Temptress

by Lisa Jackson

  She’d learned a lot about this unknown labyrinth.

  Mazelike, the corridors sprouted off each other, some ending in chambers with no other exit, others leading outside. In the hours she’d been in the semidark, she’d found wider areas where the monster could watch through the slits in the wall, stare down into private chambers, observe without being seen.

  Goose bumps crawled up her arms at the thought of him lurking in the dark, waiting, watching, perhaps smiling, or licking his lips or touching himself.

  But it would end soon.

  He would return; she was certain of it.

  And when he did, she would be ready.

  She reached to her neck, where hung the leather strap with its smooth stone. She did not feel a second’s guilt about sneaking back to the physician’s hut and taking Isa’s necklace from her. Nor did she feel bad about creeping into Isa’s chamber and taking all her treasures: herbs, candles, string, stones, dice, a book of runes, and this, her tiny dagger with its wicked, curved blade. Bryanna had stuffed the lot of it into an apron that had been hanging upon Isa’s wall, and then she’d carried everything back here, to this chamber, where she was certain he would return.

  “Worry not, Isa,” she whispered. “I will end his miserable life.”

  Be careful, child. He is like the wind, unseen but ever-present. Do not let down your guard.

  Ever.

  “So there is supposed to be a second set of hallways, and you think Theron used them in his escape,” Carrick said as they once again searched through the solar and chambers that were her quarters.

  “Aye. I know not how else he could have gotten past the guard.”

  Carrick slid her a glance that said he knew more, but he didn’t voice what was on his mind. “Let’s go through the room he was in again, inch by inch.”

  “I’ve been through it three, nay, four times!”

  “But it’s the only place from which we know for certain someone disappeared. You cannot even be sure that Bryanna was in her room when she went missing.”

  Bryanna!

  Dear Lord, where was she? Why had she not returned?

  Upon agreeing to a pact with Carrick, Morwenna had taken Sir Lylle into her confidence. The knight had been aghast at her alliance, but she had insisted that he accept her decision. Only Sir Cowan, Sir James, and the temporary captain of the guard knew that Carrick was in the keep, and while he and Morwenna had searched the upper story, other soldiers had been sent to the lower rooms of the keep as well as the buildings, shops, and huts inside the inner and outer baileys. Another small group had been sent into town, and the castle itself seemed empty, only a few servants going about their tasks.

  Once again they entered Tadd’s chamber and for a moment, Morwenna wished her brother were visiting. Tadd was a pain in the backside, aye, always looking to lift a skirt or drink a pint, but he was true of heart and . . . Oh, fie and fiddlesticks, what was she thinking? Tadd would only get in the way. He would point out time and time again her failings, so it was best that her brother not visit anytime soon. Not until she had restored some order and found their sister.

  Spurred by her thoughts of saving Bryanna, Morwenna walked to the center of the room and stared at the four walls.

  Carrick was measuring the floor by his strides. “We know that if there is a passageway, it does not run along the main hall, for there is not enough room. The walls into which the doorways are set are not wide enough.”

  “Aye.”

  “And the wall to the outside of the keep is unlikely as well—see the width of the windowsill—which leaves the wall between this chamber and the next, to the left of the fireplace, elsewise whoever was building it would run into the corridor.” Morwenna nodded and Carrick continued. “The only place for a secret door in this room is there, near the grate, running toward that wall, or on that long wall without window or door or fireplace.”

  “Or the floor,” she said, and he nodded, smiling a bit.

  “Or the ceiling, but there seems to be no way to reach the ceiling, no ladder nor stones that are pushed out a bit to allow for climbing.”

  She eyed the floor as he studied the ceiling. “Have you noticed that these chambers, up here on this level, are different in that they are not covered in whitewash?” Carrick asked. “The stones are allowed to be their natural color; the mortar, too, is gray.”

  She nodded. “I thought it odd when I first arrived but decided it was the style of the lord who constructed the keep.”

  “Perhaps it was done this way to hide the secret doorways, to make certain that no one would come in and fix the wattle and daub or limewash the walls.” His eyes narrowed as he examined the stone and mortar that reached to the ceiling.

  Morwenna kicked the rushes out of the way, studying the mortar, even scooting the bed to one side. “Nothing,” she muttered. Shadows had deepened as their fruitless quest had continued. Now Carrick lit the fire with an ember from the hall rushlights as she did the same with all the candles in the room.

  “ ’Tis impossible,” she muttered.

  “Only if you think it so. If you believe that there is a doorway to this room, then we shall find it.”

  She silently prayed he was right but was about to give up when she saw the scratches, long marks upon the floor near one corner. Her interest quickened. “What’s this?”

  Carrick was beside her in an instant. He bent to one knee, touched the stones. Feeling along the crack between the wall and floor, he grinned. “You found it, Morwenna!” he said. “There’s an opening here.” He ran his fingers over the crack. “Now we have to find a lever, or a latch, or a keyhole, or something . . .”

  And then she saw it . . . an unlikely niche in a rock. She reached inside, felt a piece of metal, and held her breath. “I think I found it,” she whispered and pushed hard against the latch.

  Slowly the doorway appeared.

  Before she could step through, a soldier’s voice boomed down the hallway. “Lady Morwenna!” he cried.

  “Bother!” she muttered. Hurriedly she handed Carrick one of the rushlights. “Go!”

  “You don’t want them—” He hitched his chin toward the door where the sound of boots pounded.

  “Not yet. Now go. Hurry!”

  Carrick ducked through the newly found portal and Morwenna ran to the door.

  Sir Lylle reached her just as she shut the door to Tadd’s bedroom behind her. “What is it?”

  “Lord Ryden has arrived,” he said, a bit breathless as he approached. “And he’s not alone. He and his soldiers have captured Carrick of Wybren’s band of criminals.” His smile was wide. “Now you will no longer have to deal with him, m’lady,” he said proudly.

  Morwenna’s heart dropped. Carrick was already deep in the hidden passageways of the keep. “Good. You stand guard here and I’ll go greet the baron. Don’t let anyone in or out. Including yourself.”

  He seemed puzzled, but she said, “ ’Tis a test, Sir Lylle,” and she didn’t explain, knowing that he thought it was probably a test of his loyalty, to see if he truly was worthy of the position he had filled while Sir Alexander was gone. “Is anyone else with them?”

  “Just the cutthroats and the sheriff and the captain of the guard,” he said, and she wondered at the whereabouts of the others. Theron? Dear God, was he still in the dark passageways she had yet to explore? And Bryanna? Had she followed after him? Where the devil was Nygyll? And Dwynn? And Father Daniel?

  The longer they were missing, the more worrisome it was. “Please take me to Lord Ryden and send a messenger to the sheriff’s wife that he has returned. Bring her to the great hall. Then return here, to your post.”

  “But Carrick could escape.”

  “Place sentries at each end of the hallway, at the top of each staircase,” she ordered. She was already marching rapidly toward the main stairs, bracing herself for the confrontation with the man she had vowed to marry.

  “Death and dog’s breath,” she said, tossing her
hair over her shoulders.

  She had nearly reached the bottom step, had already heard the sound of male voices coming from the great hall and recognized Lord Ryden’s laugh, when another horn sounded outside and Sir Hywell threw open the door.

  Now what? Morwenna thought in frustration.

  A blast of winter air blew inside, causing the rushlights to flame brighter. “A party has arrived from Wybren,” he announced.

  Graydynn. No!

  Morwenna ground her teeth. Stiffening her shoulders, she strode into the hall just as Theron, wearing a tattered and muddy uniform, entered from the other side. Her heart leapt and her breath seemed stolen from her lungs. She stared into his blue, blue eyes, shocked by her overwhelming sense of joy.

  “Morwenna,” he said as other men joined him. “I’m not—”

  “I know!” Without a second thought she threw herself into his arms. “Thank God you’re alive . . . Theron.”

  She held fast to him, felt the comfort of his arms surround her, and only when she heard a cough did she realize that Sir Ryden of Heath, the man she’d agreed to marry, was standing only a few feet way, his gaze blistering, his face red with suppressed fury. His nostrils quivered and he managed to somehow look down his nose at them both, as if the spectacle Morwenna had created disgusted him.

  “Ryden,” Theron said as Morwenna stepped out of his arms.

  “Theron.” Ryden stared at the younger man with eyes that could bore through granite. “Mayhap you can tell me how you escaped the tragedy of Wybren,” he said, moving slowly forward, his words as measured as his steps, “while everyone else, including your wife, my sister, perished?”

  “I had left Wybren before the fire broke out.”

  “Left your wife to fend for herself?”

  “She was with someone else.”

  “And you could not fight for her honor?”

  Theron’s lips barely moved. “I see you do not question her fidelity. Alena had little honor, Ryden, and we both know it. ’Twas her choice to be with the man you sent to spy on her.” He glanced at Morwenna. “We cannot discuss this now,” he said, “for on our ride here, we found Father Daniel.”

  “Finally! Where was he?” she asked, irritated for a second that the priest had abandoned the keep. Her anger quickly dissipated when she noticed the solemn set of Theron’s jaw, the sadness in his gaze.

  “He, too, was murdered, Morwenna, his throat slit in the same manner as the others.”

  “Oh, God,” she whispered, feeling the blood rush from her head. “Not another one.” She thought back to the day she’d seen him through the doorway to his private chambers, the cruel whip in his hand, the scars and blood upon his back. A tormented soul.

  “Take me to him,” she said.

  “Not yet,” Ryden ordered imperiously. “We have but arrived.”

  “Now.” Morwenna met his gaze, a challenge in hers. Ryden looked thunderous, but she didn’t care. Castle Calon was not his, and if she had her way, it never would be.

  With Theron leading the way, she swept from the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Redeemer slipped unnoticed through the inner bailey. He had ridden from Wybren like a messenger from hell, driving his horse mercilessly to shorten the time it took to return to Calon.

  As he’d expected, chaos had erupted with the discovery of the priest’s body. He smiled as he remembered their last meeting. Father Daniel had been exhausted, spending all day first giving alms and then sitting with a dying man as the old merchant had coughed and hacked his way into the kingdom of heaven.

  No amount of bloodletting nor prayers had saved him, and when finally the priest, after consoling the family, had been ready to return to the keep, night had fallen. He’d been walking alone in the streets and had been surprised to hear a familiar voice.

  “I thought you’d already returned,” he said as they continued toward the keep through the rain.

  “I decided to wait for you. We can walk together.”

  The priest had nodded, and once they were outside of town, each caught up in his own private thoughts, the Redeemer slid his knife into his palm. His blood had been warm with the need of another kill, his nerves on edge at the thought that he might be caught.

  He’d said, “I think there’s someone ahead. I see something.”

  “Where?” the priest had asked, squinting into the darkness.

  And then he’d struck. Plunging his dagger deep, up beneath the breastbone to slice into the heart.

  “Wha—oh, merciful Father!” Daniel had cried in shock. The Redeemer pulled out his weapon, and as the priest fell to his knees in the mud, he had grabbed hold of his head.

  As Father Daniel prayed for forgiveness from God, the Redeemer had stared into the eyes of his victim. Quickly, cleanly, he had slit his throat, carving a deep W for Wybren into the man’s skin. It was all part of the plan, a way to brand all the pretenders to the barony as well as those who distrusted him. Though that dull-witted Vernon and the heretic of a midwife had been only stumbling blocks in the way of his ultimate goal, the Redeemer had enjoyed dispatching each of them from this earth. The same was true of Father Daniel. The priest was forever prying, watching, eyeing him suspiciously.

  Well, no more, he thought.

  A fitting end for so tormented a soul. No more flailing the skin off his back. No more lust for the lady of the keep! No more hours of atonement.

  Father Daniel had met the Redeemer.

  Now hours had passed and he heard all the noise in the great hall, people rushing in and out, more than he would expect. . . . He wondered as he hurried along the path from the well if more was happening than he knew. Surely the priest’s murder would cause a stir, but there was something other than just the panic and horror he’d expected—more shouts, harsh words, raised voices. . . . His insides curdled as he realized Theron had beaten him back here. Theron and Dwynn, that traitorous moron.

  To think that Dwynn would be the one to warn them—after all the Redeemer had done to protect him and care for him. Now he envisioned the dull-witted one as dead.

  But you can’t kill him.

  Did you not vow to care for him? To see that he was protected?

  And how has he repaid you?

  By treachery and deception. By throwing in his lot with the sons of Wybren. The Redeemer owed him nothing. As for the woman to whom he’d sworn to protect Dwynn, surely she would not have asked had she known the little half-wit was a lying double-crosser. The fool deserved no better fate than the priest.

  Furious, the Redeemer rounded the corner of the bee-keeper’s hut. He then cut through the garden and entered a side door by the kitchen that led behind the huge hearth, where the fire was now banked for the night.

  Hardly daring to breathe, he sneaked into a hallway and down the servants’ stairs to a short tunnel that opened to the jail cells, where, during Morwenna’s rule, no prisoners were kept. The dungeon was quiet aside from the footsteps and voices filtering from above.

  From the empty jailor’s area, he slipped through a doorway and crawled into the oubliette deep in the bowels of the keep. The stench of the tiny cell was still foul though he could remember no one ever being shoved into this hole—at least not in the time he’d been here, nearly twenty years. At the far end of the cell, he applied pressure to the hidden latch and shoved hard on the stones. And while the rest of the castle cried, whimpered, and wondered at the priest’s fate—or celebrated that Theron of Wybren was alive—the Redeemer slid into the dark, cobwebby maze that had become his home.

  “This man is bloody Theron? Not Carrick?” Alexander’s dark eyes glowered suspiciously as he stared at the man who had lain in Tadd’s chamber recovering from wounds, the man he’d thought was Carrick. Morwenna, Alexander, Theron, and Payne were walking to the gatehouse to see the slain priest for themselves. They’d left the others, including a loudly protesting Lord Ryden and the sheriff’s tearful but relieved wife, in the main house with instructions to the
staff to keep them warm and fed and contained. “But Theron died in the fire,” Alexander said as they passed the well. Two boys were hauling buckets of water to the great hall, sloshing water as they hurried in the opposite direction.

  “Obviously I survived,” Theron said through tight lips.

  The two prisoners had assured Morwenna that they were not unduly abused by Carrick’s outlaws, but it was clear to her this statement was given to convince her of their ability to take over their duties as before rather than a tale of truth.

  Theron pointed out, “You should have known I wasn’t my brother if Carrick was the leader of the damned group who captured you.”

  “He was never there,” Alexander protested.

  “That’s true,” Payne agreed. “We never saw the leader. Where is he again?”

  “Under guard at the keep.” Morwenna slid Theron a glance. “In the room you occupied. The capture of Sir Alexander and Payne was only a ruse so that our guards would be distracted and Carrick could get inside.”

  “You’ve spoken with him at length,” Theron said.

  “Aye.”

  “ ’Tis not enough to have him guarded in that room,” Alexander spat angrily. “If this one”—he hooked a furious thumb in Theron’s direction—“was able to escape, then bloody Carrick can as well!”

  “I don’t think so,” she said, but her mind went down a dark path. Her last impression of Carrick was of him slipping through the hidden doorway, pulling it closed behind him. Who knew what he was really planning? She’d agreed for the moment to help him, just as he would help her, but now she doubted his intention, and her stomach twisted at the thought that she’d not only given him his freedom, but mayhap also sent him straight to Bryanna. Where else could she be but in the passageways?