Impostress (6 page)

She'd found it easy enough to sneak the horse under the open portcullis, as there was more activity in the keep than usual, more workers, merchants, and visitors because of the wedding. But the horse would certainly soon be missed. Though the old stable master, Orson, was somewhat of a dullard these days, his son, Joseph, would discover the herd was short and would be blamed for losing one of the animals.

Elyn thought of Joseph and felt a jab of guilt, for she knew the stableboy fancied her. More than fancied, she imagined, and she'd callously used him for her purposes. 'Twas silly for him to have romantic thoughts. And yet the way he looked at her or blushed when she caught him was flattering, even heartwarming. As well as ridiculous. No doubt Joseph would get into trouble this night. Just as his father, Orson, had been blamed the night Kiera had stolen away on Obsidian, the horse that had never been found.

Easing the mare past the ruins of a burned-out hut, Elyn refused to dwell on what might happen to those she'd left behind. Beyond this final hill was a small town. Brock had sworn he would meet her at a place called the Gamekeeper's Inn.

Unless he'd changed his mind.

Setting her jaw against the doubts that plagued her, she kicked the mare harder than she'd anticipated. The horse shot forward just as an owl swooped out of the shadows. With a frightened whinny, the little jennet shied, breaking stride and rearing.

"It's all right," Elyn said, clinging tight to the reins. "Shh ..."

The mare's front legs landed on the ground with a jarring thud that rattled Elyn's spine.

The fight between rider and mount wasn't over. Bit firmly clamped in her teeth, the horse charged forward, hooves flying. "Damn it all! Stop. Whoa!" Elyn struggled with the frightened animal, pulling hard on the reins, using her weight to force the mare to slow. But the bay was spooked. Her eyes rolled, showing the white rims, and she fought the bit. "Easy girl. That's it. 'Twas nothing" Elyn assured the beast, slowing her into an easy lope.

An owl was the least of Elyn's worries ... right now she had to think of her future. And Brock.

What if he's not there?
Doubts clawed at her as images black as the dark night swept through her mind.
Where will you go? What will you do? Return to Lawenydd?

But you can't.
Bile rose in the back of her throat.

You can never go back again. Never!

Her stomach was knotted and sour, sweat collecting on her body though she shivered. Brock wouldn't abandon her. Not now. He couldn't.

She tucked her head low and pushed those frightening thoughts into a dark corner of her soul as the horse galloped along the winding road. Hurrying past a few solitary huts and farms, Elyn felt the harsh slap of the wind as it tore her hood from her head and her dark hair unfurled behind her. Faster and faster the little horse raced. Faster and faster her own heart beat.

Brock was her first love. She believed he would be her only love, even though he'd betrayed her once before. 'Twas but three years past ... Though it seemed a lifetime, she'd felt that sharp, painful prick of deceit, felt its scar even now. Though it was long past, could he not deceive her again? What would she do then?

'Twas simple enough.

She'd kill him.

Where the devil was his bride?

From his seat at the lord's table, Kelan viewed the great hall. Musicians were playing from an alcove set high into the far wall. Servants carried trays laden with food and drink from the kitchen to the head table. Magnificent sugar sculptures decorated the tables. The mood was merry, the company jovial, but Kelan's temper darkened by the second.

The seat next to him remained empty, as if his new wife was deliberately trying to embarrass him, making her distaste of him known. He suffered through the nothing-talk of his new father-in-law and the stares of the twit of a sister. She was a mite of a thing who, every time he glanced her way, would quickly look aside, blush, and bite her lower lip. As if she was guilty of some dire deed.

Which was foolish thinking.

Courses came and went. Roasted stag and peacock, jellied eggs and crisp, sweet tarts. Stuffed eel and pike with ginger. Baked apples and wine. Mazer after mazer of wine. His cup was never left to empty.

Settled low on his back he watched without any interest as jugglers and dancers and an insipid jester with bald jokes passed by the table. They were meant to entertain the honored guests, the Lord and Lady of Penbrooke, which only made it more obvious that the seat next to him remained vacant. As each platter was served, he expected his bride to appear and caught the glimpses, raised eyebrows, and not-so-quiet jokes at his expense.

"Hasn't been married but a few hours and already 'tis obvious who will run the keep," one fat merchant muttered under his breath.

A snort. "Would you expect anything else from Lady Elyn? A feisty one she is. With a mind of her own."

"Would ye not like to be a mouse in the rushes tonight when the lord takes her to his bed?"

Hearty chuckles at that. Kelan's back teeth ground together painfully.

"Mayhap
she'll
do the taking."

The two men laughed loudly over the plaintive strains of the lyre. Christ Jesus, did the woman mean to string him up by his balls for all to see and jeer at? This flagrant disobedience was more than embarrassing; it was a mockery of the vows they'd spoken only hours earlier and meant to make a needle-sharp and very public point. She would pay for this insubordination, oh, she would pay and pay dearly for every titter, raised eyebrow, and knowing smile cast at his expense.

'Twas no wonder Kelan felt as if he'd been played for a fool. Everyone in the great hall sensed it as well. His wife had better appear and soon, or he'd be the laughingstock of not only this keep, but his own as well, for gossip traveled faster than the swiftest steed, racing through the villages, along the dark roads, and through the neighboring keeps.

Irritated, his temper darker with each passing minute, he swilled mazer after mazer of wine, ignoring the stares of the curious, trying to concentrate on the worthless talk. But all the while in his mind he was conjuring ways of making his wife atone for his shame.

Tonight, when they were alone, he'd find a way to make his wayward bride understand that he would never abide disobedience from her. At the very least, she should have made a brief appearance and sat with him.

" 'Tis sorry I am about Elyn," the old man said as if he'd finally realized his daughter was missing. Sighing, he set aside his cup. "A headstrong one, she is ... well, they all are. Mayhap you will be blessed with sons." His smile twisted sadly and his eyes, milky white with age, looked over Kelan's shoulder to a spot only he could see. "Not that the girls aren't a godsend, mind you. A godsend, but ... they lost their mother when they were young and, I suppose, I should have remarried ... they needed a woman's touch ..." His frail voice faded as if he'd said too much or his mind had wandered to new, unclear territory. "Yes, sons. That's what you need." Slapping the table as if he'd said something profound, he motioned the serving girl for more wine. "Zelda ... our guest of honor's cup is nearly empty."

As the serving maid scurried off in search of a fresh jug of wine, Kelan glanced again toward the arched entrance of the great hall, where the bottom steps of the staircase were visible. Much as he willed her to, his wayward wife, of course, did not appear. Rage burned through his blood and he could feel the wine he'd been drinking was going to his head. He could usually drink as much as the next man, but tonight, mayhap due to his irritation, he felt a little light-headed and fuzzy, as if his mind was one step away from his body.

He glanced to the far end of the table where Baron Llwyd's youngest daughter, Penelope, sat. But she'd moved and was talking to the serving girl ... with the wine. When she caught him staring at her, Penelope quickly ducked her head and scurried from the great hall. Kelan felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in warning, but he didn't know why.

Tadd, seated on the other side of the bride's empty chair, leaned closer. He was picking his teeth with a small rabbit bone and motioned to the vacant space with the cleanly picked rib. "Already scared her off, have you, brother?" he asked.

"I told you she's not feeling well."

"A bloody excuse."

On the other side of Tadd, Orvis, eavesdropping, grinned widely. "A case of the marriage bed jitters. It happens."

"Not to me it won't," Tadd said as his gaze traveled quickly from one serving maid to the next.

" 'Cuz no one would marry ye, that's why." Orvis guffawed at his own joke.

"Nay, 'tis because I keep my women satisfied." To prove his point, he winked at the serving girl named Zelda. She was a pretty lass with pillowy breasts and sly, dark eyes. Lifting an interested eyebrow in Tadd's direction, she stuck out her lower lip almost petulantly, then twirled away, her skirts swishing loudly as she scuttled behind a curtain.

Orvis snorted and stuck his nose in his mazer. "Not all women, it seems."

"She'll be back." Tadd's confidence didn't falter a bit. "But what about your wife, Kelan?" Tadd couldn't hide his amusement at his brother's discomfiture. "Is it not time to bed the lady?"

"Soon."

"If I were you, I'd already be up the stairs. I caught only a slight glimpse of her face, but she's a comely one, your new bride."

Kelan glowered angrily and tried to pay attention to a singer who had joined the piper in the musician's alcove.

"Ah, to have a glimpse of that chamber tonight." Tadd's eyes glinted.

Better you than me,
Kelan thought with disgust. He had no need of the stubborn, disrespectful woman. He wouldn't admit, not even to himself, that the kiss at the altar had caught him off guard, and the shadows in her green eyes when he'd lifted her veil had disturbed him. He'd expected cool disdain in her lips, but he'd experienced something more, something vexing. Something he didn't want to consider. "Have you not anything better to do?" he asked his brother.

The saucy serving maid returned with another jug of wine, and though she tried to hide it, she slid a cunning glance in Tadd's direction. Orvis caught the look and muttered, "Bah" before plowing his nose into his cup again.

"Aye, Kelan," Tadd said, smiling wickedly, "as luck would have it, it seems i might have something better. Something much, much better."

* * * * *

Nothing good will come of this.

Hildy threw the stones, and her handful of colored pebbles tumbled noisily across the scarred wooden table to land in a beam of moonlight cast through the open window.

'Tis the devil's work.

Her old heart knocked painfully and she rubbed one spotted hand over the other. From the keep came the sounds of rowdy laughter, faint music, and the pulse of deceit. How had she let this happen? She glanced at the stones again and swallowed hard. She'd failed.

The promise she'd vowed to Lady Twyla as she'd lain upon her deathbed had been broken. Had been destined to break.

"Take care of my girls, Hildy," the lady had begged in the barest of whispers as a rattling cough had overtaken her thin, bony form. "Promise me that you'll see them all happily wed, that they will have children of their own."

"I will, m'lady," Hildy had sworn in the flickering half-light of a few sparse candles.

There had been a faraway look in the lady's green eyes. Her white skin had been thin, nearly translucent, as it stretched tautly over high cheekbones and a strong, pointed chin. Her chemise had been wet with sweat, her hair in damp ringlets despite the cool cloth Hildy had pressed to her forehead. The lady had fingered the cross she'd forever worn around her neck. "I have not had a happy marriage, as you know. 'Twas a union that my father conceived, but ..." Sadness had touched the corner of her pale lips. " 'Twas good enough. Mayhap there is no thing as true happiness. Mayhap it is impractical, a romantic notion." She'd blinked and swallowed over the pain. "Just see that the girls are married to men who will be kind to them, who will treat them well ..."

"I have no say in who they will wed," Hildy had protested.

In a moment of clarity, Lady Twyla's eyes had sharpened, focused as hard as a hawk's upon her maid. "You have the baron's ear. He trusts you."

Hildy's heart had nearly stopped. Her mouth had gaped.

"Aye. I have known for a long time," Twyla whispered, and. one gaunt hand wrapped surprisingly strong fingers over Hildy's wrist. "I blame you not. I know of my husband's ... needs. I know also of his beliefs in your silly omens and predictions. He is not always a Christian man. He thinks you are gifted, that you have the sight, that you ... that you are a damned charm. A good luck piece." Her lips had twisted painfully at the thought. "Mayhap he thought that some of that luck might rub off on him."

"Nay, m'lady, nay, I—"

" 'Tis true!" She'd snapped at Hildy, nearly ten years her elder. Sighing, she'd shaken her head and brushed a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes. "Since he trusts you, you must advise him about my daughters. Promise me that you will do everything you can to see that they are wed to good men with true hearts."

"I will m'lady but—"

The talonlike fingers tightened with the same desperation mirrored in the lady's eyes. "Promise me," she'd insisted and, with her free hand, had found the cross half buried in the slit of her chemise. She'd held it out, then wrapped Hildy's unwilling fingers around the bejeweled piece. "Promise me. With God looking on. Now." When Hildy had hesitated, Lady Twyla had insisted. "Now!"

"I—I promise," Hildy had choked out as the lady had collapsed onto her pillows. Satisfied and drained.

But Hildy had lied. She'd known it then. And with chilling certainty, she knew it now.

Hildy had lost her influence over Llwyd of Lawenydd with his wife's death. Mayhap it was guilt over his wife's passing, or perhaps he had simply tired of her. The only relationship Hildy had maintained with the baron was through his children.