“Please, Father Simon,” she said, certain that this was her only chance to find out the truth. “Tell me, did you take the child from this castle and leave her with Lodema?” For long, excruciating minutes he continued in his prayer. She waited until she could stand it no longer. When she was just about to leave, certain that he would never answer her question, he slowly turned and stared up at her from his knees. Their eyes locked, held, and he raised his scraggly eyebrows and gave the barest hint of a nod. “Aye,” he mouthed mutely, then turned back to his prayers.
Tara stood rooted to the spot. So it was true. She was the infant stolen at birth. Could she dare believe it? And what if it were true? Did it change anything? Nay. Nothing. “But how—”
He frowned, kept praying.
“Please, Father Simon, I needs know—”
With a slash of one hand, he impatiently waved her to the door without meeting her gaze again. His lips moved in pious conversation, and Tara realized she had no choice but to leave. Soon the soldiers would be back and she couldn’t allow herself to be trapped in this stony room where there was no exit, nowhere to hide.
So what did it matter if she had been born here? Other than having her curiosity satisfied by the priest’s confirmation, nothing had changed.
Except that with your own stubborn bullheadedness, you’ve endangered Rhys.
Any exhilaration she might have felt about learning that she was indeed Lord Gilmore and Lady Farren’s daughter quickly vanished with the horrid realization that she’d led Rhys into certain danger. She had to find Rhys, to warn him.
He didn’t have to follow you, Tara. ‘Twas his decision.
But she couldn’t absolve herself of the blame. Sick at the thought that he might be captured because of her, she started down the stairs, her feet moving swiftly. True, he’d held her prisoner and stolen the ring from her, but he’d also been worried about her safety and warned her not to ride to Twyll. At the door to the tower she paused, took a deep breath, then slipped through the opening into a cold, gray afternoon. The wind was harsh and brittle as it sent dry leaves, twigs, and feathers scattering across the bailey. It slapped her in the face and snatched at the hem of her mantle.
How could she find Rhys? Though she apparently had been born the daughter of Gilmore, this keep was strange to her. She knew not where one would hide, nor could she ask anyone without raising questions. Yet she had to find him, to help him to safety.
Too late, Tara. Far, far too late. Already soldiers were searching for him everywhere within the great stone walls. They scoured the chambers, peered behind doors, and stuck swords into carts of grain and hay, leaving no stone unturned in their quest.
Outlaw. Bastard. Beloved.
Her heart ached, and she realized she was hopelessly in love with the blackheart.
“Fool,” she muttered under her breath. She kept her hood over her hair and tried to blend in with the peddlers and workers who hustled through the bailey. Hurrying along a well-trod path near the slaughterhouse, where the butcher was busy salting pork, she noticed men with swords, quivers, and crossbows, striding along familiar paths that wound among the huts and pens of the bailey. The restless energy she’d felt earlier, the tension in the keep, crackled through the bailey like the air before a thunderstorm. The sounds of axes splitting lumber, saws grating through beams, and hammers pounding were interspersed with the bark of sharp orders, the cackle of nervous laughter, and the scream of a peacock. Stern-faced mothers shepherded children as they lugged provisions to the garrison.
Several women cast worried glances her way, and she read the questions in their eyes but knew they were too distracted to wonder much who she was or what business she had in the keep.
So where could Rhys be in this maze of a castle? Her gaze swept the bailey. The gong farmer was mucking out the stables, and a girl was chasing geese at the edge of the pond. Feathers flew and a particularly loud goose honked wildly as carts creaked and rattled their way along the rutted, muddy alleys. Somewhere a pig squealed, while the stern-faced soldiers continued their search through the huts, stopping to ask questions, their eaglelike eyes penetrating to the farthest reaches of the castle.
Rhys would never escape this.
’Twould be impossible.
“Hey!” she heard, and her heart stopped. “What business d’ye have ‘ere?” a huge male voice boomed. She turned quickly, a half-baked explanation forming on her lips, but then she realized that a soldier was questioning a farmer with an empty wagon. She ducked behind a hayrick and reached into the pocket where her little knife was hidden. Thank the Holy Mother she hadn’t tossed it into the bucket with her precious flint when she’d escaped the inn.
“Psst.”
She froze.
“Lady—”
Glancing over her shoulder, she spied Quinn hiding behind a post near the entrance to a dark hut. He motioned her closer with one finger, then disappeared through the small doorway. She hesitated, but told herself that she had nothing to fear from the boy. He was a child.
Aye, but he’s Baron Tremayne’s son, he is, and as he now knows your true identity, he is your sworn enemy. Mayhap he’s leading you into a trap, one his father has set.
Why then did he warn her at the tower?
“Well?” the guard demanded.
“Nay, I have seen the outlaw Rhys not.” A thin-voiced woman on the other side of the hayrick was being interrogated.
“You be sure?” The guard was having none of it.
“Not even his shadow, I tell ye. He be a man a woman doesn’t forget quickly. If I’d seen him, Sir Ewan, I would have remembered it.”
“Humph.” The soldier snorted, then spit. “So ye’ve seen nothing out of the ordinary?”
“I didna say that, Ewan,” the woman replied, almost flirting with the soldier. “Ye be puttin’ words into me mouth. I says I have na seen Rhys, but there was a strange woman in the keep this morn. I saw her, and me daughter Isabel here caught sight of her as well … didn’t ye, dearie?”
“Aye,” a small voice mumbled.
Tara’s back stiffened.
“Black hair she had—dark as a raven’s wing it was, and wild, curly.” The woman sounded thoughtful, and Tara glanced hastily through the pens and huts, searching for a place to hide. “Her hair, it framed a fair face and big eyes—I can’t be tellin’ ye what color they were, though. She kept her hood up high, as if she was hidin’ somethin’.”
“A woman, ye say?”
“Aye! Aye! Be ye deaf, Ewan? I’m tellin’ ye there is a strange woman in the keep—a beauty she is, but none I’ve seen before, and ye know me, Ewan, I know everyone.”
“I know ye have a way of stretchin’ the truth, Sylvie. You tell a good story as well as ye make yer candles fer the keep.”
“Not this time. I swear it. She be actin’ strangely, if ye know what I mean. Tryin’ not to cause attention to herself, but she … she walked into the watch-tower—there to the north. I seen her slip through the door, I did.”
Tara’s mouth turned to dust. New fear sizzled through her.
“Ain’t that right, darlin’?” the woman continued and a small voice peeped her agreement.
“Yea. I seen her too, I did. In a black cape she was. A long one.”
“Well, now, that’s interestin’,” the guard agreed. “A comely woman with black hair and a big cape?”
“Aye, and a small woman she be. Not much to her. But ye would remember her if ye saw her, I’m tellin’ ya. Ye’ve got an eye for the lasses, don’t ya now, Ewan?”
His laughter turned into a coughing fit. Tara glanced at the door where Quinn had disappeared. Could she risk following him? Once the soldier had cleared his throat, he said, “If this woman be a small thing, then she’ll be no trouble. I’d best be checkin’ the tower—”
“Oh, nay. She’s not there no more. I seen her come out of the tower,” the child said. “A bit ago.”
Oh, dear God, Tara thought, her heart pounding more lou
dly than the carpenter’s hammer. If she were questioned and ‘twas found out that she was indeed the daughter of the slain baron and his wife, she would surely be imprisoned for treason—mayhap hung. There was no end to what torture the baron could inflict upon her—and if she were locked in a dungeon she could not help Rhys. She was forced to trust the boy.
Whispering a prayer to the Earth Mother and fearing that she was stepping into a deadly, well-planned trap, she noiselessly slipped through the dark doorway after Quinn and paused but a second for her eyes to adjust to the lack of light.
“So this be it—the jewel that so many covet?” Cavan walked to a small window in the private quarters of his keep and held the ring toward the window, where a bit of light dared pierce the keep and now bounced off the facets of the emerald. Tapestries, rich and thick, with images of comely half-dressed maids in colorful gardens, hung over the whitewashed walls. Candles lit each corner of the chamber, and a fire crackled in the huge hearth. A large bed stacked with furs filled one corner, and a table with two chairs was placed near the grate. Down the hallway the music of a harp filtered through the sounds of conversation from the hallway.
“Aye, the dark emerald of Twyll.”
“And it has magical powers?” Cavan asked, his voice tinged with skepticism. He frowned to himself, leaving Abelard to guess what was going through his greedy little mind.
“So ‘tis said.”
“But you have not witnessed any.”
“Nay.”
“Where did you get this?”
Abelard had anticipated the question. “Know you not that I am a thief?”
“Aye, and a rogue, and a thug, and an outlaw, a pickpocket, and mayhap even a murderer,” Cavan said without emotion. “So I am to assume you stole it?” Cavan clutched the ring in his fist as if in tightening his grip on it, he could learn the mysteries it held.
“Aye.”
“From whom?” The poignant notes of the harp stopped, yet other sounds of life in the castle—shouts, laughter, footsteps—still could be heard through the thick stone walls.
“Does it matter? If indeed you be the rightful heir of Twyll, now you have it. Many others may have owned it fleetingly, but now ‘tis yours.”
“For a price?” He tossed the ring into the air, watching it sparkle as it arced, then catching it again and testing its weight. “A small barony for you and your friend. Is that correct?”
“Seems fair,” Abelard ventured.
“Where is this friend of yours now?” Cavan asked. “I thought he was to help us with the siege. We ride at dawn.”
“He will be here,” Abelard promised, and Cavan snapped his fingers, ordering wine from a page lurking near the doorway. “Two cups and some of the best in the cellar. Bring it to the great hall,” he said to the nervous boy, who was but a few years younger than the ruler of Marwood. The page scurried out of the room, quick to fulfill his mission.
Cavan paused to throw on a deep crimson mantle and tie the laces. “Come,” he finally said, clapping Abelard on the back, and the older man sensed that the young lord was about to try to fool him, that their bargain—now that Cavan was in possession of the ring—was not as solid as it had once been. “We will celebrate, though I must tell you, I be disappointed that your—what did you call it, army of thieves and outlaws?—is not with you. Were they not part of our original bargain?”
“Aye.” Abelard was troubled. What had happened to Kent, Rosie, Leland, and the lot? Were they safe? What about the simpleton of a girl, Pigeon? Had some horror befallen her? At the thought his stomach soured and bile rose in his throat. “There was some trouble.”
“There always is,” Cavan said, with more wisdom than his years should have allowed. “There always is.” Together they walked through the keep, down the stairs to the great hall, where not only the wine was waiting for them but trenchers of salty salmon and pike. And two women—beautiful maids who blushed and avoided Abelard’s curious eyes as he settled onto a bench.
The page had been quick to anticipate his lord’s needs.
“Ahh, Belinda and Kate,” the lord of Marwood explained with a smile meant as introduction. “They will be with us until morn, when we ride and catch up with the garrison.”
“They have already left?” Abelard asked, though he’d suspected as much, since the castle was quieter than the last time he’d visited. As he’d ridden into the bailey he’d noted that all the weapons and soldiers he’d seen on his last trip to Marwood had disappeared.
“They left at dawn. ‘Twill be no trouble to catch up, for the catapult and ram are slow to move. By the time we reach them, they will be close to Twyll. Worry not,” he added, waving off what he assumed were Abelard’s concerns. “We will miss none of the attack.” His smile dripped with pure evil, and Abelard yet again questioned his own judgment in joining forces with this overbearing whelp. “Take your pick. Either girl will do anything you ask.” He popped a wedge of fish and some bread into his mouth. “Or, if you prefer, you can have them both.” He lifted a shoulder draped in velvet. “There are others for me.”
Abelard glanced from one blushing girl to the next, and his stomach curdled. He’d had his share of women, some as young and innocent as these, but as the years had slid away he no longer hungered for the lush young ones whose names he couldn’t remember.
Cavan grinned. “But do not lose all your strength this night,” he warned, wagging his greasy dagger in Abelard’s direction. “Tomorrow you will need to be strong and cunning. Especially if we are to beat Tremayne of Twyll without your ‘army’ or the Bastard Outlaw.” He washed down a mouthful of fish and bread with a long swallow from his cup, then wiped the grease and wine from his lips with a blood-red sleeve. “Where do you suppose your friend Rhys is?” he asked. “Hmm?”
Abelard shook his head. “I know not,” he admitted. “But he will appear and ride with us.”
“Will he?” Cavan didn’t seem to believe it for a second. He patted Kate—or was it Belinda—on the rump through her bliaut and sighed. “For all our sakes, let us hope that you are right, my friend,” he said.
Abelard didn’t answer, couldn’t. Rhys was different these days. All because of the witch. By the gods, that woman had addled his friend’s brain, and if he wasn’t careful, she was certain to ruin everything.
“Halt!” A sharp, deep-timbred warning rang through the forest, bouncing off the surrounding trees.
Damn! Low in the saddle, Rhys kicked his mare, a white palfrey he’d stolen from a farmer when the stallion had turned up lame. The little horse shot forward, racing along the muddy path, kicking up clods, stretching her legs. Trees and sun-dappled glens flashed by. Cold winter wind slapped his face.
“Halt, I say!” The soldier who had spied him gave chase.
“Run, damn it!” Rhys growled, his fingers tight on the reins as he guided her around a stand of pine—and saw a fallen tree blocking the path a hundred yards ahead.
Birds flushed from the underbrush, flapped into the sky.
“You can do it,” he urged, and the horse ran faster, legs flashing through the mossy-barked trees. He was so close to Twyll, so damned close! And now the sentry. Curse his luck!
With a glance over his shoulder, Rhys spied the rider, a big man wearing the colors of Twyll, astride a fleet bay destrier that was closing the distance between them with each long stride.
His white mare would never be able to outrun the faster steed.
“Halt! You!”
Never! “Come on, come on,” he muttered.
Zzzt! An arrow zipped through the air, narrowly missing his head. He kicked his horse harder, straight at the upturned oak.
Thunk! Another arrow buried itself in the thick bark of a gnarled pine tree.
“Bloody Christ,” he growled, moving with the horse as the dead tree loomed ever nearer.
Quail scattered. A rabbit bounded into skeletal berry vines, rattling dry branches and leaves. The wind whistled and clouds blocked most of the sun
as the dead oak loomed before them.
The horse gathered herself, then launched, flying over the desiccated log. As she landed, Rhys slapped her hard on the rump and let go. He rolled to the ground, his shoulder striking hard. Pain exploded in the joint. He gritted his teeth and slid backward, against the broken stump, hiding as the sound of hoof-beats echoed through the canyon. Searching the ground, he found a stone that fit in the palm of his hand and, breathing hard, ignoring the fire in his left shoulder, he hid, coiled, ready.
“Blast you!” the soldier growled, but still the horse galloped, shaking the ground. Rhys waited, listened hard, heard the change of gait, and saw the dark animal spring.
He unleashed the stone, throwing all his weight behind it. It hit the beast hard in the shoulder. With a startled squeal the animal stumbled. Its hooves grazed the tree and splinters flew.
“Hey—wha—?” Soldier and beast fell, tumbling to the ground in a mass of flailing legs and arms. Mind-chilling screams rang through the frigid winter air. “Oooooaaawwww—oh, Christ!” the man cried in agony. Pinned beneath the downed animal, his body crushed, he bellowed in a roar of pain.
Rhys shot forward as the frightened stallion scrambled to his feet. With pain burning in his own shoulder, he grabbed the soldier’s flayed arm, stripped him of sword, quiver, and bow, and left him writhing in the dead leaves.
Rhys didn’t wait to see if the man was alive or dead. As the wild-eyed destrier got his balance and started to run off, Rhys grabbed the flying reins, wrapped them around his good hand, and planted his feet. The horse shot forward, dragging him, but Rhys held fast. Dirt, mud, leaves, and twigs scratched at him, but he didn’t give up his grip, and when the horse slowed he found his feet and painfully hoisted himself into the saddle.
“Bloody hell. Ye can’t leave me ‘ere, ye bastard!” the wounded warrior yelled, desperation in his voice.
Rhys didn’t listen. His new mount’s strides were strong, swift. Though the animal was still panicked and running wildly through the trees, he was unharmed. Rhys felt a small niggle of guilt for the downed man, but he remembered that if the man had had the chance or if his aim had been a little more true, he would gladly have killed the Bastard Outlaw and collected whatever reward Tremayne had placed upon his half brother’s head.