by Lisa Jackson
Her head spun with all the lies he was weaving. Untruth after untruth fell off his tongue as easily as spittle. She could never trust him again. Never! She knew how callous and heartless he could be. “You left me,” she charged, “when I was with child.”
His eyes flickered and he paled a bit, but he didn’t deny it, and her heart broke into a thousand pieces all over again.
Still she plunged on, her fury firing her blood, her disdain palpable. “You left me pregnant, and then you returned to Alena, your brother’s wife—Theron’s wife—who died in the fire.”
Carrick did not deny it.
“And now you expect me to believe that even though you had your men set upon Theron and beat him to an inch of his life—”
“That was a mistake!”
“—and even though you have taken some of my men prisoner as a means to bargain with me, apparently—for what is still not clear—you want me to believe your intentions are honorable. That is the point, is it not? That you are not the murdering bastard everyone thinks you are?”
He struggled for an answer. She lifted a brow and waited.
“Yes.”
“And you want me to believe you would not further hurt Theron?”
“Yes.”
“You expect too much! You are the lowest of the low, Carrick of Wybren,” she charged. “For all I know, you’ve not only killed your family, but one of my sentries and the midwife who was my nursemaid.”
“I swear to you, Morwenna, I did not.”
“Swear to me on what? The life of our child who never was born? The graves of your sister, parents, and brothers? The freedom of the men you have held prisoner so that you could sneak into my keep?”
A muscle worked in his jaw, but he held his head with a pride that was undeserved.
“Understand this, Carrick, that I trust you not. I believe you not. I would be better off bargaining with Lucifer and all the demons in hell than to help you.” She advanced upon him, her jaw set, her eyes trained on his seductive and oh so traitorous blue gaze. “What the hell have you done with my sister?” she demanded.
“Your sister? I know not.”
“Liar!” she nearly screamed, her fists clenching. “Tell me where you took her and pray God for your mortal soul if you’ve harmed her in any way!” Morwenna stopped only when the toes of her shoes touched the tip of his boots. She had to crane her neck to glare up at him, but she did so, skewering him with a look of pure loathing. Inside she was quaking, her stomach in knots, and her words came out in a hiss between gnashed teeth. “If Bryanna is hurt or . . . or worse, you pathetic piece of filth, I will see that you are strung up by your heels and sliced end to end so that your innards spill out before you are even dead!”
His gaze didn’t falter.
“I swear, Carrick, you miserable son of a dog, I’ll kill you myself!” She flung herself at him, pummeled his chest with her fists, and felt his arms surround her. As she fought and clawed he had the audacity, the damned nerve, not to so much as strike her or defend himself. He merely held her close as she spat and swung and swore, damning him to hell, reviling him to the heavens. Fear and anger caused her to flail wildly, furiously, broken sobs coming out of her mouth, until the rage had quieted and she was spent, sweating, gasping in his arms.
She looked up at his handsome face and saw not the man she’d loved but a liar, a cheat, a traitor. When her heart pounded it was not with love, nor lust, nor temptation, but only with fear for those she did love and the frustration of not being able to save them.
Doubts assailed her. Had all her hopes, her dreams, her plans to be the Lady of Calon, ruler of this barony, caused all the pain, deceit, and death in these thick, solid walls?
Finally she realized she was still in his arms, her breasts held tight against the wall of his chest, his square jaw pressed to her forehead, the scent of him invading her nostrils.
Revulsion tore through her. “Let go of me!”
“If that’s what you want.”
“I do!”
He cocked a dubious black eyebrow and she wanted to beat the bloody piss out of him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she demanded as he released her and she stumbled backward before catching herself.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said in that same deep voice she remembered. “Here in this room. I just stepped out when you took the monk downstairs.”
“How do you know what I’ve been doing, and where the bloody hell is my sister?”
“I know what you’ve been doing because I’ve been watching, waiting for the chance to get you alone. Most of the time I hid out here because no one bothered to come inside. As for your sister, I know not where she is. When I arrived, her door was shut, the fire out, the bed made.”
“When did you sneak in here?”
“When you all were distracted by my men.” She thought of the two men who had come to the keep’s gatehouse. “ ’Twas a simple matter,” Carrick went on. “I knew you would send men after them, just as you sent men looking for Carrick, so I instructed Will and Hack to split up and lead your soldiers in opposite directions, away from the camp. While they were discussing all the plans with you and the guards were distracted, I slipped through the gates and into the keep.”
“So easily?” she asked bitterly.
He nodded, looked at the floor, and then again into her eyes. “Your security, m’lady, is . . . less than you might want.”
In this, she believed him. People had been murdered or gone missing, and no one—not one of her soldiers, spies, scouts, or huntsmen—could find any clues to the identity of the killer or knew how to find those still unaccounted for.
She blew out her breath. “You have my men?”
“Aye. Hidden away.”
“All of them? The physician and priest and . . . and another man who is considered a half-wit?”
“Nay, only the sheriff and captain of the guard.”
“But the others are missing.”
“Not at my hand,” he said, frowning. “You are certain they didn’t leave of their own accord?”
“I do not know,” she admitted. “But it seems strange that they are all gone, all left the night Isa was murdered and Car—Theron escaped.”
“You thought my brother was me,” he said. “I knew everyone else did, but I thought that you . . . you might have known the difference.”
She flushed and bit her lip. “I thought you were dead,” she said, her voice a whisper. “And then this man appears, wearing your ring. I had to believe . . . nay, I wanted to believe that you’d survived.”
Carrick nodded as if this were so, which enraged Morwenna anew.
“You lured my men from me so that you could use them to bargain,” she said tightly. “Tell me, what bargain do you wish to make?”
“I need your help,” he said, and she was instantly wary.
“You need my help?” She nearly laughed at the absurdity of the situation. Shaking her head at the folly of it all, she said, “ ’Tis ridiculous. You’ve never needed anyone’s help in all of your miserable years!”
“Until now. I want your help in proving that I did not set the fire that killed my family. To that end, we will have to convince Theron of that.”
“The man you had beaten nearly to death? That might not be easy.”
“And we must find the real killer. Or killers.”
“It’s been more than a year since the fire. Everyone at Wybren has tried to do just that.”
“Have they?” He shook his head. “Not the current lord. Graydynn is satisfied with things the way they are.” He rubbed his chin. “Listen, Morwenna, I know you have no reason to trust me and, aye, every reason to hate me, to consider me your worst enemy, but if you help me in my quest, I will help you in yours.
“For your assistance, I will release your men,” he went on, “and help you find your sister and anyone else who is missing. I will put all my resources into uncovering who killed the guard and the ol
d woman and . . . above all else, Morwenna,” he said solemnly, “I will help you locate my brother.” His blue eyes held hers. “That is the best I can offer, but it’s sincere. You have my word.”
“I do not trust you or your word.”
“My word is as good as any of the people who live in this keep, half of which would love to see you fail or be replaced just because you’re a woman.”
In this, Morwenna could not argue.
He removed his sword and tossed it onto the bed and then reached into his boot and pulled out a wicked little knife. It, too, landed on Bryanna’s mattress.
“So what will it be, Morwenna?” he asked. “Will you let me help you, or would you rather be on your own?”
She walked to the bed and retrieved his weapons. Looking him squarely in the eye, she yelled, “Guards! Sir James and Sir Cowan, I need you here immediately!”
Footsteps pounded up the stairs.
Carrick snorted. “This is your answer?”
“As God is my witness, Carrick, I will never trust you,” she said, her lips barely moving, “but I will let you have your freedom. You’ll work with my most trusted soldiers. They will be armed. You will not.”
“Lady Morwenna?” Sir Cowan called.
“Here, in Bryanna’s chamber!” She gazed at her old lover. “Make no mistake, Carrick, I will never, as long as I draw a breath, trust you again, but I will give you one last chance to prove yourself. And if you dare cross me, lie to me, or endanger the lives of those I love, I swear I will spend the rest of my life making yours a living hell!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Tell me again, what is the trouble at Calon?” Theron demanded as they paused at a creek for the horses to drink. The animals needed a rest, having been driven hard from Wybren. Ten men from Wybren rode with Theron, including Benjamin, and Liam, the best of the lot, and Dwynn, the odd one. The men had dismounted and were either chewing on dried beef the cook at Wybren had given them, or relieving themselves in a copse of oak trees.
Theron knew not what he faced at Calon. The idiot had turned silent, only muttering about “trouble” and “brother” and “God.”
“Did you see Carrick?” he asked for the twentieth time, but Dwynn just shook his head.
“Brother.”
Theron sighed. “My brother. I know.”
Or was it something else?
“Do you mean a monk?” He remembered the disguises he’d found in the secret room, and one of them had been the robe and cowl of a monk. “The ‘brother’ you’re speaking of, does he live at Calon?”
A spark showed in the half-wit’s eyes, but it quickly faded.
Theron scowled. Maybe he misunderstood the man. For all Theron knew Carrick was dead, though he was sure he had escaped the fire. Theron remembered that the man in his chamber with Alena had not been his brother.
So where was Carrick now?
The men were returning, the horses somewhat refreshed. Calon was still nearly two hours away, so Theron climbed onto the back of huge red steed and said, “Let’s ride.”
“To Calon,” Liam said, his eyes bright.
“To Calon,” Theron agreed, and he only hoped that whatever the trouble was, Morwenna was safe. “God be with her,” he whispered and then dug his heels into his big horse’s flanks. The steed shot forward, the other horses thundering behind.
Lord Ryden’s spy sat on the opposite edge of the campfire and picked at his teeth with the point of his knife. Two rabbits and a pheasant were roasting on the spit, fat sizzling into the coals, smoke rising to the heavens. The other men, ever vigilant for the outlaws, were tending the horses or pacing the perimeter of the camp.
Ryden, sipping ale from a jug, was propped against the trunk of a tree, his legs sore from riding for hours. He’d hoped to arrive at Calon before nightfall.
“I’m tellin’ ya, m’lord, it’s Carrick’s gang,” Quinn insisted. The spy was a rat-faced little man. His features were set in the center of his face—a long nose and ridged brow out of proportion to his small eyes and mouth, where yellowed teeth crowded together. He pointed his dirty knife toward the western hills. “Hidin’ out down by the old rock quarry.” Waggling his blade toward the encampment, he nodded to himself, pleased with what he’d discovered. “And they’ve got captives.”
“Morwenna?” Ryden heard himself ask a little too quickly. The spy’s eyes lightened a bit as he flicked a piece of old meat from his teeth.
“Don’t think so.”
“But you’re saying that Carrick of Wybren is alive? Just not the man who was dragged, near death, into Calon Keep.”
“That’s right.”
Ryden tried to quell the fury that boiled through his blood as he thought of his intended’s lover, his sister’s murderer.
The spy grinned a bit and then cut off another chunk of charred rabbit from the carcass on the spit.
“I thought Carrick was half dead. Lying in the keep.”
Quinn gnawed on the burned meat and shook his head. “Seems that Carrick is the leader of this band. He wasn’t hurt at all in any attack.” Quinn’s chin was tucked as he chewed. He looked up at Ryden from the tops of his eyes. “Nay. ’Twas his brother.”
“Brother? They were all killed in the fire.”
“So everyone thinks. But one managed to escape.”
“One as well as Carrick?”
The rat-faced man nodded. “Theron, his name was.”
Ryden nearly choked on a swallow of ale. “Alena’s husband survived?” he whispered, disbelieving. “While she was killed?” In his mind’s eye he imagined the fire, the flames, the burning bed . . . “But she was with Theron.”
The spy wisely didn’t say the unspoken thought hanging between them.
“Nay, this is a lie! Two bodies were found.”
“And is there not a man missing? One you sent to Wybren? One who knew your sister?”
Ryden’s throat closed in upon itself. He shut his eyes. Alena. Beautiful, headstrong Alena. Would she have taken another lover to her bed, one other than Carrick? The man he sent, aye, had been a stableboy at Heath as a lad and had helped Alena learn to ride. He thought that spy he’d sent to watch Alena had disappeared with his hefty fee. Apparently that was not the case.
His jaw clenched so hard it ached. If he could believe what Quinn was suggesting, then the man who was in his own employ had gone to Wybren and set upon seducing the woman he was supposed to watch over.
Ryden’s muscles tightened. A bad taste rose up his mouth. He realized that Quinn, on the other side of the fire, was staring at him, trying to read his reaction.
When Quinn saw he had Ryden’s attention again, he said around a mouthful of rabbit, “So you see, m’lord, the rumors about Carrick being alive are true.”
“Who told you this?” Ryden asked.
“One of the Carrick’s thugs himself, a man who goes by the name of Hack. Odd-looking fellow. Got a brand on his cheek and eyes that hardly blink.” Quinn chewed and cleaned his teeth with his tongue. “Anyway, Hack, he was well into his cups one night at the alehouse, and he bragged to me about being part of Carrick’s gang.”
“Why to you?”
“Cuz I was buying the ale,” Quinn said smugly. “I learned a lot that night.”
Ryden wanted to shake the information from him but contented himself with tossing a wet, mossy branch of oak onto the fire. The flames hissed, smoke churning upward.
Afraid the lord had lost interest in his tale, Quinn added, “So this Hack and two other men, they beat the brother senseless, nearly killing the man, and Carrick found out and threatened them all with their lives. Turned out he didn’t want him killed, just warned not to raise trouble about the fire at Wybren. Carrick, he got all upset. Furious at the men. Said they weren’t supposed to kill him, just warn him. Anyway, they left him for dead.”
“And Morwenna’s hunters found him.” Ryden rocked back on his heels and felt a little better knowing that the man Morwenna had tended to these l
ast weeks hadn’t been her old lover after all. Mayhap all his worries about her changing her mind about their impending marriage were for naught.
He considered what would happen if he chose the right course of action.
Wouldn’t he appear the hero, her champion, if he brought Carrick and his band to justice? He smiled at the thought and motioned for one of the men to bring a second jug as he drained the first. Not only would he rid the barony of a wicked band of thieves and cutthroats, but he’d also bring Carrick of Wybren to justice for the murder of his family and free Carrick’s hostages!
Satisfaction filled him as he considered his future as the Baron of Calon as well as Heath, Wynndym, and Bentwood—the last two keeps compliments of his prior wives. Ah, yes, his power would stretch far and wide. . . . He sipped from his cup and congratulated himself on his foresight. Before he’d left Heath, he’d sent three spies ahead of him to search for the band of robbers who were reputed to inhabit the forests near Calon. Ryden had decided to flush them out before he and his party were attacked. His plan, it seemed, had worked perfectly.
“Have another swallow of ale,” he said to the spy. “Once it’s dark, you’ll take me to Carrick’s camp, where we’ll surprise the bastard and free his prisoners.” His smile deepened at the thought of turning the tables on the traitor once and for all.
Carrick’s capture at Ryden’s hand would be sweet, sweet justice.
Finally Alena would be avenged.
And Morwenna would become his bride.
She clutched the knife to her chest.
Alone in the dark, she waited.
For him.
The murderer who took Isa’s life.
He would be back, Bryanna thought, as she sat on a pile of clothes that he’d left. Disguises. To hide his identity and to allow him to walk through the keep unnoticed.
She’d spent hours exploring these passageways, and her heart had pounded in fear that she would unexpectedly come across the monster, that he would slice her as he had the others. But she’d kept on her mission, making it a quest to explore as many of the dark corridors and chambers as she could, carrying one torchlight after another as they burned down. There had been several torchlights in place along these narrow passageways, waiting to be lit. She’d risked collecting others by stepping into the hallway near her chamber, or by the kitchens, wherever she found a door and listening until she heard no sound from the other side. Twice, she’d nearly been spotted by guards searching the keep, but each time she’d managed to slip into the hidden corridors once again without being seen.
