in disguise that the man had been found and dragged to this keep, he reminded himself. A blessing. Others wanted him dead. Others had tried to silence him . . . and failed.
The Redeemer would not.
But the deed had to be done in the right manner.
And so, for this night, the wretched cur would live.
Only to die at the hangman’s hand.
Smiling to himself, the Redeemer slid through the shadows, crawled carefully into the passageway, and slipped into the tight corridor. He found a small handle cut into one of the stones and strained to pull the facade closed behind him and then, with a bit of difficulty, hooked the old latch. It was a wonder no one in the keep knew of the series of secret tunnels and false walls that had been built, most likely, as escape routes in case of a siege.
He sometimes worried that the prisoner might find this means of escape, but the traitor was in no shape to try to find a way out of his guarded chamber. Nor was he treated as a prisoner, which, should he awaken, might lull him into a sense of complacency.
Satisfied, the Redeemer made his way in the darkness. He had other matters to deal with.
Licking his lips in anticipation, he made his way along the narrow stone corridor. In his mind’s eye, he was already gazing down upon Morwenna from his private viewing alcove. He would be able to watch her sleeping form unseen.
And undisturbed.
Ah, yes . . . the thought of her lying there was enough to create a stirring deep in his loins, and his member began to twitch eagerly.
He nearly stumbled in his urgency and had to force himself to temper his lusty anticipation. Patience, he told himself, but already fire sizzled through his blood.
Rounding a final corner, he slipped quietly to his viewing stage and peered through the narrow opening between the rocks.
Tonight he was rewarded.
Faint light from a dying fire gave off just enough illumination for him to view her. She lay upon the bed, the covers rumpled as if she slept fitfully, her hair a tousled dark mass upon her pillow.
His throat turned to dust. His heart pounded mercilessly at his temples. His shaft, already aroused, became stiff as steel.
She moaned softly and turned away from him, and he spied the curve of her spine, the outline of her rump beneath the covers. He imagined himself crawling into the bedclothes, molding his body to hers, feeling the hill of her buttocks rubbing eagerly against his crotch.
Sweat broke out upon his skin and he swallowed against the craving so visceral, so raw, so primal that his entire body shook. He imagined her mouth, the sweet taste of her as his fingers twined in that thick mass of curls and he guided her lower, the scrape of her tongue upon his flesh an exquisite torment.
Morwenna, he silently cried, pressing his face to the shallow slit in the mortar. I am here. Soon we will be together .
But he would have to wait.
He had much to do before he could claim her.
Much to prove to her. To himself.
To them.
Again she turned, restless in her sleep, rolling over so that she was facing the wall behind which he stood, his cock throbbing. He su
cked in his breath as the coverlet fell away and exposed one breast, the top of a nipple. . . . Glorious, glorious woman. So beautiful. So full of life. So unaware.
But their time would come.
And soon.
It had to be very soon.
CHAPTER NINE
“The beast threw a shoe. Fix it!” Graydynn ordered, sweat running into his eyes, his hair flattened by the rain. He was tired and on edge, his early morning hunt having proved fruitless . . . just as his night had been. He slapped the reins of his steed’s bridle into the palm of a surprised and cowering stableboy.
“Aye, m’lord,” the boy muttered through crooked teeth that crowded his mouth.
“And make it soon.”
“As you wish.” The boy bowed his head and swiftly led the stallion away under the overhang of the stable. Graydynn smelled the scents of horse dung and urine mingling with dust. He strode toward the keep, leaving his guards to do what they would with their sorry beasts.
His mood was as dark as the clouds rolling toward the mountains, and the headache building behind his eyes pounded with every clang of the farrier’s hammer against his anvil. Chickens squawked, ducks quacked, the damned pigs squealed, and even the castle dogs, on long leads, were barking their fool heads off.
All the noises of the castle grated on his nerves, and he wished for someone, anyone, on which to take out his frustration. Christ Jesus, this was not what he’d anticipated upon becoming Lord of Wybren.
He’d imagined sitting in a padded chair, ordering servants about, collecting taxes, and spending each and every night with a beautiful serving wench willing to do every erotic act his fertile imagination conjured.
He saw himself as Lord of Wybren, his dominion and reputation ever-spreading, the luxuries and fruits of wealth bringing him satisfaction and fame. Oh, he’d thought of rebuilding the keep and filling it with the spoils of other baronies that he planned to conquer. He saw himself as master of not only Wybren but also every land touching his . . . and in his deepest fantasies he thought of himself as a conqueror who could, should the fates be kind, exist on a par with Alexander the Great or even Hannibal. Graydynn would be a legendary ruler who would rival Llywelyn ap Gruffudd, the leader who united all of Wales, in reverence.
And yet since he’d taken control of Wybren, none of his dreams had come true. The cost of rebuilding the fire-gutted great hall had surpassed the revenue from taxes. The gloom and grief of the servants and freemen who worked for him had not improved much since the burial of Lord Dafydd and his family a little more than a year ago.
Graydynn snorted at this irony. Dafydd, the old baron and Graydynn’s uncle, had been a liar and a cheat, the man who had lifted more hems than the local seamstress and had fathered more than his share of bastard children. What Graydynn did know as true was that Dafydd had robbed Graydynn’s father of his rightful inheritance, and it was only because of the fire that Graydynn had succeeded him.
He felt a smile twist the corners of his mouth at the thought of the blaze that had elevated him to baron. Satisfaction burned through him.
At least some justice had been served.
He’d almost forgotten his bad mood as he passed by the armorer’s hut and Runt approached. A wiry man with a pointed nose, buckteeth, and dark eyes that missed little, he’d been named Roger at birth but had been called Runt from the time he’d been a lad able to scurry about. There was something about him that gave Graydynn pause, a nervous twitch that could stretch a man’s already dwindling patience to the breaking point.
“My lord,” the smaller man whispered, ducking his head in what was supposed to be a bow. “I have news.” Dark eyes blinked with excitement.
Graydynn pulled off his gloves. “Of what?” he asked without interest. Runt was known for his theatrics.
The little man lowered his voice. “Carrick.”
“Again?” Nodding to the guards, Graydynn entered the great hall and had but to look at a page to send the lad hastening off in search of wine.
“Yes, yes. But this time, I swear, all that I know is true.”
Disgusted, Graydynn whirled on the spy. How many times since the fire had Runt come to him with the same story? Ten times? Twenty? “And how am I to believe you?”
Runt’s lips slid into a small, supercilious smile and his large nostrils flared even farther. “I heard it from Gladdys, a maid who serves the lady Morwenna.”
Graydynn’s groin tightened at the mention of the ruler of Calon. Morwenna. Sister to Baron Kelan of Penbrooke. So beautiful. So proud. And so damned arrogant. He envisioned the curve of her jaw and the arch of her eyebrow in response to a subordinate who proved foolish enough to challenge her.
The page delivered his wine and Graydynn shoved thoughts of Morwenna aside. He took a long swallow from his cup before settling into his chair near the fire. “And what says this serving maid?”
“That a man, beaten to a pulp, only inches from death, was found not far from Calon’s gates.” Runt glanced around quickly and then leaned in close enough so that Graydynn could smell the sour stench of old beer upon his breath. “The maid, she attended the wounded man, and she swears he was wearing a ring with the crest of Wybren upon it.”
Graydynn’s eyes met those of the spy and he couldn’t disguise his interest. “Carrick?”
“As I said.” Runt was pleased with himself and didn’t bother hiding it. Yet Graydynn sensed there was another emotion beneath his satisfaction, something that didn’t quite fit.
“And how do you know that this serving wench—” He snapped his fingers impatiently. “What is her name?”
“Gladdys.”
“Yes, Gladdys. How do you know she is not lying or . . . mayhap teasing you?”
Runt’s eyes shined, as if he had been anticipating just this question. His expression was nearly a sneer. “Because Gladdys dare not lie. I know something about her, something she would not want anyone to hear.”
“So you’re blackmailing her?”
Runt chuckled low in his throat, but his fingers worked nervously as if he was overly anxious to relay his news. “Just insuring that what she tells me is true, so that I can pass on to you only the best information. I thought you would be pleased.”
“I am,” Graydynn said. Knowing the spy’s information would cost him, he added, “And you’ll be paid for your services, as always. Just as soon as I verify for myself what you’ve told me.”
“Do so, m’lord, and you’ll see that I speak the truth. Carrick is lying in a guest room at Castle Calon and he’s hovering near death.”
“Not expected to live?”
Runt swung his head side to side. “That’s the beauty of it, Lord Graydynn. Gladdys overheard the physician, Nygyll, speaking with Lady Morwenna. It seems Carrick’s only chance of survival is a miracle. ’Twould be easy enough to kill him. A little poison, a hand over his nose and mouth . . . no one would know.” His eyebrows lifted while his lips drew downward in an expression of dull innocence.
Yet, Graydynn sensed, something wasn’t quite right. He’d never trusted Runt, though he’d employed him often enough. Spies’ allegiances could be purchased too easily.
He would have to tread slowly and carefully. He had other spies at Calon and then there was his younger brother, poor, tormented, ever-atoning Daniel, who somehow thought himself a martyr, envisioned himself a saint, when, in reality, Daniel was just another sinner who thought he could repent his way into heaven.
Ridiculous!
“There are many at Calon who are . . . unhappy that a woman is now their ruler,” the spy said, cleaning the fingernails of one hand with the thumb of the other, as if he’d just thought of something insignificant. “And now there is Carrick within the keep.”
“What are you suggesting?”
Runt flipped a bit of filth from his nail onto the rushes. “Only that it would be an . . . opportunity to set old wrongs right . . . if someone were to see that the lady is . . . incapacitated and Carrick is blamed
for it.”
“You’re speaking of killing Morwenna of Calon?” Graydynn said, his eyes narrowing.
“There are mercenaries who will do anything for a price.”
“If Morwenna were to die, her brother Lord Kelan of Penbrooke would avenge her death.”
“As would Lord Ryden, her intended, I realize.” The spy’s smile faded and a deadly gleam shone in his dark eyes. “I’m just saying that if some ill fate happened to the lady while Carrick was in her care, he would be blamed.”
“Is he not under lock and key?”
“Sentries, like soldiers and serving maids, can be bribed. Even the captain of the guard has a price.”
“Does he?” Graydynn said, trying to tamp down his excitement, for he didn’t trust Runt. His suggestion may well be a trap; he could have been sent to Wybren by someone who had paid him.
“Of course he does,” the little rat of a spy said. “We all do, m’lord. Even you.”
“You think I should send word that Sir Carrick has been located?” the sheriff of Calon asked as he and Sir Alexander walked between the tightly packed huts. Their boots crunched along a muddy path where the dirt was near frozen and the puddles sparkling bits of ice. Hammers pounded and saws chewed through wood as the beekeeper’s hut’s roof was being repaired. Carpenters and thatchers moved quickly to replace the sagging overhang in the chill morning air.
It had been nearly a fortnight since the wounded man had been found, and castle life seemed to be returning to normal. The excitement and concern about the stranger had eased as everyone had returned to their ordinary tasks of running the castle. Merchants, farmers, and peddlers had been allowed again to freely pass through the gates, the wheels of their heavy carts creaking, horses and oxen straining at their harnesses.
The morning was brisk and clear, the ground hard with frost, and the air sharp with the bite of winter. The scent of brewing ale mingled with smoke from the farrier’s forge, dung from the animals, and the acrid odor of rendering fat.
