Temptress

by Lisa Jackson

She quivered, her every sense heightened, her eyes searching the darkness as she sent up another tremulous prayer, this one to Morgan le Fay, not for her safety but for death to he who would try to kill her. “Please,” she whispered, “goddess of death, come from Glamorgan, hear my plea, cast a curse upon the evil one!”

  But it was too late. Already the lots of fate had been cast. Her vision could not be changed.

  Be not afraid, she told herself. Death comes to us all. And yet wrapping her cloak more tightly around her body, she felt despair as cold as all of winter.

  There was no cheating death. When it came, she’d always told herself, she would surrender peacefully, go eagerly through the portal to the other side. But now, facing death’s certainty, she wanted to run, to hide, to remain here in this earthly life.

  Old joints aching, she started for her room. Inside, she would light candles, burn herbs and bark, tie strings for safety, and, lastly, arm herself with a weapon. Though Arawn himself could not be slain, whoever he sent as his messenger would, no doubt, be mortal. And evil. She sensed it, felt it in the still, frigid air.

  Bustling up the path through the garden, she thought of the bone-handled knife her mother had left her, the one with a blade sharp enough to slice an eel from the tip of his head to his wriggling tail with one quick cut. Even so, she would hone the blade tonight, make certain it was sharp.

  A cloud slid over the moon.

  Isa’s arms prickled with bumps.

  The night grew dark as obsidian.

  Isa felt a tremor. Either within her or from without, she knew not, but there was a shifting.

  Arawn!

  She raced faster, her old feet slipping on the flat stones. She was near the chapel now, and then it was but a sprint through the chapel garden to the doorway. Only a few more steps! Run, Isa. Make these old legs move faster!

  Her lungs burned as she dragged cold air into them, but she was close now. Through the garden gate to the path leading toward the great hall. Surely the guard would see her . . . but there was no guard at the doorway, no sentry.

  Something was amiss! ’Twas too early for the changing of the guard and Sir Cowan would never abandon his post.

  To one side, she saw a figure approach and she sighed a breath of relief. The guard had just stepped away from the door, probably to stretch his legs.

  “Oh, Sir Cowan, you gave me a fright,” she said, gulping in deep breaths of air.

  Too late, as the clouds shifted again and a bit of moonlight filtered through, did she realize that the man was not Sir Cowan. He was but a farmer, wearing the garb of a peasant . . . or was he? Nay . . .

  He was on her in an instant!

  Before she could scream, he leapt, one gloved hand pressed hard over her mouth, his other arm fast around her waist.

  She had not escaped.

  Arawn had come for her in the guise of someone she knew.

  Fear drove deep into her soul.

  She struggled, flailing and kicking, but was no match for his strength. Steely muscles dragged her backward again through the gate as she clawed and squirmed to no avail.

  Once in the shadows of the chapel, his sweat and foul breath a stench as vile as Pwyll’s piss, he drove her to the ground.

  Bam! Her chin smashed against the rocks and for a blinding instant a flash of light exploded behind her eyes.

  Morrigu, help me. She thought of trying to scream, to move, to somehow slither away from this beast. She tried to bite his hand, but all she got for her trouble was the taste of dry old leather. His body weight held her down. Breathing hard, he shifted, no doubt to find his weapon.

  He rolled something in front of her face and she saw the glint of metal, a ring. Her heart sank. Carrick of Wybren’s ring. This monster must be the very same vile beast who had butchered Sir Vernon. She struggled harder, all her muscles working together, her arthritis forgotten, her body soaked in sweat with the effort, her mind screaming to fight him off. Valiantly she attempted to buck him off her back, but it was no use. He was strong. And determined.

  Great Mother, give me strength.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of steel.

  His knife.

  ’Twould be over soon.

  The knife plunged downward.

  There was no escape.

  No denying death.

  Tonight, she knew, Arawn would take his due.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Carrick? Why did the name still bother him? Still cause his stomach to curdle a bit? He hid behind the gong farmer’s smelly cart and waited for just the right moment. Every nerve ending stretched tight, every muscle ready to spring, he crouched deep in the shadows.

  Everyone here at Calon, from the sheriff to the kitchen maids, assumed he was the murderous bastard. People who had met Carrick long before the accident, aye, before the fire, recognized him as the murderous bastard. Morwenna believed him to be Carrick of Wybren, and he’d been wearing a ring with the castle’s crest upon it.

  Even he himself had accepted the name of Carrick as his own.

  But it didn’t feel right. It chafed and itched and caused him to cringe each time he heard it, as if he, as much as anyone else, despised the man he was supposed to be.

  Mayhap it’s because you nearly died. Once faced with your own mortality, Carrick, you changed your ways.

  He nearly snorted at the absurdity of the thought but caught himself as he heard footsteps in the garrison, the sound of soldiers ready to change positions.

  Perhaps your personality changed while in the sleep near death. Perhaps you were purged of all your sins.

  His lips twisted wryly at that thought. One thing he was certain of—he’d not been a religious man before the attack, nor had he been especially just and good. No saint was he, but though he’d sinned, he found it impossible to believe himself capable of murdering his family.

  Whatever the case, he was determined to uncover the truth and he was certain that truth lay in the fortress that was Wybren. He’d be damned if he was going to carry the name around with him if it wasn’t his.

  But Morwenna was in love with Carrick, and she felt so right last night. As if you’d loved her all your life.

  Well, soon he’d find out. ’Twas nearly time to leave Calon for Wybren.

  Gray light rose in the east, sending feeble shafts to pierce the fog as it crept through the bailey, wrapping around the huts and walls, settling over the ponds and sluices, rising in thin fingers toward the heavens.

  To him it was a gift, a gossamer cloak that would help him slip through the gates.

  Within the mist he heard the changing of the guard and saw the soldiers, like shadows, moving about, taking the time to speak to each other.

  With a grinding of ancient gears the portcullis was slowly raised, the gates creaking open. The huntsmen, already astride their mounts, disappeared into the fog.

  Now was the time.

  Knife in hand, cowl hiding his features, he slid silently through the shadows, slipped into the open stable door, and found a solitary boy raking out the stalls. Whistling to himself, his rake scraping while the horses in the surrounding stalls snorted, the lad was busy with his work, unaware anyone else was inside.

  His fingers tightened over the knife’s hilt. ’Twould be a simple matter to vault over the rail, plunge his knife into the youth’s neck, and kill him swiftly.

  But it seemed such a waste. Quickly he glanced around and spied several ropes coiled and hanging upon the wall. He grabbed one; then, with the scent of horse dung and piss filling his nostrils, he put one hand on the top rail, sprang into the stall, and grabbed the boy from behind in one swift instant.

  A horse whinnied nervously.

  The stableboy tried to scream and kick before he felt the blade at his throat. “Be quiet and you’ll survive!” he hissed as several horses in nearby boxes stomped and snorted, tossing their heads. “But scream or make one move against me, and I swear I’ll slit your throat.”

  The boy
complied. Crumpled in his arms. Wet himself.

  Using the rope, he bound the boy’s wrists and ankles and then ripped off a sleeve of his tunic and used it for a gag. Once the stableboy was properly trussed, he hauled him to a far corner of the stable, behind bags filled with grain. He tied his feet and hands to a post.

  “Do not move until I’m gone,” he warned, though it would be nearly impossible for the boy to work himself free or kick or hit anything to attract attention. He would be found only when someone came looking for a missing stableboy.

  Once the boy was no hindrance, he searched through the horses tethered in the building and found a barrel-chested bay with sturdy legs and a wild eye. Not only did the animal appear strong and swift, but the steed would also blend into the forest much better than the gray or white animals he noticed. Ears straining to hear anything out of the ordinary—a footstep or cough—announcing another worker’s arrival, he located a bridle and saddle that would suffice.

  There was not a peep from the dark corner where the lad was tied.

  Good.

  He heard over the rustle of straw in the stables the sound of a dog’s bark and the movement of sentries as they walked along the walls of the castle, but otherwise the early morn was quiet.

  Within minutes he’d saddled and bridled the bay and, before dawn had completely broken, led the horse outside.

  As expected, the guard was still in the process of changing and the gate to the keep was opened wide. A few farmers’ carts pulled by mules and oxen and laden with goods were already slowly rolling into the bailey. Three more hunters rode out of the bailey, raising their arms to the sentry as they passed under the yawning portcullis.

  Now was the time.

  He climbed onto the horse’s back and trotted the beast toward the gate. No one seemed to notice.

  Yet.

  He rode tall, as if he had every right to come and go as he pleased, and as he reached the gate, the two sentries were talking as one replaced the other. They both swept him a quick glance and he raised an arm, just as he’d seen the men in the hunting party do.

  The guards barely paid him any notice and he rode through. Across the drawbridge and down a muddy road he walked the horse, but all his senses were heightened, his muscles tense. When he was at a fork in the road, he kicked his steed and felt the big horse’s muscles bunch and then surge as the beast sprang forward.

  Upon its back, Carrick leaned forward, guiding his mount out of instinct, feeling the cold winter sweep by in a rush of wind that shoved his cowl from his head. Through the mist the big horse ran, and in the distance, through the shifting fog, rose the forest.

  He knew the way to Wybren, had heard his caretakers whisper of a shortcut across the river at Raven’s Crossing.

  He felt himself smile despite the cold.

  Soon after nightfall, he’d reach Wybren.

  And when he did, he was certain all the demons in hell would break loose.

  The bastard!

  The lying, cheating, murdering son of a flea-riddled cur had left her again!

  So enraged she could barely speak, Morwenna surveyed the bed, the empty bed, where only she lay. Carrick, that miserable piece of snake dung, was gone. Gone!

  “Christ Jesus,” she swore, the grogginess she’d felt upon opening her eyes rapidly chased away by stone-cold fury.

  She slammed a fist into her pillow. “Damn, damn, damn, and double damn!” she growled, anger and shame washing through her. How could she have been so stupid? So trusting? So ridiculously naive—again? Both fists curled and pounded the mattress. If she ever saw him again, ever got her hands on him, she’d strangle the life out of him!

  She sat in the bed and thought about the night before. The lust. The passion. The pure, sublime eroticism. Her anger slowly dissipated in the dark room. Tears burned at the back of her eyes and she pulled a pillow to her chest.

  Oh, God, what had she done?

  This was her fault. Hers.

  He was gone. Like a whisper on the wind. Like before.

  She tossed her pillow aside and shot from the bed as if she could deny what had happened. Shoving her tangled hair from her eyes, she refused to think of the passion she’d shared with the bloody cur and closed her mind to the erotic images still conjured by the scent of sex that lingered on the bedsheets.

  By the gods, what kind of fool was she? she asked herself morosely. Then her blood boiled again as she recalled how easily she’d been seduced with the crook of his dark eyebrow, the twitch of one side of his mouth, the flash of fire in his blue, blue eyes.

  Bloody piece of swine dung!

  “Fie and fiddlesticks,” she muttered, her mind racing in circles.

  How had he escaped?

  And where had he gone?

  Throwing on her clothes, she ignored the sharp needle of pain that pierced her heart, that jab of knowledge that he’d callously and determinedly plotted against her . . . luring her in with sweet, sensual kisses and a touch of pure magic only to deceive her yet again.

  But you were the one who came to him. He could not have done this without your oh-so-willing help, she reminded herself.

  “Bother and bloody broomsticks!” She swept her angry gaze into every corner, under the bed, and into an alcove and yet knew with heart-stopping certainty that he was gone.

  He’d left her.

  Just like before.

  “Damn your soul straight to hell, Carrick,” she growled through clenched teeth, kicking at a pillow that had dropped to the floor. Feathers flew as the pillow hit the wall before falling into the rushes. What a fool she’d been! What an idiot! She had no more brains than Dwynn! Maybe less!

  Full of recriminations, she swiftly went through the motions of searching the room once more, peering under the bed, looking into the alcove, even glancing at the cold embers of the fire and up the damned chimney though all the while she knew full well that he was far away.

  Halfway to . . . where?

  Where would he go?

  A headache thudded behind her eyes as she concentrated. Where the bloody hell would he try to find shelter? Sanctuary? Who would take him in?

  Through the window came the sound of a cock crowing. She looked up and saw daylight. She realized then that the room wasn’t dark despite the lack of fire or the burned-out candles in the sconces. She froze, trying to listen over the fury of her own heartbeat, and she heard the distinctive sounds of the servants already at work, their voices and footsteps. She also heard the sounds of men and women shouting out morning greetings, along with the grunts of pigs and clucks of chickens. The smoky scent of cook fires and sizzling meat and the sweet aroma of baking bread reached her nostrils. Her stomach growled but she felt no hunger.

  With the realization that the morning was well under way came a new mortification. She couldn’t just slip through the darkened hallways to her own room and hope no one noticed, not when all the servants and freemen had arisen for the day. No doubt half the castle staff—those who lit fires, cleaned rushes, replaced candles, and brought up fresh linens, along with the soldier who guarded the door to this very chamber and anyone he’d gossiped with during the night—already knew that she’d spent the night in Carrick’s chamber. When she walked through the door, she would have to face them—and their curious stares or smug smiles or knowing glances.

  And soon they would all know that after he’d bedded her and she was lulled to sleep, he’d slipped away from the keep. Heat crawled up the back of her neck.

  ’Twas one thing to have people rumor about one; quite another to step into the hallway from a lover’s chamber when the servants were already awake and at their duties.

  A new wave of embarrassment flooded over her, but she found no way to avoid it. Better to face everyone head-on. Stiffening her spine, she squared her shoulders. Then tossing her hair away from her face, she lifted her chin and yanked open the door.

  Sir James was at his post, one shoulder propped against the smooth stones of the corridor, h
is eyes definitely closed, his mouth slightly agape, his breathing regular. The rushlights in the corridor had burned down to nothing, as had the candles in their sconces. None had yet been replaced. For the moment, it seemed, no one save the sentry knew of her nightly visit to Carrick.

  She let out her breath as the sounds of voices drifted up the staircase. It would be only a matter of minutes before the servants would start working on this floor.

  “Sir James!” Morwenna said, touching the guard upon the shoulder of his tunic.

  He started. “Wha—? Oh!” Blinking rapidly and pulling himself to attention, he focused on her. “M’lady,” he said in a rush, his eyes filled with regret as he realized he’d been caught napping. “Oh, ’tis sorry I am. I . . . er . . . I must’ve dropped off.”

  “Was that before or after Carrick escaped?”

  “What?” Sir James’s Adam’s apple bobbed wildly. “Escaped?” The sentry’s gaze centered on Morwenna and she felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “But I thought you were with . . .”

  “Yes, yes, I know. I was inside, but I fell asleep and somehow Carrick managed to leave without rousing me. Or you.”

  “He did not pass me,” Sir James said firmly, but his own cheeks reddened, and she realized the man had no idea how long he’d dozed in the corridor. “He must be yet inside.” On a mission, Sir James hurried into the chamber where Carrick had resided for nearly a fortnight. As hers had before, the sentry’s gaze swept every corner and nook and cranny within the room. He studied the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling, as if he expected Carrick to appear.

  He found nothing, of course.

  Not even when he searched under the bed and inside the alcove where linens were kept.

  “Call the captain of the guard,” she ordered once Sir James saw the chamber was truly empty. “Have Sir Alexander double the sentries at the gates and then have his men begin scouring every inch of this keep. Every inch! Then ask Sir Alexander to meet me in the great hall.”

  She crossed the hallway quickly, slipped into her chamber, and slammed the door shut behind her.

  “Fool, fool, fool!” she railed as she walked to the basin left on a stand near the window. What had she been thinking? What? Why was she so weak whenever Carrick of Wybren was concerned?