by Lisa Jackson
“Where were the guards?”
“I know not, but some say they were asleep at their posts.”
“Did no one awaken?”
Isa sighed and bit her lip. “There was a suggestion that all of the people who died may have sipped from the same jug of wine, that it may have been tainted.”
“With poison?”
“Or something to make the family members sleep through the smoke and flames.” Isa stood. She’d said enough. Too much perhaps. She shivered as a cool breath of air touched the back of her neck, and she glanced upward to the walls that rose so high to the ceiling, to the dark spots where light never seemed to reach.
“What do you think Morwenna will do?” Bryanna asked.
“I know not,” Isa said, walking to the bed, where she picked up the embroidery hoop. Deftly she removed several of the ungainly stitches, then handed the hoop to Bryanna. “I’m sure your sister will make the right decision.”
It was a lie.
Deep in her heart, Isa knew, as she left the room, there was no right choice. She’d seen the face of death in her dreams, sensed his breath upon her skin, knew he lingered close, waiting for just the right moment, ready to pounce.
It was only a matter of time.
’Twas dark.
The night lay mired in a dense fog that blocked the moon.
The Redeemer stood near the crenels of a high tower and felt moisture ooze through his heavy cloak and dark cowl. A dampness pressed against his face, cool and soothing, and yet there was a disturbance in the night. Though he could not see through the veil of mist, he knew that she was down there, by the creek, whispering her spells and drawing her runes in the dirt.
The old one.
Isa.
She was dangerous.
And evil.
Had she not seen visions that had, time and again, proved true?
’Twas a miracle that she had not yet unmasked him and destroyed all that he had worked for.
Though he outwardly disdained anyone who believed in the tripe that was peddled by the old ones—the pagan ways—he could not deny that some of their magic seemed to exist.
In the windless night, he thought he heard her raspy voice whispering through the bare trees, calling to the spirit of Morrigu, the Great Mother, pleading for safety from an unseen menace, asking for guidance and protection.
Deep in his cowl, a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
’Tis too late, Isa, you old witch . . . much too late. Silently he fingered the knife strapped to his waist.
All your prayers to the Great Mother are for naught.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“I said,’twill be all right, Sir James. Let me pass.” Her muffled voice floated to him as if in a dream, and mayhap he was dreaming for he kept drifting in and out of consciousness, mindful that time was passing, listening, as if through a tunnel, to voices of people as they attended him. But the tenor of her voice, Morwenna’s, was different than the others. It touched a chord deep inside and brought him closer to the surface.
He tried to move his arm and to his surprise it shifted. Just a bit. His heart beat faster and sweat beaded his brow as he concentrated. With renewed determination, he attempted to slide his right leg to one side and it, too, moved only slightly, but his calf definitely slid an inch beneath the bedclothes.
Christ Jesus, he wasn’t a cripple!
He tried his fingers and they responded. As did his toes.
His heart jolted, pounding wildly with the effort and the sudden exhilaration of knowing that he wouldn’t have to lie unmoving on this bed forever.
“Sir Alexander will not like this.” A muted male voice, the one she called Sir James, argued. “I’ll be losing my post, just like Vernon did.”
“I’ll take full responsibility,” she insisted. “In fact, I’ll tell Sir Alexander myself in the morning.”
The patient panicked. Soon she would slip into the room and he would have to make a choice. Try to speak and reason with her, show her that he was healing, or to remain unmoving and pretend to yet be comatose.
If he was to prove that he was mending, mayhap the guards would become more vigilant, or, worse yet, he might be sent to a prison cell to insure that he did not escape. . . .
Sir James said, “But, m’lady, ’tis my duty to protect you and—”
“The patient hasn’t moved since he was brought in here nearly two weeks ago. I’m certain I will be safe enough with him.”
“Nay—”
“Stand aside, Sir James, and keep to your post here at the door. I’ll call you if I need you,” she said firmly, and the patient heard the door creak open only to shut softly a few seconds later.
“Wait. Lady Morwenna!” the man’s voice was muffled before the door squeaked as it was shoved open again. “The door should not be closed. Please, m’lady, let it remain ajar.” The guard must’ve poked his head into the room as his voice fairly boomed, jarring loudly through the patient’s brain.
“Fine,” she said with a sigh of disgust.
“As you wish.”
“Thank you, Sir James,” she said and then after a few seconds admonished herself under her breath, “Fie and feathers, Morwenna, who is the ruler here? Why do you let them bully you? Would Kelan let a soldier tell him what to do? Nay. Sir Alexander and Sir Payne and all the rest try to tell you what to do because you are a woman, despite the fact that you have all the power of the lord of the castle.”
Her voice grew closer. Louder, even though she was whispering in ire. “Damn it all. Even the men beneath them and the serving girls do the same. Treat you as if you are a child rather than the lady of the manor. ’Tis an insult.” Her footsteps, which the patient had heard approaching his bed, abruptly stopped. “God’s eyes, do not let them get away with it!” The sound of her footsteps receded angrily as she marched away from him. “I’ve changed my mind, Sir James,” she shouted so loudly the patient nearly jumped out of his skin. “The door will remain shut.”
“Nay, m’lady—”
“Do not argue with me!” The door banged closed. “I should lock it,” she muttered under her breath again and then, footsteps stronger, advanced to his bed.
His every nerve ending was taut, and for the first time as he tried to open his eyes, he felt his eyelids rise just slightly, barely slitting but allowing in a gloomy light and a bit of motion. Pain burned through his pupils as his vision adjusted to the soft light of a fire that crackled in the grate.
“So, Carrick.” Morwenna’s voice held no warmth. “ ’Tis time for me to send a messenger to Wybren.”
Carrick, if that was his name, felt himself tense, every muscle painfully tightening. Wybren was familiar, the castle name reverberating through his brain. Faint, horrifying memories of smoke-filled corridors, burning tapestries, and crackling flames consuming everything in their path seared through his mind. Holy God, was he responsible for the blaze? Was he truly the beast who had brutally murdered his own family as they’d slept?
A dark malevolence burrowed deep into his soul. He envisioned someone lifting a burning torch from its sconce and sweeping it over the tinder-dry rushes and dusty tapestries of the keep. Could it have been he? Could he really have plotted the deaths of each of his family, have planned the horrific fire? Sickening visions of burning hair, eyes rounding in horror, blackened, searing flesh appeared before him.
No! No! No!
He could not have masterminded the unthinkable!
Despair took hold of him. Wrenched his guts.
What kind of man was he?
Or was it all a lie?
Some dire scheme concocted to make him appear a villain for someone else’s crimes?
“Who did this to you?” she asked, leaning closer.
In his mind’s eye he saw muddy boots aimed at his abdomen. Heard voices yelling angrily, horses’ shrieks of terror ringing through the woods. Smelled smoke from a campfire. Felt the sharp, painful crack as the toe of a well-aimed boot smashed
against his ribs. Men cursed, clubs thudded against his body as he writhed on the ground. Who had done this to him? Who?
Had whoever it was left him for dead? Or had the son of a dog who had beaten him to within an inch of his life intentionally left him to be found and brought here, to this castle?
But why would someone do this to him?
And why had he been defenseless? Though he couldn’t remember much about himself, he sensed that he’d been a strong man, a warrior, one who would not submit to a beating.
By the gods, he felt as if he were going mad as he listened to her voice, felt her presence so near.
“Can you hear me?” she asked, her voice whispering across his skin. “Carrick?”
Again the too-familiar name. He didn’t move.
“I need to talk to you.”
He remained still as stone even when he felt her finger poke gently at his shoulder. “Can you not hear me? Sir Carrick of Wybren, please, awaken.”
It was all he could do to breathe naturally.
Another prod. Harder this time. Her voice sounded more desperate as she said, “Carrick, by all that is holy, please, please, talk to me.”
He resisted. Nothing good would come of letting her know that he could hear her. Not yet. He set his jaw and endured yet another jab before she gave up and let out a disgusted puff of breath.
“So this will be my decision alone. You won’t help me.”
If her remark was meant to goad him into speaking, if it was one more test, he ignored it and didn’t so much as lift an eyebrow. Yet she continued to speak. If not to him, then to herself.
“Well, I suppose I should not have expected more! However, you may as well know that Sir Alexander is insisting that I send word to Wybren of your . . . condition and, er, situation. And I must tell you that everyone here at Calon, including Isa and the physician and the priest and the sheriff, agrees that Lord Graydynn must be notified that you have been . . . well, ‘captured’ isn’t the word I would like to use, and ‘apprehended’ isn’t quite right, either, but that you are here, as my guest, recovering from your wounds.” She was moving around the bed, the sound of her voice shifting as she circled him, and past the veil of his lashes, he saw bits of color as she passed, her form seeming to float about him.
His eyes caught a glimpse of her—long black hair that curled wildly around a small face. Her features were blurry as she passed, but he saw an image of a white dress that caught the firelight and eyes—incredible blue eyes—that stared at him as if he was more than a curiosity, as if he was a deep enigma. His throat nearly closed at the sight of her and the images faded and danced in his head. He felt he remembered her, so beautiful, but that was just a fleeting thought and he didn’t know how much of his memory was real nor how much his mind had created.
His head pounded. He wanted to scream. Instead he clenched his jaw and hoped she didn’t notice.
Her voice came to him again over the gentle hiss of the fire. “Some people claim you were in alliance with Graydynn, that you killed all the members of the family in an attempt to gain the lordship and that Graydynn then turned on you, named you as a murdering traitor. Is that possible?” She was suddenly closer to him, her warm breath fanning his face. “I wonder.”
He stared up at her through the slits that were his eyes, and in the shadowy light she didn’t seem to notice that he could see her. For a second, he thought perhaps he might be able to speak, to squeak out some words, but thought it better to hold his tongue, to listen and then plan his next move, if, indeed, he was able to.
She touched the side of his face with cool fingers and he fought the urge to flinch. Somehow he managed to feign unconsciousness. “Oh, Carrick,” she whispered, despair lacing her words. “How you vex me.” Her finger slid along the side of his jaw, along beard stubble and yet creating a sensitive path upon his bruised skin. “But then, you always have.”
He felt her tremble slightly. “What am I to do with you? Send you to Wybren and Graydynn’s justice? Keep you here as . . . a patient or a prisoner?” Her finger slid down his neck to rest at the crook of his shoulder, and despite his wretched pain, his concentration centered on that one spot where his bare skin met hers. Heat seemed to radiate from that one fragile point of union.
“I loved you, you miserable bastard,” she admitted, and a part of him wished she wouldn’t bare her soul. “I wanted to marry you, to have your children. . . .” Her voice caught and for a second he thought she was finished. Yet more words, angry now, boiled up from her, and the touch of her finger was stronger, as if she wished to poke him hard. “But you left me, didn’t you? For Alena, I’m told.”
Alena. The name sparked a memory in him, yet he could not recall her image. She, too, had been his lover?
“ ’Tis a low cur who would steal his brother’s wife.”
His insides twisted. What was she saying? He bedded his brother’s wife?
“So, you see, Carrick, ’tis a difficult decision I have. How much do I owe you?” She paused, as if thinking. “Nothing!” she finally spat. “Less than nothing. You left me and our child for Alena.”
Our child? He had sired a babe? With her?
No . . . something was wrong here. Very wrong. Aye, he remembered Morwenna’s name and Alena’s as well, but . . . but he knew nothing of a child. He was certain of it. Mayhap he was imagining all this. His mind had been wandering and perhaps his weary brain was creating visions—dreams from the potion the physician had administered with the hot water and broth that had been spooned down his throat.
That was it. Perhaps he’d only imagined he’d been examined by the physician, listened to the drone of the priest’s dour prayers, felt all sorts of eyes upon him while he pretended sleep. Mayhap he’d been alone and they had all been apparitions. Imaginings. Just the other night he had been certain that a malevolent being had appeared, slipped through the solid wall, and stared down at him with evil intent. . . . This, too, could be a dream. That was it. The lady was not in his chamber.
But the pressure on his skin spoke otherwise and he closed his eyes completely.
Morwenna’s finger dragged along his shoulder toward his chest. His heart pounded. His blood heated. “By the gods, Carrick,” she hissed angrily, “I should have let you die!”
Despite her ire, he felt a swelling between his legs as the tip of her finger pressed to his neck, where, he was certain, if she looked she would see his pulse pounding erratically.
“Ah, Carrick.” She let the finger trail downward along his rib cage, causing the coverlet to bunch and his chest to be exposed to the cool air. Slowly she traced his breastbone, causing the pain in his ribs to turn into excruciating, seductive torture. “I lost you,” she admitted sadly. “I lost the babe. And mayhap it was all for the best.” Her voice broke a bit, and he felt a rending deep into his soul. What was it about this woman that touched him so? Why did her words scrape into his heart?
’Twas the medication the physician had given him, the foul-tasting stuff that had been forced across his tongue. Or the pain—that was it! He was creating enticing, erotic images because of the agony he’d endured. . . . This woman wasn’t really in the room with him. Or so he mutely prayed, for he felt his groin tightening and his cock respond to the erotic movements of her hand. Sweat dampened his brow and he bit down hard so as not to cry out as the coverlet slid ever lower, exposing more of his flesh to the cool air of the chamber. He let one eye open a slit as he watched her, neck bent, hair falling forward before she tossed it over her shoulder.
“If I remember, you had a birthmark on your thigh, near the juncture of your legs.”
What! He nearly cried out.
In one swift motion, she tossed the coverlet aside, and he felt the brush of air upon his stiff shaft.
She gasped. “Holy Mother,” she said in a swift breath as she stared at his naked form with its rock-hard appendage pointed upward. “Carrick . . . oh, by the gods . . .” The coverlet was flung over him quickly, his member
beneath the bedclothes shriveling. A flush of color bloomed up his neck even though a part of him wanted to laugh out loud.
Served her right.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh . . . damn!” She blew out a long breath and glanced up at his face. “Can you hear me, you cur? Did you . . . no . . . oh, God, Carrick, you rotten, sick piece of dung, if you heard one word of what I said, I swear I’ll . . . I’ll cut out your miserable heart and then send you to Wybren and pay the hangman myself to dangle your body from the crenels!”
She hurried out of the chamber, her footsteps quick and frantic. He heard her start to stumble, swear, and then catch herself as she threw open the door.
“M’lady?” the guard asked. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, Sir James.”
“But you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I said I’m fine,” she repeated breathlessly, and then the door slammed shut and he was alone. Again.
CHAPTER TWELVE
So she was still in love with the cur!
From his hiding spot, the Redeemer watched in silent, white-hot fury. A bad taste climbed up his throat and he was shaking in the tight, musty passageway. He had heard only bits of her whispered conversation, not enough to piece together what she was saying, but he witnessed the pained look upon her face, noticed how her finger lingered and trailed over the wounded man’s flesh, and then how she’d tossed off the coverlet in a burst of anger, gasped, then thrown it over him quickly again. As if the sight of his manhood had stunned her.
