Blood Moon (20 page)

“They didn’t send me to bring it to
you,” she confessed at length.

She had his full attention and
wondered as she stared at his shadowed face if he could pierce the
darkness. Surely not? The cell itself was dim, lit only by a meager
amount of light from the torch in the sconce on the wall beyond his
cell. Where she stood, she could barely see her hand in front of
her face. She’d found her way by memory along the passages she’d
traversed many times, fearful of taking a candle as much because
she thought it might be missed as from the anxiety that the
telltale glow might be detected through some crack and give her
away. Most of the castle’s inhabitants were dead to the world,
true, the men-at-arms having drank themselves to sleep as was their
habit and the servants having worked themselves into a stupor, but
in Belmor Castle there were always some people stirring.

“I cannot reach it from there,” he
responded finally.

Gwyneth hesitated, but she’d come this
far. If her courage failed her now she might never get another
opportunity to escape. “You won’t … you won’t hurt me if I come
near enough to give it to you?”

She couldn’t tell anything about his
expression in the shadows, but she could tell he was mulling over
her question.

“Who are you?”

Nobody. “A serving maid.”

“There would be no benefit in harming
you, then, would there?”

Oddly enough, both his tone and the
remark reassured her. “Except to vent your ill humor.”

She saw a muscle work in his square
jaw.

“There is only one I would care to
vent my ill humor on and, as he is not around, I believe I can
contain it.”

“A moment,” she responded, moving away
from the peep hole through which she’d studied him. Guiding herself
with one hand along the wall, she counted her paces until she’d
reached the secret door that led into the dungeons. Despite the
antiquity of it, the device that worked it had been very cleverly
designed. The door swung open soundlessly. After peering around to
be sure none of the guards were near enough to spot her, she made
her way quickly along the passage until she reached the assassin’s
door.

Kneeling on the floor, she very
carefully tore off a piece of bread about the size of her fist and
a chunk of cheese about half again that big. Her heart was
thundering in her chest when she pushed her hand through the small
slot at the bottom of the door designed for feeding prisoners when
the guards felt like it.

“It’s not very old at all,” she
murmured.

“It smells appetizing enough from
here,” he responded dryly, “but I am chained to the wall. I still
cannot reach it.”

Gwyneth sat back on her heels in
consternation. She hadn’t counted on them chaining him—he’d been
manacled when they’d brought him in. She’d thought they would only
toss him into a cell.

She would have to try to lift the
guard’s keys, she realized, feeling cold terror wash over her. In
the back of her mind, she’d realized that all along, that she would
have to open the door to free him and there was no way to do that
without the keys. She just hadn’t wanted to think too hard about
the obstacles that stood between her and her goal.

Moreover, she’d envisioned pleading
her case before she set him free. She’d thought she might wring a
promise from him while she had something to bargain with. Once
she’d freed him, she wouldn’t have anything at all.

Retrieving the food she’d offered, she
licked her dry lips and took the plunge. “By what name are you
known?”

He seemed a little disconcerted by the
turn in the conversation, and suspicious.

“Caelin. What is your name, little
maid?”

She doubted he had any idea of her
size or age, but she appreciated his effort to soften her with
words. It was a small thing, true, and no doubt an attempt to
deceive, and yet, even though it cost little, kind words were as
rare as hen’s teeth. “Gwyneth.”

He was silent for several moments. She
did not know why, but there was something in his silence that
disturbed her. It was almost as if the name was familiar to him—no
great surprise, she supposed since it was a common enough name, but
still it bothered her, that silence that seemed to indicate that he
was thinking. “Only Gwyneth?”

She ignored that. He had to know she
was of Belmor. “If I help you escape, will you take me with
you?”

Contrary to what she’d more than half
expected given the fact that the king had ordered him drawn and
quartered at dawn, he greeted her question with a prolonged,
thoughtful silence. “I came to kill King Gerald. If you set me
free, I am honor bound to try again. I do not think you want to be
with me when I do, little maid.”

Gwyneth digested that in shocked
silence. She thought what shocked her most was his honesty. She’d
been prepared for him to lie, to readily agree regardless of what
he planned to do. She hadn’t been prepared for the possibility that
he’d so boldly refuse. She didn’t actually understand it if it came
to that. He was an elf and she knew, although they weren’t
immortal, that they lived many times as long as mortals. Mayhap
their lives weren’t as precious to them? Even if that was true,
though, it was completely incomprehensible that he’d risk such a
horrible death if he had a chance at freedom.

But then, maybe he thought he could
free himself? “Couldn’t you … take me someplace safe and then come
back?” she asked plaintively.

“Where in all of the realm of Wynsmere
is a safe place?” he growled sardonically. “You are an innocent if
you believe there is such a place in these lands since Gerald, ‘the
impaler’ seized the throne.”

His sarcasm was biting, particularly
since he had to know she was no innocent. There was no such thing
for anyone who lived in the shadow of Belmor Castle. Truthfully,
she couldn’t recall a time when she had been. Even as a small child
she had seen such things at King Gerald’s principle seat, Castle
Belmor, that sickened her, gave her horrible nightmares, made her
so fearful that many nights she was afraid to close her
eyes.

She swallowed with an effort against
the knot of fear and frustration that formed a hard, unswallowable
knot in her throat. “They will make a place for me on the
executioner’s platform if I help you to escape and we are
caught.”

“They are likely to if they catch you
down here,” he said harshly. “Run back to your corner, little maid,
and turn your mind from this business.”

Defeat settled on Gwyneth’s shoulders.
She didn’t know why it had even occurred to her to think for a
moment that there was any escape for her. She was doomed to live
out her days in the shadow of Belmor Castle—however many days that
numbered. Death almost seemed preferable—so long as it was a swift
one. Few folk had that blessing, though.

The urge to weep washed over her, but
she squelched it. Nothing could be more useless. He wasn’t likely
to unbend, even a little, because she shed tears. It would only get
her caught.

For a time she wallowed in the misery
of defeat, too caught up in the death of her hopes to turn her mind
elsewhere. As the pain eased, though, her mind turned again to the
fate that awaited him. She felt bile rise in her throat at the
thought.

She couldn’t simply leave, she
realized. She couldn’t turn her back on him and allow so horrible a
fate to overtake him when she might prevent it. Rising decisively
after a few moments, Gwyneth set her ‘bribery’ down and moved
quietly to the corner, peering around to see if she could see any
sign of the guard who generally patrolled the dungeons. When she
saw no sign of him, she tilted her head to listen. Faintly, she
could hear a chorus of snores, but it was hard to say if any
belonged to the guard or if all belonged to the other wretched
souls rotting within the dungeon. She heard nothing that indicated
he might be awake, though, and finally gathered the nerve to creep
down the passage for a better look.

He was slumped across the rickety
table in his little cubby hole, she saw, a mug of overturned ale
near his hand, his cheek in the puddle that had formed on the rough
top and was dripping through the cracks and onto the stone floor.
After studying his face for a long moment, she scanned him for the
keys and discovered without much surprise that the ring of keys was
hooked to his belt.

Anywhere but that, she thought,
feeling her belly cinch a few knots tighter than before. Again, she
hesitated, wondering if she’d lost her mind, but the image of the
stranger rose in her mind again, the elfin man who called himself
Caelin. She couldn’t bear the thought of what would happen to him
come morning if she did nothing. She didn’t know why, but she
couldn’t.

Dragging in a sustaining breath, she
held it, let it pass slowly between her lips as she began to inch
closer to the guard. A thick stream of drool dripped from his thick
lower lip to join the puddle of ale on the table. His entire face
was slack.

Reaching him, she curled her fingers
around the keys to keep them from jingling when she lifted them
from the hook on his belt. He uttered a snort as she lifted the
ring. She froze for a split second and then completed the action,
slipping the top of the ring free from the hook. Before she could
release a sigh of relief, he snorted again and lifted his head,
staring at her bleary eyed. “Wha’s this?” he slurred.

Gwyneth stared at him wide-eyed,
praying he’d settle his head and drop back into his drunken stupor,
searching her mind frantically for a reason for her presence. She
finally managed to force her lips to curl when she saw, contrary to
her hopes, that he was scanning her length speculatively. “I brung
you a bit o’food an’ some wine ta wash it down,” she said in a
hoarse whisper. “I din like ta wake you, though.”

He made a grab for her abruptly.
Fortunately, he was too drunk to move with any coordination. He
tripped over his boots and sprawled on the floor. Gwyneth uttered a
giggle, dancing out of his reach. Intended to sound flirtatious,
hysteria threaded the sound instead, but she doubted he had enough
wit about him to realize it or care if he did.

“I see it ain’t food ye’ve got on yer
mind,” she muttered in an attempt to sound seductive. “I’ll just
git the stuff I left around the corner an’ once ye’ve had a bit of
food if yer still interested ….”

He almost caught her as she whirled to
dash back down the corridor, but although he succeeded in grabbing
her foot, his hold wasn’t firm enough to trip her up. Racing
frantically back the way she’d come, she dropped to her knees and
pitched the ring of keys through the food slot of Caelin’s cell.
Whether he could reach them or not remained to be seen, but she
didn’t want the guard grabbing her and discovering she had them and
it seemed doubtful, now, that she could elude him long enough to
free the elf.

She’d done what she could. It was all
that she could do.

A heaviness still settled over her as
it flickered through her mind that it might all be for nothing,
that he might not be able to reach the keys she’d tossed to him at
such risk to herself.

The guard lurched around the corner
and grabbed her before she could gather up the wineskin and the
cloth wrapped food. Staggering, he pitched them both onto the rough
stone floor, landing on top of Gwyneth hard enough to knock the
breath from her, stunning her.

“I’ll have a piece of you,” he
growled, “and then mayhap another bit and then I’ll think about the
wine.”

He wreaked of ale, but his breath was
worse. By the time Gwyneth had managed to drag air into her bruised
chest again, though, she’d had time to realize it would be better
all the way around not to fight him. He was still too drunk for his
suspicions to have been aroused. If she didn’t give him any
trouble, mayhap he’d finish quickly and pass out, and she could
still escape with her hide intact.

Hiking her skirts, he shoved a hand
between her legs, fondled her roughly for a moment and began
fumbling to get his nasty stick from his pants. Bile rose in
Gwyneth’s throat. Between his stench, his foul breath, and the
certainty that she had to endure another poking before she had any
chance of escape, it was all Gwyneth could do to hold onto the
contents of her stomach.

She felt something about the thickness
and length of a finger prodding her and relaxed fractionally when
she realized his member wasn’t large enough to cause her a great
deal of discomfort. The man, himself, was another matter. After
stabbing at the tender skin along her cleft ineffectually for
several moments while she lifted her hips up and down in an effort
to help him ring the right hole, he finally managed to find her
opening and plowed inside of her. Her eyes stung, watering at the
burning pain. It was always the same, she thought despairingly,
although Alyce had assured her she would grow accustomed and that
it was far, far better to endure the discomfort of a few moments
than to risk whelping the bastard’s brat. She wasn’t certain she
completely agreed, not if it meant there was no pain in the other
place, but her fear of childbirth weighed heavily against that, and
worse yet was the threat of succeeding in producing offspring in
the image of their fathers. She did not know if she could stomach
allowing such a babe to suckle her without vomiting.