Temptress

by Lisa Jackson

  So why couldn’t he remember the fire?

  If he was Carrick, why didn’t he recall setting flame to straw, or running from the keep to ride away while the castle burned. . . . Why, why, why?

  Tonight, he would find out.

  Gritting his teeth because he wanted to flee to the great hall, he let the other man guide him. Fortunately, the guard took a path that was familiar to him. He knew just where to make his move, where to pounce. Though he appeared to be paying the guard no attention, when the path jogged and they were in a tight spot between the miller’s quarters and the windmill, out of view of everyone, he let his knife slide into his palm, his fingers curling over the hilt. The guard was half a step in front of him.

  In one swift motion, he leapt, held the knife to the guard’s throat, and with the man sputtering, eyes wide, forced the surprised sentry against the wall. “Drop your weapon,” he ordered through clenched teeth.

  The guard struggled. The lantern went flying, the candle’s flame fizzling out, the metal clanking against the wall.

  “Fine.” He kneed the man in the groin and, as he doubled over, took his weapon. His knife was at the man’s throat again.

  “Do not kill me,” the sentry whimpered, holding on to his groin and looking as if he would throw up or piss all over the stones and mud of the path.

  “ ’Tis your choice,” he said quickly. He couldn’t afford for the man to soil his uniform. “Trust me. If you obey, I’ll let you live. If not, I swear, I’ll run you through with your own sword.”

  “Nay, I—”

  He placed the tip of the man’s sword to his chest. “As I said, your choice!” Eyes upon his captive, one hand steady on the sword, he removed his belt and quickly put it over the man’s mouth as a gag. Once assured the sentry could not call out, he shoved him into the base of the windmill and stripped him of his clothes. The air was thick with dust and the smell of crushed grain, the room black as pitch.

  Working quickly, he sliced off the sleeves of his own soldier’s tunic and used them to bind the sentry’s wrists and ankles, and then ripped off the hem of the tunic and used it to tie the naked sentry to a post near the center of the building. No doubt the man would be able to struggle free of his bonds or someone would find him, but with any luck, hours would pass before he was freed.

  In the dark he finished stripping and then dressed in the uniform of Wybren. He made a few mistakes, wasting precious time by pulling the tunic over his head backwards before twisting it around, and he struggled with the laces of his breeches. The clothes fit poorly, the tunic tight over his shoulder, the breeches snug over his thighs. And they smelled of the guard. But they would have to do.

  He slid the knife into his sleeve again and carried the stolen sword. He was ready.

  Stealthily he slipped into the night and, with the rain as his shield, crept along the familiar paths that wound across the large middle bailey. He found his way to the back of the great hall, eased through a kitchen door, and then noiselessly climbed the servants’ stairway to the second floor. To the lord’s quarters.

  To Graydynn.

  Teeth clenched, hand tight upon his weapon, he moved into the upper hallway, different from what he remembered, yet the same. Rushlights burned in new sconces and the hallway seemed wider, its whitewashed walls clean and new.

  His heart thudded. So this is where it had happened. This is where they died. His blood pulsed hard through his veins and different emotions tore at him. He’d loved her. And hated her. Trusted her. And been betrayed.

  He remembered a woman. “Alena.”

  Pausing at a spot where he knew the doorway to his private chamber had been, he touched the wall. A sense of déjà vu overcame him and he saw her inside the room, whispering to him in words he didn’t understand. She curled a finger toward him, inviting him inside, and though he knew he was making a mistake crossing the threshold, he couldn’t resist, had never been able to resist her.

  His chest tightened until he could scarcely breathe. He’d never been able to breathe when he thought of her and how she’d died and now, because he’d survived, he felt a wedge of guilt cut deep into his heart. He’d loved her. But maybe he hadn’t loved her as much as he could have.

  Alena! He momentarily closed his eyes and saw her: gold hair that fell to her waist, impish eyes, perfect breasts, and a nipped-in waist. “Come to me,” she’d whispered, and though he’d known he shouldn’t trust her again, he’d walked willingly into the room. . . .

  “So it’s true!” A voice cut through his vision and he whirled, weapon drawn. Too late, he realized he wasn’t alone. Someone else was creeping in the hallway.

  There, but a few paces from him, was his cousin.

  Graydynn of Wybren smiled, his white teeth slashing beneath his beard. “So it’s true,” he said with a shake of his head. “Carrick is, indeed, alive.”

  “I hate to bother you, m’lady. I know you’ve got much on your mind,” Sarah, the sheriff’s wife, said anxiously. “But ’tis unlike my husband to not return.” She stood in front of Morwenna in the great hall, wringing her hands nervously.

  “He’s the sheriff, Sarah,” Morwenna said. “Surely he’s been gone for longer than this before.” Morwenna motioned to the chair beside her and the big woman dropped down. She sat on the very edge of the seat as if she wanted to bolt at any second.

  “Aye, but he’s always told me . . . how long he thought he’d be gone. ‘Sarah, I’ll be gone three days, and if ’tis longer, I’ll send a messenger to let you know so you don’t worry,’ he’d say. Or ‘I’ll be back by nightfall; mind that you keep the porridge warm.’ But in all our years of marriage, never did he say, ‘I’ll be gone but a few hours’ and then be away far into the night. Aye, I’ve waited up for him a time or two, when something prevented him from returning as planned, but always only a few hours.”

  “This time is different,” Morwenna said.

  “Aye.” She nodded sharply several times. “He told me he was off to talk to a farmer with Sir Alexander, and this was before dawn, mind ye.” She bit at her lower lip, realized what she was doing, and stopped suddenly. “He said he’d miss the first meal, to be sure, but be back by midday.”

  “And now it’s nightfall.”

  “Aye, I’m sure he would have sent word if he could . . . knowing how I worry and all.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “I fear something’s happened to him, m’lady,” she said in a voice that was little more than a squeak. “And with all that’s gone on around here . . . with what’s happened to poor, poor Isa and, oh, Sir Vernon.” She clapped a hand over her bosom, swallowed hard, and looked away. “ ’Tis a worry, m’lady. ’Tis a worry and then some.”

  Morwenna wanted to dismiss the woman’s fears, to console her, to advise her that everything was as it should be, but it would have been a lie. “We must wait through the night, Sarah,” she said, “but I’ve already decided that with the new day, I’ll send out a search party.”

  “Must you wait?” Wide eyes blinked. “By then it could be too late.”

  Inwardly Morwenna agreed. She, too, was concerned that something dreadful had happened. “I fear there is nothing we will find in the storm, at least not before morning’s light.” She offered a smile and patted the woman’s hand. “Have faith,” she suggested when her own was in tatters. “Mayhap he’ll return soon. I know that he and Sir Alexander are both intelligent, strong men, unlikely to be duped, and each is handy with a sword.”

  “Aye, but sometimes a sword is not enough,” Sarah said as she stood. She took her leave. For a long moment Morwenna sat in silent agreement. She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair and tried to console herself with the thought that she had not sat idle. Mort, rousing from his spot on the other side of the fire, came to her side, and she scratched his ears.

  Earlier this day she’d asked Sir Lylle to dispatch messengers into the town to locate the physician and the priest. So far, the two men hadn’t returned. Nor had the messengers.
“How odd,” she said, and felt a niggle of fear, a sense that treason was afoot. Why else was it that everyone who had left Calon today had then disappeared, as if they’d fallen off the face of the earth?

  Her eyes narrowed on the fire.

  In all the years she’d hoped and worked toward running her own barony, she’d never considered how difficult it might be. She’d been tested, aye, when she first arrived at Calon and, as a woman, had expected it would take time for her subjects to accept her. She’d hoped that by ruling with a level head, firm hand, and warm heart, the people would come to trust and respect her. But it hadn’t happened as she’d planned, and she’d often felt the tension in the air between those who did accept her as the lady of the keep and those who would never trust an unmarried woman to make their decisions for them.

  Until Carrick had been brought through the castle gates, she’d worked diligently toward the single end of being the best ruler she could be, but the sight of her old lover, beaten and nearly dead, had proved her undoing. Everything she’d worked toward, all her hopes had not only been challenged but dashed, and it was she who by sleeping with him had sealed her own fate: She would never be trusted in her own keep.

  So what are you going to do about it, Morwenna? Sit here and feel sorry for yourself? Call yourself a thousand kinds of idiot? Or are you going to do something to prove your worth? Are you a leader, or just a pampered woman with a dream of being a lady?

  “Fie and fiddlesticks!” she grumbled under her breath, and the dog beside her whined. “You’re all right,” she said to him, though she felt ice in her blood at the thought of treason within the keep. Was that it? Was someone plotting to take over Calon?

  She glanced around the room. A few servants were stacking the tables against the walls after the evening meal as a cat slunk through the shadows. The castle dogs barely lifted their heads at this intruder. Even Mort didn’t seem to notice the black feline. Was she like the dogs, filled with a false sense of safety?

  Who at Calon could she trust?

  That question was a ghost stepping through her mind.

  The people you trusted are gone. Her jaw slid to one side and she wondered if she’d somehow become the center of a plot. Had she not felt that she was being spied upon? Had she not overheard snippets of conversation questioning her abilities, primarily because she hadn’t been born a man? Had she not sensed the tension, noticed the tight, disapproving smiles, the mistrust in several sets of eyes? Some of her enemies were obvious: the alchemist, the tanner, and two or three of the huntsmen had done their best to avoid her. Whenever they did have to deal with her, they were curt and rushed. And the potter was a crafty man. She did not believe she could ever trust him because he seemed to speak from two sides of the same mouth. The miller’s wife was a cold woman who always fancied other women had their eyes on her toothless, leering husband. And then there was the priest and physician—she’d never known where she stood with either of them. Now both were missing, despite the messengers. Aye, something was amiss.

  And it had started with finding Carrick outside the keep. He was the key. Since bringing him inside there had been two murders and now people were missing. According to Sir Lylle everyone in the keep had been questioned and questioned again.

  Not everyone, she thought. For some reason Sir Lylle had balked at speaking with Brother Thomas, which was a mistake. Not his first.

  Again she reasoned she could rely only upon herself. As she’d promised Sarah, she would ride at dawn and try to locate Sir Alexander and the sheriff. But she would not sit around until then. Tonight she would approach the south tower and speak to the old monk herself. According to Fyrnne, Brother Thomas had lived in Calon as long as anyone, and there was a chance that from his position high above the bailey, he had witnessed something out of the ordinary the night before.

  She only hoped he hadn’t taken a vow of silence!

  “Just get on the damned horse!” The voice was loud. Imperious. Used to giving commands.

  Alexander wanted to fight. To take his sword and run the thug through, but it was too late for that. Blindfolded, he climbed upon the steed—his horse, he thought, for the saddle felt familiar and the animal’s gait was the same steady walk he was used to. That at least was something—to be upon his own steed.

  But not enough, he feared, his hands bound, his jaw aching with a blinding pain.

  He and the sheriff, thinking they were going to the aid of a farmer who’d been the victim of a vicious attack, had instead been played for fools. They’d come to the farmer’s house at dawn and pounded loudly on the door.

  When no one had answered, they’d broken down the door and found the farmer in the center of the room, chickens, pigs, and goats running free around him on the packed dirt floor. The fire was no longer burning, but they’d seen that the man was beaten to a pulp, his hands and ankles bound and tied together, a rope strung through his blood-crusted mouth.

  The farmer had yelled as they entered, his eyes widening in horror. Too late Alexander had realized he and Payne had walked into a trap. They’d been attacked from behind. Been hit hard enough upon their heads to send both he and Payne to their knees. Chickens had squawked and scattered; a goat bleated and ran over his legs in terror. A blackness had pulled at his brain, though he’d managed somehow not to lose consciousness.

  He’d tried to stand and whirl, to lash out with his sword, but the men—and there had been many of them—had quickly knocked him down again, his face hitting the hard, packed earth. Before he could react, they’d covered his head with a rough sack and stripped him of his weapon. Roaring, he’d managed to fling himself to his feet and swing around, kicking hard and wounding one of his would-be captors. He’d heard the man howl in pain before someone hissed, “Bloody stinking bastard!”

  Bam!

  A bootheel had cracked hard against his jaw.

  Blinding pain had burst though his head. His teeth had rattled and his legs had finally given out. He’d gone down like a mortally wounded stag, falling to his knees again. Before he could breathe his hands were jerked roughly together and his wrists bound with leather straps that slashed deep into his flesh. A gag had been forced over the bag and pulled tight about his head.

  “There ya go, mate, trussed up like a damned Christmas goose!” the same foul-breathed man had said before cackling at his own pathetic joke.

  Such mortification.

  Now, hands tied behind his back, his mouth aching as he sat astride the horse, he strained his ears. The men were talking, but he could not identify any of the voices. He wasn’t even certain that Payne had been brought along with this party of thugs, but Alexander thought he must still be in the ragtag party. He fervently hoped they were together, that somehow they could overcome their attackers.

  And how will you do that, captain of the damned guard?

  His big shoulders slumped. By the saints, he’d failed.

  Not only himself and the keep, but Lady Morwenna, the woman who depended upon him, the woman he loved.

  Aye, he was a sorry specimen for captain of the guard of Calon Keep. The days of wishing that he were of a noble station, that he could dare ask the lady to be his wife, had been as easily stripped from him as his own sword. In truth, that particular dream seemed a lifetime ago, as if it had happened to another man.

  Don’t give up!

  Fight, damn it!

  You owe it to her!

  To yourself!

  You may yet find a way to get out of this.

  You have to!

  Despite the pain, Alexander tried to concentrate, to keep his wits about him. Where were these cutthroats taking him and why? He knew not in which direction they were riding, but he smelled the scent of wet bark and leaves over the smell of rain. Straining to hear, he listened hard and a few of the words whispered between the men came to his ears. Some were unintelligible, but others were clear. “Calon” and “Carrick” and “vengeance” all were mentioned.

  What did they mea
n?

  Dear God, what was their plan?

  Had this band of thugs lured them out into the night only to return them to Calon to be ransomed? Nay, that seemed unlikely. ’Twas too risky and had nothing to do with Carrick or revenge. The wheels in his mind turned and he tried to climb inside the thoughts of the men who had ambushed him.

  Did the criminals plan to kill both the sheriff and himself? Perhaps for sport or to make a point to others who tried to stop their thievery? What better way to flaunt their authority and prove how clever and invincible they were than to slay the captain of an army and the sheriff?

  But it seemed far-fetched.

  He listened to the steady plop of the horses’ hooves in the mud and felt the sting of rain upon his face. Suddenly, without provocation, the truth hit him.

  Like a punch in the gut.

  He and the sheriff weren’t going to be taken to the castle for an exchange of prisoners or money. Nor were they going to be murdered outright, at least not yet.

  Nay.

  He knew in his heart they were being taken back to Calon for one purpose only.

  To be used as bait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Morwenna half ran up the stairs, her dog following at her heels. The walls of the great hall had seemed to shrink and she couldn’t sit still another second.

  She hadn’t lied when she’d told Sarah that she was forming a party to leave at dawn. She planned to take five of the best men she could find within the ranks of the soldiers. She only hoped that the missing men would arrive by morning. Maybe they’d have Carrick, that cur, with them. Oh, she’d love to face him again! Tell him what she thought.

  And what is that, Morwenna?

  What do you think of him?

  Do you imagine that if he were here, standing in front of you right here and now, you would not fall victim to his charms again?

  “Damn it all.” She wouldn’t think of Carrick, mangy rat that he was, not now. At the moment she had to concentrate on finding the captain of the guard and the sheriff. What she’d said to Sarah was true: stronger or smarter men did not exist in Calon. If Sir Alexander and Payne had met with ill fate, she doubted she and the lesser men she would ride with could triumph.