by Nora Roberts
He reached his own chambers and hesitated, and then moved with quick steps to the bedchamber farther along the hall, the one that had been reserved for the ladies who attended his mother.
What was that the girl had said? You have no manners, no address and no chivalry. She was wrong about the latter, as well as about everything else she thought she knew.
It seemed a final ember of useless chivalry still burned within him, he realized bitterly as he bore her into the darkened room lit only by a sliver of moonlight and laid her down across the bed.
Chapter 3
GWYNNA lay perfectly still, though the urge to open her eyes was nearly irresistible. Keir of Blackthorne hadn’t moved since he’d set her down upon the bed. She could feel that hard piercing glance boring into her and for an instant she wondered if he suspected her ruse.
It was all she could do to keep her breathing even, to keep her eyes closed tight and her entire body from twitching with suspense.
She forced herself to think of something else, such as how easily he had carried her up the staircase. Not once had his breathing become labored. He must be very strong, she decided, and most able on the battlefield from what she had seen of him. . . .
No, no—that line of thought would not do at all. Her heart was beginning to beat rapidly, surely he would see. . . .
Maybe it is time to wake up, she thought, and then she felt his hand touching her shoulder, moving slowly toward her throat.
A wave of heat shot through her. When he opened her cloak it was all she could do to remain still, for she felt his gaze boring into her skin.
He must now be seeing the tunic and breeches she’d donned as part of her disguise. She’d bound her breasts beneath the rough cloth, trying to hide them, but if he made one move to draw off her tunic she’d . . .
Suddenly a woman’s voice broke the silence in the room and the exquisite tension inside Gwynna faded.
“My lord duke,” a soft querulous voice said, “here is the food and wine you wished me to bring—”
“Excellent.” He cut her off abruptly. “Bring the wine here. Our guest is in a deep swoon. Ah, Roslyn, thank you.”
Gwynna prepared herself to have a goblet slipped to her lips, to take a sip and then awaken with a delicate fluttering of her eyelashes.
But his next words surprised her.
“I fear a sip won’t awaken her.” Keir’s tone had taken on a regretful note that caught her attention. “Her swoon has lasted too long. I must instead try something more drastic. Dashing the wine in her face ought to bring her out of the—”
“No!” Gwynna’s eyes flew open, and she bolted upright on the bed, glaring at him. Indeed, he was holding the goblet of wine directly above her head, and he was smiling at her with such mocking triumph that she had to fight the urge to knock the glass from his hand.
“Don’t you dare pour that wine on me. What kind of a man are you?”
“A cold-hearted one, who doesn’t like being deceived.”
There was a threatening edge to the words, and she flinched instinctively.
“Admit it,” he ordered. “That entire faint was a trick designed to win my sympathy. And to get yourself invited into my keep for the night.”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
“At first. But I am not a fool.”
“I didn’t think you were. A fool would never have found his way out of the Valley of Org alive. You have proved my faith in you. And if you’ll only share your knowledge of that place with me, I’ll leave at first light and never bother you again—”
“I thought you were hungry.”
Gwynna glanced over at the platter of food the serving woman had brought. The moonlight cast only a dim glow so Gwynna could not see what was there, but she could smell soup and roasted meat and hunger curled through her. The stoop-shouldered, moon-faced woman had set the food upon a low wood table, where she stood watching, waiting. Perhaps to see if Keir would order her to take it away, Gwynna thought.
“I am hungry,” she told him, sliding off the bed. “But I hunger more for knowledge than for food.”
He studied her a moment, his gaze settling first upon her face, then shifting to her tangled riot of curls, then traveling to the boy’s garments that encased her figure.
When his gaze lifted to her face once more, his unfathomable eyes gleamed like polished silver.
“Eat your fill, Gwynna of Callemore. You’ve earned that at least. I won’t deny you a meal or a bed for the night. But I won’t encourage you to ride to your death either. That is the only favor I will do for Callemore.”
He turned abruptly and strode from the room.
The woman, Roslyn, remained in the shadows. But as Gwynna turned toward her and met her eyes, she moved forward at last, offering a tentative smile.
“You come from Callemore, do you?” She shook her head. “ ’Tis a wonder he’s allowed you to remain under his roof.”
“Why?” Gwynna hurried toward the tray of food, no longer able to resist the tantalizing aromas. She pulled over a spindly chair and sat down, spooning hot broth to her lips.
“I know my sister rejected his offer of marriage,” she said between swallows, “but surely a man as handsome—I mean, as wealthy—as the Duke of Blackthorne would have little difficulty finding a woman willing to become his bride. And if it was his pride that suffered,” Gwynna added, tasting a bite of meat and swallowing rapidly, “that would be pure foolishness. Ten other men of nobility were turned away as well. My sister chose with her heart. William is her true love.”
“You don’t know then?” An expression of sadness showed in the woman’s large, pale-lashed eyes.
“Know what?”
“The duke’s entire world collapsed when the alliance he hoped to achieve with Callemore failed.” Roslyn began moving about the room, lighting candles in sconces and atop tables. “He had no way of knowing at the time,” she said softly, “but within months, his family would all be dead—and it might not have happened should Queen Lise have chosen him.”
Gwynna stopped eating and stared after the woman in shock. “No . . . that cannot be. I had heard of the deaths of the elder duke and his two sons, Keir’s brothers. But they were slaughtered by outlaws who waylaid them on the Fallen Plains. What had that to do with my sister’s choice of a husband?”
Roslyn moved toward her once again, her moon-shaped face pallid in the candlelight. “Those outlaws did not come upon the duke and his sons by accident. They were in truth murderers sent by King Leopold in the east.”
“What?” Gwynna’s heart skipped a beat. King Leopold was a warlock, the ruler of Cruve, a lawless kingdom to the east where all men were serfs, except those of warlock blood who ruled as nobles. Leopold had been systematically expanding his own lands and power by preying on kingdoms weaker than his own. Fortunately he had never turned his greedy eye west toward Callemore.
Yet.
“Are you certain of this?” Gwynna asked the woman quickly.
Roslyn met her gaze, grim honesty in her plain face. “I served Keir’s mother for all of her days. I know all that happened—the how and the why.”
Gwynna sensed the woman’s own pain and grief for the events she was describing. Slowly, she nodded at Roslyn.
“Then tell me why King Leopold sought to kill the old duke and his sons.”
“The old duke, Keir’s father, had refused an alliance with Leopold that would have enlisted Blackthorne’s army in plundering the Lowlands of Gell. Duke Karl was worried, though; he knew that his refusal would earn the warlock king’s enmity and that he would turn his eye on Blackthorne when his conquest of the Lowlands was complete.”
The woman’s eyes were shadowed with sorrow. “To prevent this, the old duke sought a powerful alliance with Callemore, and if Queen Lise had accepted and chosen Keir for her husband, they could have joined forces to attack Leopold from behind while he was busy conquering the Lowlands. In that way they would have taken him by surprise, caugh
t him between two armies, and ended his reign. That would have eliminated the danger he poses to the greater world.”
Roslyn’s voice was low, so low Gwynna strained to hear. “But when Queen Lise chose another, she refused both the marriage bid and the alliance. Thus she made the decision to ignore King Leopold’s war with the Lowlands, a war that did not threaten her own people.”
“That was her right,” Gwynna pointed out indignantly, then stopped at the unspeakable sadness in Roslyn’s eyes.
“True,” the woman agreed. “And she could not have known where it would lead. That Leopold would choose to strike at Blackthorne not with open war, which would have cost the king himself dearly, but by sending soldiers—men, disguised as outlaws—to waylay and kill Duke Karl and his sons. He paid in sacks of gold to have them cut down like swine on the Fallen Plains.”
Gwynna’s blood chilled. The shadowed recesses of the room grew darker, deeper as she thought of the villainous attack.
How had she known nothing of this? Because she’d concerned herself not with matters of state or politics or commerce—only with her visions and her spells and her study of ancient texts.
Another reason why she must save Lise.
I am not equipped to deal with a kingdom, she thought guiltily.
She was a moon witch, and her heart and mind had always been engaged by matters of the senses and of nature, with the rythym of the stars and the flow of the moon, with the secrets of wild creatures, and the spells of the ancients. Not with men and their plots and treaties and borders.
She would make a pitiful queen. One more reason why she must save her sister. Not only because Lise was good and just, and because Gwynna loved her more than air, but for Callemore.
“If Leopold was responsible for the deaths of Duke Keir’s family, why did he not capitalize on their deaths and attack Blackthorne? Keir is duke now, with all of his family gone—why has the warlock not waged war against him?”
“Leopold’s battle in the Lowlands has not gone as smoothly as he hoped. He has not yet been able to focus his armies on Blackthorne as well. And besides, Duke Keir has gathered his people and strengthened the army. He is a strong leader and the warlock king would need all his forces to go up against our army now. Yet the threat remains. Leopold uses treachery even more than war to fight his battles. That is how—”
Roslyn broke off, shaking her head. “I speak too freely,” she said, casting a glance over her shoulder. “I have said more than I should. Excuse me, my lady, I will light a fire now before I go.”
As the fire came to life and Roslyn shuffled toward the door, a young serving girl entered with a basin of water for washing. In a large basket over her arm were several garments, including a rich gown of amber silk.
“From the duke, my lady,” she murmured. “He wishes you to join him in the receiving room upon the hour.” And laying the basket across the bed, she left as quickly as she’d come.
Gwynna walked to the bed and stared down at the silk gown. It was beautiful, and sumptuously made, with delicate gold embroidery upon the neckline and the sleeves.
What is he up to? she wondered, her brows drawing together. He had also sent a chemise and satin slippers with gold ribbons.
The Duke of Keir wants something from me. This kindness is not what I would expect from the scowling man I met in the hall.
Well, I want something from him as well, she thought, her mind returning to the image of her sister, withering upon her bed in Castle Callemore.
There was more to do tonight than sleep and find herself tossed out of the keep come morning. She mustn’t waste any time.
Moments later, after washing her face and finger-combing her curls, she left the chamber, the amber gown flowing like moonlight around her. The duke was not expecting her yet. There was time to find out more—much more—about this man whose help she needed.
Her slippers whispered over the stone steps as she whisked downstairs and began prowling through various hallways and rooms. There were soldiers and servants alike roaming the keep, but she waved a hand slightly in the air as she passed and was hidden from their sight, and so she explored, her senses keen and alert as she sought the soul of this place and of the man who ruled it.
Instinct led her to a chamber at the opposite end of the kitchens. It was set along a narrow corridor apart from the Great Hall. A small fire crackled in the hearth but no candles were lit, so the small chamber was dim and full of shadows. The furnishings were spare: a desk, a chair, a bench. A lone tapestry upon one wall, a map tall as a man upon another. All flickered eerily in the golden firelight.
Gwynna approached the desk first and ran a finger along the weathered oak. Next she placed her hands on the back of the chair and closed her eyes as warm wood and another essence seeped into her.
Strength, warmth, solidity.
This was Keir’s chair, Keir’s room. Where he dealt with the business of the keep, she thought, opening her eyes, turning to scan the space once more. She lifted her arms slightly before her, palms up in open appeal and stared into the fire that glowed with golden tongues of flame.
A moment passed and there was nothing.
He was strong, his will resolute. Nothing of him came easily to her. But she was determined and patient and she murmured low words, ancient words, as the flames roared and danced.
And finally within them, the vision came. A vision of Keir of Blackthorne, seated in this room, in that chair, his head bent.
He was sobbing.
Death.
She felt the chill of it, the emptiness. Her lips turned blue, and pain smote her heart so deeply a shudder wracked her shoulders.
Then the image shifted and she saw bodies strewn across a winter road. There was blood in the snow. She saw men leading horses, wiping swords, stealing from the dead.
An emerald ring glittered in the snow, then a man in rough garments dragged it from the finger of a corpse.
Smoke filled her vision and it changed again. A woman, laughing. Whispering. The woman had hair of fire and eyes of meadow-green.
Who was she whispering to?
Gwynna strained to see, swaying on her feet, her arms still outstretched.
Show me, she commanded, feeling the vision fading from her like mist in the morn. Show me, show me, show me . . .
A man’s face. He looked like Keir, but it was not him. This man was not as tall, his features not as sharp, his chin even more obstinate. This man . . . lay dead in the snow. This man was . . .
“His brother.” She breathed the words, even as the weakness overtook her and the vision vanished. Her knees buckling, Gwynna managed to turn and grasp the back of the chair for support.
“This isn’t the receiving room.” Keir spoke from the doorway. His voice sounded distant, low and tinny in her ears.
“What is it?” he added sharply. “You’re not going to pretend to swoon again, are you?”
But even as the words left his mouth, he saw that this was different from before. Her skin had gone as pale as parchment and she was trembling all over.
He saw her lose her grip upon the chair and begin to slide to the floor, and he sprang forward just in time. Scooping her up, he studied her face. Her gaze met his unseeingly.
A trance? he thought. She is a witch, after all. More reason why I should have had her tossed into the moat from the very first.
This night had been silent and full of grief until she’d come. It was the anniversary of his father’s and brothers’ deaths, and the precursor of his mother’s. It deserved his full attention, it was their due. Yet ever since this woman had burst into his keep, he’d been unable to focus his thoughts upon anything but her.
“Let me go . . . I am . . . fine.” But her voice was a ragged croak.
He eased her into the chair and scowled at her.
“Bring wine,” he called to a passing servant and then returned his attention to the dark-haired beauty in the amber gown who gazed up at him with such weary eyes.
“It is only . . . the visions. They come . . . with a price.”
“They drain you.”
“Yes. It doesn’t last long. A sip of wine—”
“It’s here now.” Keir took the tray of wine and goblets from the servant and set them on the desk, then poured the strong spiced wine for her. As he handed her the goblet their fingers touched and he felt a spark like flame singe him. It didn’t hurt.
It shocked him though.
She felt it, too. He saw amazement flash in her face, and then she raised the goblet to her lips and drank.
Color immediately returned to her cheeks, and her breathing slowed. As Keir watched, he saw her transform before his eyes back into the powerful young woman with the incredibly vibrant eyes and the lush sweep of midnight hair that begged to be touched.
He tried to stem the flood of desire that filled him when he looked at her. He’d known physical pleasure with many women and he had often used it to assuage his pain, but he had never known anyone who affected him the way this princess of Callemore did. She had only to look at him with those wondrous eyes and he felt desire surge through his blood. And something more. Something that tugged at more than blood and muscles and bone.
The gown he’d sent to her revealed only too well what he’d wanted to know. Her body was as lovely and full of beauty as her face.
“What were you doing here?” he demanded, forcing harshness into his tone. For all you know, she has cast a spell upon you, he thought darkly. Fight it. Do not surrender to the magic as your brother did . . .
“This place is where I work. It is not where I instructed you to find me.”
“But I did find you here. I needed a place where I could find . . . your spirit. Your soul. And here I felt it. You must spend a great deal of time here—and go deep into your thoughts.”
