by Lisa Jackson
Within the grate the fire glowed red hot, a reflection of Morwenna’s own desire. Her fingers dug into his arms, and when his teeth scraped her nipple, she arched upward, forcing her body closer to his, making him take more of her into his mouth. He suckled hungrily and her mind spun.
When he lifted his head, she cried out.
“Patience, m’lady,” he whispered, his voice a rasp as he jerked the chemise over her head and she was exposed, her skin visible in the fire glow.
Rough hands caressed her, scaling her ribs to knead her breasts. His tongue and lips were everywhere. Her arms around his torso, she slid one finger down his spine and he jerked, as if a bolt of lightning had run along his nerves.
With a growl, he moved, his knees sweeping her legs apart, his breath hot on her abdomen. “Do not play with me, Lady,” he whispered. His breath warmed a trail down her abdomen and to her thighs. He touched her then, his fingers gentle as he opened her, his lips finding that delicate part of her, his fingers and tongue caressing her in such sweet torture that her own fingers clutched at the mattress and perspiration dampened the bedclothes.
He blew into her, hot, wet breath curling inside, and she convulsed, her entire body jerking, her mind splintering into a thousand fragments. She cried out in ecstacy as he slid his body upward. His erection touched her where once his lips had played.
“Now, m’lady,” he said, looking down at her and thrusting deep, delving farther than mere breath could reach. She gasped, the back of her neck turning hot. Slowly he withdrew, and she reached forward, fingers digging into his arms. She arched up to meet him as he entered her again, her legs wrapping around his torso, her heart hammering crazily, desire propelling her. All thoughts of the past and future had fled. All that mattered was this one night, and as Morwenna moved with him, heard his breathing become as short and swift as her own, she clung to him, meeting each thrust with her own desperate need. Faster and faster they pushed together, fiercely feeding each other’s desire, breaths stuttering in counterpoint to their frenzied lovemaking.
Inside, she was hot, melting, the fires burning brighter and brighter until they seemed to explode and her entire body quivered. In rapture she cried out, clinging to him, holding him, calling his name.
His head jerked backward and every muscle stiffened as he released, spilling his seed into her. “Morwenna,” he said, his voice the barest of whispers. “Sweet, sweet lady.” Fingers entwined in her hair, he collapsed upon her.
She welcomed his weight. They clung together, soaked and spent, until their ragged breathing was once again steady. Finally, smiling in the near-dark room, he pushed himself upon one elbow and gazed down at her. “You are a vixen,” he said, brushing a damp curl from her cheek.
“And a sorceress?” She raised an eyebrow saucily and felt her lips curve into a smile.
“Aye.”
“Sorceress!” Shaking her head, she grinned up at him.
“It’s better than the names you’ve bestowed upon me. Let’s see, I think I was ‘bastard,’ and ‘son of a wild dog.’ Then there was ‘pig dung,’ and ‘rogue’—”
“Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. “Enough.”
“But ‘miserable piece of pig dung’ was probably your most memorable,” he added before kissing her finger and then gently sucking it into his mouth.
“What? Oh!” she whispered as, between her legs, she felt something change, his manhood growing within her again.
He grinned around her finger and one eyebrow arched wickedly. “Oh, m’lady, you did not think that we were yet finished, did you?”
Before she could answer, he withdrew her finger, and the glint in his eye foretold of pleasures yet to come.
“We have much to make up for,” he said, toying with her nipples again, his erection suddenly hard and full within her. “So much.” Then he made good his promise, pressing against her once more, moving rhythmically while kneading her breasts and crushing hot, anxious lips to hers.
She closed her eyes in the wonderment of it all and refused to think of the consequences.
Damn the morn. Tonight she would give herself to him again and again, and the devil take the morrow.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
No!
The Redeemer watched through the slits in the wall The Redeemer watched through the slits in the wall and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from swearing out loud. His nostrils flared in disgust as he stared, witnessing an act so vile it made his insides turn to water.
There, on the other side of the wall, nearly fifteen feet below, the bastard bedded Morwenna. Despite his injuries, Carrick’s cock appeared hard and thick, his still-discolored muscles straining in the firelight. His skin was stretched taut over firm buttocks that hesitated only a second before pushing forward, driving the beast’s manhood deep into her.
Curse him!
Curse her!
Curse both of their lustful, fornicating souls straight to the fires of hell!
In seething silence he glared, fists and teeth clenching as they rutted like animals, moaning and clawing and sweating.
Revolting!
Immoral!
Nauseating!
And yet he couldn’t drag his gaze away, so he observed them in sickened fascination. To add insult to injury, his own nerves reacted to the sexual union, his traitorous mind playing out erotic scenes in which he was involved, his cock as hard as stone and aching for release.
He saw her lips, full in her flushed face as she kissed every inch of her lover’s skin.
Oh, that her mouth would touch him so!
That her hands would fondle and stroke him.
That her lips would caress every naked place on his body.
He swallowed hard. Tasted his own blood.
’Twas all he could do not to touch himself, to let loose the demons inside and give in to the pleasure he so craved. How he dreamed of release, to lie atop her and force himself deep into her wet, willing warmth. Over and over he would take her, making her kneel before him, insisting she caress him with her lips and tongue, telling her to stand naked before him and hold her breasts in her own hands as he nipped and tasted of her.
Dreaming of what he would do, he ground his teeth together and nearly cried out from the pain. She was tainted now. Another man’s seed inside her, perhaps even now taking root, a child conceived.
His stomach lurched and fury surged through him. He forced himself from his viewing area and silently swore his vengeance. She would not go unpunished, he decided; he would see to it. Familiar as he was with these passageways, he made his way quickly through the dark corridor. Only when he was away from the tiny holes in the wall and around a corner did he breathe again. As he passed, he snagged his rushlight from its iron bracket. He would not lose sight of his plan. No matter how angry he was. How sickened. How painfully his pulse throbbed behind his eyes. He would not be deterred!
Holding his torch aloft, he hurried to the small chamber he used as his storage area. He would need a disguise tonight if he was to go unrecognized in the gray light of dawn.
He thought of Carrick of Wybren. Soon to die a torturous and much deserved death. If not by swinging from a hangman’s noose, then at the Redeemer’s own hand.
He thought of the killing, and anticipation thrummed through his blood. He imagined slicing his knife across the prisoner’s neck. To think that he hadn’t killed him before now, when it would have been so easy! He’d had so many opportunities but he’d told himself to be content, to be patient, so that he could savor the kind of justice the bastard deserved.
How better a way to save himself than to have the prisoner killed and blamed for all that he, the Redeemer, had done at Wybren? Had he not planned for Carrick’s demise?
What if the man lying now with Morwenna is not Carrick?
What if he’s an imposter?
That thought burrowed deep in his brain, but he tossed it quickly aside. Who else would the man be? And his looks, aye, he had the look of
Wybren upon him. The Redeemer’s lip curled at that nasty thought.
Reaching the tiny room, he peered inside at the clothes neatly piled within. This morn he would wear the clothes of a farmer with dirty, patched breeches, a faded tunic, a cap and . . . He stopped short. Swung his light over the area again, his eyes searching. The monk’s garb was in its place, as was the farmer’s attire, but the soldier’s uniform was gone. . . . It couldn’t be! He’d left it beside the peasant farmer’s disguise.
Blood rushed to his head.
Fear needled into his brain.
Someone had found these tunnels! He searched through the piles, certain he was mistaken. But no. Not only was the soldier’s uniform missing but also a small knife, a dagger with a particularly wicked blade.
Panic nearly suffocated him, and he had to take deep breaths of the air in this musty, tomblike room. Think, he mutely ordered himself. Think!
Had he used the uniform and left it in his own chamber? Discarded it as it was of no use to him? Stashed it somewhere for fear that he was going to be found out?
Nay, nay, and nay! It had been right here. In this secret spot.
Then someone’s found it!
Someone knows what you’re doing!
Someone is secretly watching you, waiting for just the right moment to come forward and destroy all that you’ve worked for.
His insides turned to jelly and he held his breath, listening, straining to hear any sound within the maze of hidden hallways that he’d claimed as his own. Something moved in the corner and he nearly pissed himself until he spied a rat frantically disappearing through a hole in the mortar of one wall.
“Stop it!” he hissed, furious with himself. He was alone. Whoever had retrieved the uniform had not made himself known, so the thief, too, had a secret mission, a private reason to be stalking these hallways.
He let out his breath and started changing his clothes, stripping out of a garment many had seen and would recognize.
What about the prisoner? Mayhap he found the hidden doorway to his room.
Until tonight the Redeemer had believed that the man had been unconscious or, even if he had been slightly awake, had been suffering from some kind of delirium, knew not where or who he was. Even if he had awoken, he was beaten and weak. . . .
Not too weak to fiercely bed Morwenna.
Again rage burned through his soul.
Mayhap the man found the doorway and the secret corridors but has not yet discovered how to escape. There is a chance he is only biding his time. While bedding the lady.
“Enough!” the Redeemer spat, tired of the nagging within his own mind. Angrily he pulled the tunic over his head, tearing it in his rage. He began to shake, his fingers fumbling over the leather strings as he attempted to lace the coarse, foul-smelling breeches.
Tucking one knife into his boot and strapping the other onto a worn belt, he tried to push back all thoughts of Morwenna upon the prisoner’s bed. But images of her slipped into his mind—dark thoughts of her full breasts with their wet nipples, hard dark buds that the captive had tasted and teased, kissing and sucking all the while plunging into her again and again and again. And, oh, how the wench had loved it! She’d pleaded with him, begged for more, wound her legs around his and pulled him ever closer.
Harlot!
Blood thundered through his veins. Pulsed and sang in his ears as he wended his way through the corridors, his feet guided as if by instinct.
When at last he found the doorway he sought, a tiny portal leading to the kitchen herb garden, he unlatched it and felt a rush of cold, predawn air spray against his face.
His eyes searched the stone steps and the boxes where firewood could be stored; he saw nothing. He studied the patches of dirt where dying plants were visible, their yellowed leaves catching in the dim moonlight. A shadow passed before him on the path leading to the buttery. His heart nearly stopped before he realized it was only a cat leaping onto a cart. He forced his pulse to calm as he slowly surveyed this part of the inner bailey. All appeared as it should be.
For the moment, it seemed, he was safe. Slipping through the doorway, he pressed his body to the exterior wall, careful to stay in the darkest shadows and out of sight of the sentries upon the towers.
He was about to step toward the chapel when he sensed something out of the ordinary. He froze. The hairs on the back of his arms lifted. Surely no one was about, and his feeling of trepidation was the result of the wanton display he’d witnessed in the captive’s chamber—that and the discovery that one of his disguises was missing.
But he couldn’t take any risks.
Still as stone, listening hard, he peered cautiously into the darkness. The night was cold, only a bit of moon showing through thin, high clouds. An owl hooted and flapped overhead. A few dry leaves rustled in the breeze. But there was something else. Something that caused the spit to dry in his mouth.
Slowly, every muscle taut, the hilt of his knife in his hand, he inched forward, trying to determine what it was that caused his skin to prickle. What was that foreign sound? The one he could barely hear above the gentle swish of the windmill sails in the wintry breeze?
He closed his eyes for a moment, turning his mind to the sound, centering on the noise.
A woman’s voice whispered on the wind.
The sorceress.
At it again!
But this would be the last night. Never again would she pray to a pagan god or goddess. Tonight the Redeemer’s bloodlust would be satisfied.
He knew that she would return to her room before dawn. All he had to do was wait.
Morwenna shifted on the bed beside him, and he tightened his arm around her for one last second. Then he slid from the bed. The scent of her, feel of her, and sound of her gentle breathing were almost enough to change his mind. Almost. But as heated as their lovemaking had been, he knew that it had been but one night of passion. With the coming light of dawn, they would each see what they’d shared with new, scrutinizing eyes.
She had already threatened to send him to Wybren, and he had little doubt she would go through with her intentions. Despite what they had shared together tonight, he sensed a part of her would be relieved not to have to deal with him any longer.
He watched her for an instant, saw the way her lips parted with her deep, soft breathing, noticed the way her eyelashes swept across the top of her cheek. Something deep inside him knotted, and when she sighed and rolled over, nestling deeper into the covers, he nearly changed his mind and slipped between the linens to lie with her again.
He could not.
He had to escape.
To find out the truth about his past on his own.
His features hardened in the dim light. He planned to go to Wybren, aye, but not under guard, not with his hands bound while the horse he was astride was led through the yawning gates of the castle for all to see, not to be assured of facing the gallows or a dungeon. He would go his own way.
Without a sound he walked to the hidden door, found the latch and, as the portal opened, snagged one of the rushlights, and then crept through the opening. He closed it securely behind him and, using the scratches he’d etched into the stones near the floor as his guide, found his way to the mound of clothes he’d stolen. Quickly he donned the uniform, and though it was a bit too tight across the shoulders, he felt he could, if darkness prevailed a little longer, be able to escape.
As long as Morwenna slept.
Still thinking of her, he carried the boots so as to make no sound and maneuvered through the maze toward the doorway near the chapel. From there he would, when the guards were changing, hurry to the stable and hide until he found a moment when he could steal a horse. He would probably have to attack the stable master or convince a dull-witted stableboy that he was a mercenary recently hired by Sir Alexander, but he was confident that one way or another, he would be able to procure a steed.
Once he did, he would ride like a demon to Wybren.
To face Lord Gr
aydynn as a free man.
And to finally know the truth.
Tonight would be the night, Isa knew, as she chanted prayers to the mother goddess and scratched a rune upon the mud near the eel pond. Faint moonlight cast the night in an eerie silver glow and she sensed that, somewhere within the keep, evil was moving, prowling about in the darkness.
“Keep them safe, Mother,” she chanted as she dug her stick deep into the thick soil and scattered her herbs and bark—ash, Saint-John’s-wort and rowan—upon her drawing. “For protection, Morrigu,” she prayed. “Keep them safe. If I am to be taken, please, please be with the lady. Protect her and her family.” She had intoned the same request over and over, and now, with the coming dawn, Isa realized these prayers would be her last.
Slowly she stood, her old knees creaking, fear squeezing her heart. She’d hoped she would be braver when she faced death, relieved to cross from this world to the next, but she was frightened. It was too early. She had so much to do. So much. She looked down at her hands, gnarled as they were, the knuckles swollen and oftentimes painful; as a young woman, her fingers had been supple and strong.
She should accept her own death, trust in the fates that had plotted her destiny, and yet she could not. As a raven called in the darkness, she took a step closer to the pond and stared into the deep water. So still. So dark. Only a hint of moonlight added a tiny sheen to the pond’s surface.
Don’t look!
But she took another step forward and stared into the silent waters.
Her own reflection gazed up at her and there was fear in her eyes. Knowledge. Worse yet, she was not alone, and though there was no breath of wind, the water seemed to stir, to swirl as behind her image arose a shimmering red dragon and atop his back was Arawn, god of the underworld, a hideous smile slicing his face.
Her old heart clutched painfully. She spun to face the beast, but of course no one was behind her; the red dragon and his master of death were invisible.
