Temptress (11 page)

Something inside her curdled and bumps of fear crawled across the backs of her arms. “He’s trying to prove that the man is vulnerable.”

“Not just the patient, but everyone in the keep,” Alexander said soberly.

“How could anyone have gotten past the guard . . .” she began, then remembered how easily she had duped Sir Vernon.

“ ’Tis exactly what I intend to find out.”

Voices calling out orders, tinkling laughter, and the scrape of table legs sliding over the floor rose to greet them.

“Morwenna!” Bryanna came rushing in through the open door near the bottom of the stairs. Catching sight of her sister, she hurried up the few steps separating them. “Is it true? Did someone really steal Sir Carrick’s ring?”

“We don’t know that the patient is Carrick of Wybren,” Alexander cut in.

“But the ring?” she demanded. “It’s missing? Someone got past the guard?”

“So it seems,” Morwenna said, irritated, as she continued to the bottom of the stairs and walked through the great hall, where boys were adjusting the tables and benches and Alfrydd, the steward, was surveying their work with a practiced, if doubting eye.

Near the grate, Dwynn was tending the fire, tossing in chunks of mossy oak that caused the flames to crackle and spit. His gaze followed the tiny sparks as they climbed toward the high ceiling.

Mort, resting in the corner, gave out a soft yip as he rose to his feet and, wagging his tail, approached. Noticing the dog, Dwynn cast a glance at Morwenna and scrambled up. Nervously he rubbed the sawdust and slivers from the knees of his breeches as he turned back to the flames. “M’lady,” he said, his head hanging a bit, as if he’d been caught stealing from Cook’s larder. “I was jest . . . I mean . . . the fire . . . it needed—”

“It’s fine, Dwynn,” she assured him, and a smile stretched from one side of his mouth to the other.

“You like it?”

“Yes, thank you,” she said, though her mind was elsewhere. Dwynn, satisfied, grabbed an empty basket and headed outside. Morwenna paid him little attention, as Bryanna was still demanding more information.

Though she lowered her voice, Bryanna was flush with excitement, her eyes glowing with exhilaration. “Tell me,” she insisted. “Carrick, er, the patient, he’s unharmed?” As if realizing her words bordered on the ridiculous, she added swiftly, “I mean, no one hurt him any further.”

“Not that we know. Nygyll is with him now.”

“I’ll alert the sheriff, m’lady,” Alexander said, “and report back to you.”

“Good.”

With a tip of his head, he strode out the main door, pausing only to say something to the guard. The man listened, nodded curtly, and straightened his spine as Alexander disappeared, the door banging shut behind him.

“What does it all mean?” Bryanna asked, tugging at Morwenna’s sleeve. “First the man is found beaten, near death, perhaps ambushed. And then while he’s unconscious, under guard in this very castle, he’s robbed!”

“I know not,” Morwenna admitted.

“Do you think the person or people who beat him live
here
?” She gestured with one hand, indicating the entire castle.

“I don’t even know if the ring was truly his. He could have stolen it.”

“Why didn’t whoever attacked him and left him for dead take it then? During the fight?”

“Mayhap he was scared off.” Looking over her sister’s shoulder, Morwenna noticed that Dwynn had returned to the fire. He now squatted near the iron dogs supporting the back log, poking at the embers and, she suspected, straining to hear every word of the conversation. From the corner of her eye Morwenna watched as he jabbed the iron poker hard at a stubborn piece of wood, his face reflecting the gold light from the flames. He seemed so childish and innocent that Morwenna doubted her assumptions about him. Why consider him calculating?

As if he felt her eyes upon him, he slid a glance in her direction. For a heartbeat, she thought she noticed a shadow passing behind his eyes before he turned away again, his childlike demeanor restored as he stared once more at the greedy flames.

“Maybe someone else stole the ring,” Bryanna was saying, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“Someone else?” Morwenna repeated, steering her sister out of the great hall, away from hidden ears and prying eyes.

“The thief!” Bryanna said in exasperation. “He could be among us even now. Any one of the servants or the merchants or even the guards could be a traitor.” As if to add conviction to her words, she lifted an eyebrow, then watched as a maid with an overflowing basket of laundry headed for the stairs.

“You’re making more of it than there is,” Morwenna said discouragingly, all the while shepherding her sister to the stairs leading to the solar.

But Bryanna’s eyes were bright with the mystery and excitement of the theft. That was the trouble with the girl; Bryanna rarely understood how dire a situation might be. “I think mayhap you’re not making enough of it.”

Oh, how wrong you are,
Morwenna thought but said only, “Time will tell. Sir Alexander will locate the thief.” Morwenna hoped her words were filled with more conviction than she felt. What did she really know of the inhabitants of this keep? Bryanna was right. Most of the servants and peasants who resided here understood far more about Calon than did she. She’d heard the rumors that the castle was haunted, that ghosts could be heard creeping through the walls, but she didn’t believe them, even when she herself had felt the weight of unseen eyes upon her. ’Twas her mind playing tricks upon her, nothing more.

Or so she tried to convince herself.

CHAPTER EIGHT

F
rom his hiding spot behind the beehives, Runt, the spy, eyed the main door of the keep. Two guards flanked the great oaken portal and they were both wide awake, their gazes sweeping the darkened inner bailey. Fortunately for Runt, the night was heavy, fog clinging to the crenels, hiding the towers and wisping around the smaller buildings within Calon’s thick walls.

Surely there was some way to gain entrance to the great hall, he thought, wondering how to slip inside without being seen. He was an ordinary-looking man and enough people knew him as a local peasant that no one paid him much notice during the day. But at night he would stand out, and the guards, ever vigilant, had been even more so since finding the man who’d been attacked in the forest nearby.

Runt itched to see the wounded stranger with his own eyes, but so far he’d been thwarted. If the rumors proved true and the wounded man was indeed Carrick—

A gloved hand flattened over his mouth, cutting off his scream.

Another held a blade to his throat. “Shhh!” his attacker hissed into his ear. “If you value your pathetic life, don’t make a move.”

Runt’s knees turned to water and he nearly pissed himself.

The blade pressed into his neck, and he squeezed his eyes shut, certain he was drawing his last breath.

“I know why you’re here,” the voice, raspy and faint, as if disguised, said. “And I’ll tell you what you want to know. Aye, the man who was found is Carrick of Wybren. Aye, he is near death. And, aye, it is imperative that you tell the man who sent you of him.”

Runt wanted to argue, to lie that he was just an innocent, but the razor-sharp edge of the knife kept him from saying a word. “Tell your master that you found this out from the servants. Make no mention of our meeting, for if you do, I will know of it, and I will slice your throat so quickly, you will not know what happened until you see your own blood pouring from your neck.”

Runt’s Adam’s apple bobbed and sweat rolled down his forehead.

“Understand?” the voice demanded, and before Runt could answer he felt warm breath against his ear. “Understand?” A prick of the knife, just enough to pierce his skin.

Runt nodded quickly.

“Good. Since you found your way in here, I trust you’ll find your way out past the guards. Do not fail me,” his attacker warned, “or I swear I will hunt you down and slaughter you.”

The blade and hand were quickly removed as his attacker hurried away through the rising mist. Runt slumped against the dormant hives and slowly let out his breath.

So he’d been discovered.

Was known to be a spy.

And yet was left to live.

For now.

He swallowed back his fear and straightened. Who was it who had caught him, who had stolen upon him so quietly that he’d not heard so much as a step? Had it been a man or a woman? Runt knew not, nor did he care. It mattered not. What did matter was that he make his way out of Calon before whoever it was who had just left him returned.

 

Pain screamed through his body.

He was on fire.

Burning up from the inside out.

He felt the sweat, the salt seeping into his wounds, and was barely aware of anything other than the intense agony that ripped through his body.

I’m alone
, he thought, for he heard no voices, no scrape of the soles of boots upon the stone floor, no breath rasping in and out of lungs as someone hovered over him.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed aside the pain, tried to think beyond the agony.

Think!
he told himself.
Where are you?
Who
are you? Why are you here?

But, Christ Jesus, the pain . . .

With all his willpower, he attempted to open an eye and failed. His lid didn’t so much as twitch.

I’m blind
, he thought miserably.
I can’t see
.

No! You can’t lift your eyelid . . . yet. Try again! Time is slipping through your fingers
.

His fingers . . . oh, God, how they ached.

God in heaven, how long had he lain here?

Where was he? Some castle, though he couldn’t remember hearing its name.

There had been talk of placing him in the dungeon but
she
—Morwenna—had been against it, and it seemed that she was the lady of the keep.
Morwenna
. By the saints, why was that name so familiar? It echoed through his mind . . .
Morwenna, Morwenna, Morwenna
. . . teasing at him, conjuring up memories that came so close to the surface only to submerge again.

What did it matter? He was dying. No one could survive this kind of pain and live. His eyes burned, his head felt as if it were twice its normal size, his body ached, and his hand . . . Christ Jesus, his right hand felt as if it was splitting apart. ’Twas as if Satan himself had severed the finger . . . or all his fingers. Clenching his muscles, concentrating so hard his head pounded, he tried again to raise his hand, to open his eyes . . . but could not. . . . His body trembled . . . his empty stomach wrenched and suddenly the blackness beckoned him again, slowly and seductively pulling him under.

Sweet, sweet oblivion was calling to him, promising him relief, and, curse his cowardice, he let himself fall willingly into her waiting, comforting arms. . . .

 

’Twas dark.

The castle was fast asleep.

The Redeemer crept through the secret corridors and stepped carefully, his ears straining to hear any noise that seemed out of place. Though he believed no one else knew there were hidden hallways and tunnels within this keep, or those who had once heard the rumors of secret passageways didn’t believe them, he was still cautious. Wary. So he strained to listen.

But he heard nothing other than the sound of his own heart pumping madly. Excitement sizzled through his bloodstream as he made his way through the tomblike corridors. He felt a sensation of power that was nearly godlike and it pleased him. He had much to do tonight.

First, a stop with the prisoner.

Noiselessly he moved through a narrow passage and up the stairs to an alcove where a body could barely squeeze through. Then, in this nearly airless cubicle, his fingers touched the wall in front of him and inched across the rough stones until he found a tiny crevice wherein the mortar was missing and a latch was hidden. Deftly he fingered the lock, and pushing with his feet, he moved a small section of the wall inward.

Agilely he slid into the room where the wounded man lay.

His blood was pumping, racing through his veins. His body tingled in anticipation. It would be easy to kill the bastard now, when the castle was asleep and the guard was snoozing at his post. So easy. Perhaps too easy.

There would be risk with his sudden death here at Calon. Questions. An inquisition.

But if the man were to die at Wybren, all the questions and theories about the fire would die with him. A morbid justice would be served if Carrick returned to Wybren to pay for sins not his own, a traitor hanged for all to see. . . . Aye, that would be so much better, and yet the Redeemer found the wait agonizing. As long as the man lived, there was a chance that all the Redeemer’s plans were for naught. ’Twould be so easy to place a hand over the man’s nose and mouth and hold him down as the hellion struggled for air that would never reach his lungs. Or it would be simple enough to bring a vial of poison to this locked room, break the seal, and pour the deadly liquid over the man’s cracked lips.

’Twas tempting.

So seductively enticing.

He itched to put an end to the man’s pathetic life.

In the near darkness, the Redeemer eyed his adversary. Still clinging to life. Still a threat. And yet still useful. Somehow this beaten pulp of an individual had to be blamed for the carnage at Wybren. Had to.

The Redeemer would see to it.

It had been a blessing in disguise that the man had been found and dragged to this keep, he reminded himself. A blessing. Others wanted him dead. Others had tried to silence him . . . and failed.

The Redeemer would not.