Temptress (8 page)

For her.

All of her.

In his mind’s eye, he imagined his lips behind her ear, his teeth at her throat. . . . He shook at the image, and beneath the folds of his tunic, his member responded. Gritting his teeth, he climbed ever upward in the slim, forgotten staircase.

On the third level aboveground, the corridor split into two pathways. He veered toward her chamber and again up a narrow set of flat stones.

Almost there!

He left his torch in an empty iron holder and then continued upward, his fingertips running along the rough, familiar walls as he mentally counted each step. As quietly as a cat, he slunk to his hiding spot, where, through the slits between the stones, he peered downward. Though his view was partially blocked, he saw most of the chamber. Licking his lips, praying that the fire was stoked bright enough so he could see her upon her bed, he pressed his face to the crack between the stones, his nose flattening with his effort. His heartbeat was pounding a wild tattoo in his eardrums, his fingers damp with anticipation, his cock ever thickening as he scanned the dark chamber.

It was impossible to see her, but he strained and he listened hard, holding his breath, hoping to hear her gentle breathing, the rustle of bedclothes, the soft rush of a sigh as she dreamed.

Nothing
.

He strained. Yet he couldn’t see her, didn’t hear a sound over the hiss of the fire.

Anxiously he moved his gaze over the chamber so far beneath him, past the bed and the stool holding a basin, along the rushes of the floor to the alcove where her clothes were hung, past the chairs positioned at the grate . . . Damn!

A rising sense of panic flooded him. His hands began to shake.

Was she not in the bed?

He squinted hard.

Were the bed sheets rumpled but empty?

Nay! The miserable dog was there, curled into a useless ball. But the beast was alone, breathing shallowly, guarding no one! Wretched, useless cur.

Disappointment welled deep within and rage seared the corners of the Redeemer’s brain.

Where the devil was she?

Where?
The question echoed and ricocheted through his brain, and his erection began to wither and die. All his plans for this night, ruined! He leaned his forehead against the rough stones and slowed his breathing. As he did, an ugly realization began to dawn upon him.

Suddenly he knew with a deadly certainty where he’d find her. Cold sweat slid along his neck and shoulders, and his nostrils flared as if he’d encountered a rank smell.

Carrick!
The Redeemer’s lips curled in silent fury. A hatred as dark as the very heart of Satan curdled through his bloodstream.

The Redeemer’s hands became impotent fists.

Patience
, he silently warned himself,
patience. ’Tis not only a virtue, but a necessity.

He turned so quickly he nearly stumbled, but caught himself, scraping his fingers upon the wall.

Mentally chastising himself, he raced along the hallway, snagging his torch and then slowing to creep past the juncture leading downward. He sucked the spittle from his lips and moved as swiftly as possible.

Along the less-familiar corridor, he had to fumble for the bracket and then left his torch in the waiting holder. Fury pounding at his temples, he edged upward to another viewing post, a spot that would allow him to look down upon the prisoner, who lay motionless upon his bed.

Alone.

Relief slipped through the Redeemer. Mayhap the fascination he sensed Morwenna had for the prisoner was only his own fear getting the better of him.

A good question, he thought. A very good question.

One that bothered him.

He could search the castle, but he didn’t have the time. There was a chance that he would be missed.

It was a chance he dared not take.

CHAPTER FIVE

“
W
ho are you?” Morwenna whispered as she slipped into the room and stared down at the beaten man. Biting her lip, she ran a fingertip along his bruised cheek as she gazed upon him. The room was dark, only the glow from the firelight allowing her to view his distorted features. Swollen eyes, discolored skin, and a beard covering his jaw. Was he really Carrick?

Her throat constricted at the thought.

But why would he pretend to be Carrick of Wybren, a man who was thought to be either dead or a traitor to his family, even a murderer?

Murderer
. She shrank from the thought. Surely not Carrick. Aye, he was a blackheart. True, he took her virtue along with her heart, but a killer? Nay. She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Looking intently at the stranger, she attempted to see Carrick’s face beneath the bruised features, imagine the man she’d loved so recklessly lying upon this bed, his eyes shut, his chest barely rising and falling with his shallow breaths.

Over the past ten days, he’d begun to heal, yet the scabbing and swelling destroyed the natural contours of his face.

Think, Morwenna, think. You saw him naked. Were there not old scars or marks upon his skin that would confirm that he is Carrick?
She closed her eyes for a second, envisioned the rogue she remembered.

Tall, with a chiseled jaw and a nose that wasn’t quite straight, teeth that flashed in sarcastic humor, eyes that seemed to see to the far reaches of her soul. His hair had been black, with a bit of a wave, his muscles taut and close to the skin, not an ounce of fat upon his frame. Scars? Had there been evidence of an old wound upon his body? A birthmark or mole upon his skin?

For the past three years she’d tried to forget him, to force her mind away from the vibrant images of a man who had so heartlessly left her, a man who everyone had warned her was a callous rogue, a man to whom she’d so recklessly offered her heart.

Now, looking down at him, studying the battered lines of his face, she knew not who he was.

So her efforts had been wasted.

Unable to sleep, she had risked leaving her chamber and made her way to the latrine and then waited until the guard himself had gone to relieve himself before slipping inside the prisoner’s chamber. She would be found out, of course, but at least she wouldn’t have to have the discussion or argument at the door. And, truth be known, the guard, Isa, Alexander, even the sheriff himself could complain mightily about her conduct, but there was little anyone could do about it. She was the lady of the castle. Her word was law.

Again she glanced down at the man, studying him intently. Could it be? She cleared her throat and then whispered, “Carrick?”

No response. Not even the slightest movement of an eyeball beneath his discolored eyelids. She bit her lip. Carrick had blue eyes. She wondered as she stared down at the wounded man just what color his were.

There was one certain way to find out. Carefully, her finger trembling, she touched his eyelid. Some of the swelling had decreased over the past week, and she was able to force his eyelid upward. The bloody orb beneath made her cringe. The white part was bright red but the iris was as blue as a morning sky.

Like Carrick’s.

Her heart jolted as the pupil shrank and seemed to focus on her.

Because of the light?

Or because the bloody bastard was awake?

“Can you see me—hear me?” she demanded and then let the eyelid close and felt a fool in this chamber where the embers of the fire glowed a deep scarlet. She braced herself and tried again. This time she touched his bare shoulder and whispered into his ear. “Carrick!”

Was it her imagination or did the muscles beneath her fingertips tighten a bit?

Her heart jolted.

Ignoring her doubts, she cleared her throat. Felt her pulse leaping.

“It’s Morwenna. Remember me?”
I’m the woman you lied to. The woman you promised to love. The woman you turned your back on.
“Carrick?”

Again that tiny tension beneath her fingers.

Could he hear her?

Footsteps sounded outside the door. “What the devil?” a gruff voice muttered. “Bloody hell!” The door flew open to bang against the wall.

Was it her imagination or did she again feel a reaction where her fingers touched the wounded man’s skin?

“M’lady?” Sir Vernon the guard demanded. A big brute of a man, he’d already unsheathed his sword and was surveying the interior of the chamber as if he expected to be ambushed at any second. “What’re you doin’ here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted.

“You shouldna come into this room alone, especially when I’m not at my post.” At his own admission some of the bristle seeped out of him. “I mean, I was just down the corridor, in the latrine takin’ a . . . Oh, m’lady, forgive me. I shouldna have left my station.”

“ ’Tis all right,” she assured him, stepping away from the wounded man’s bed. “I let myself in and nothing is amiss.” She offered the guard her best smile. “Worry not, Sir Vernon.” Sliding one last glance at the man on the bed, she added, “I don’t think he will do anyone any harm for a long while.”

“But if he’s Carrick of Wybren, he’s a murderin’ bastard and he canna be trusted.” Vernon pointed at the unmoving man with his sword and then, realizing the inanity of his actions, rammed his weapon into a sheath strapped to his thick waist.

“I don’t think I have any concerns from him.”

Vernon glowered, bushy eyebrows slamming over furious, dark eyes. “Even sleeping, Lucifer is dangerous.”

“I suppose you’re right, Sir Vernon,” she said, though she wasn’t convinced the man was evil. Nor could she say for certain if he was Carrick. Only he, and perhaps his assailants, knew his true identity.

“Good night, Sir Vernon,” she said.

“And you, m’lady.” As if determined to prove his valor, Vernon stood with his feet apart, spine stiff as steel.

Morwenna walked the few feet to her chamber, kicked the door closed, and flung herself onto her bed. What had she been thinking? What had she expected to learn by slipping into the man’s chamber? By touching him?

Mort let out a soft woof, his tail pounding the covers for a second, and then he sighed loudly and slipped back into slumber.

Absently Morwenna petted the dog’s thick ruff, but her thoughts were jumbled and far away. She owed Carrick nothing: no allegiance, no concern, and least of all love. Her lips compressed as she remembered the day he’d ridden away. Cowardly. Before dawn. Leaving her alone in the bed.

She’d felt a breath of wind stir and had awoke to find him gone, the sheets where he’d lain still warm and rumpled, the small room where they’d taken shelter still smelling of the dying fire and the musk of the morning’s sex. She’d heard a cock crow as she’d walked to the window and imagined she’d seen him and his horse on the horizon, the fog shrouding his image, the pain in her heart so suddenly intense her knees buckled and she’d had to bite down on her lip not to cry out.

She’d known then he wasn’t returning. Would never. And yet she’d gone after him, intent on confronting him, on telling him what she suspected, nay, knew to be the truth. . . . Oh, she’d thought she’d come away from the meeting with a shred of dignity, a bit of pride. And she’d been mistaken.

Now, lying upon her bed, her jaw tightening and tears threatening her eyes, she forced her mind back. She’d cried her last drop for that coward.

She gnashed her teeth at the unanswered questions that had chased after her for what seemed a lifetime. Had she secretly known that he would abandon her and had she tested him, unwilling to force him to her, keeping her lips sealed and
waiting
for him to leave her? So that she could chase after him, find a horse, hop on the beast’s broad back and . . . and . . .

She squeezed her eyes shut. A hot blush of embarrassment flooded her face. What good was it now to think of what had happened or what could have been? Blinking rapidly, she banished the wayward images, refused to conjure up any forlorn, self-pitying feelings for herself. She’d survived his betrayal. Had become stronger for it.

As it turned out, the beast had done her a favor!

’Twould serve the blackheart right if she was to return his lying hide to Lord Graydynn. Wybren was less than one day’s journey on horseback, even shorter if one took the old road and forded the river near Raven’s Crossing. Graydynn might pay well to have the traitor returned.

Elsewise, she could, as Sir Alexander suggested, jail him in the dungeon. Let him suffer a while. ’Twould serve the scoundrel right!

Nay.

She sighed at her silly fantasies.

She knew better than to try to get back at a man who had wronged her. ’Twas petty. And foolish. Besides, the beaten man was most likely not Carrick but a simple thief who had been attacked on the road.

And yet . . . there was something about the stranger that jogged her memory and caused her pulse to quicken.

“Idiot,” she chastised herself as she pulled the bedclothes up to her neck, causing the dog to reposition himself. Before she closed her eyes, she glanced around this chamber that had been her own for less than a year. Sometimes . . . ’twas silly, she knew, but . . . sometimes she felt as if she was being watched, as if the room itself had eyes.