Could there be any worse fate?
The night was cold as demon’s piss, but the drizzling rain had finally stopped and the clouds parted to show a bit of moon. Gavyn rode unerringly past the three rocks, along the water, until he reached Tarth, a village that held bitter memories for him.
The village had grown in the years he’d been gone, but he recognized some of the shops and streets and guided his steed to the one inn with its stable attached. He had friends and relatives here who would give him shelter, but he wanted, at least for one night, to keep to himself. He paid for his horse to be cared for and stabled, then bought a room for the night and found a place at a corner table downstairs where he could sip ale and watch the locals. He listened to the gossip floating from one table to the next while men drank mead or wine, flirted with the innkeeper’s daughter, or played dice.
Gavyn had to ask a few questions to get the conversation rolling, but no one recognized him, perhaps because of his bruises, or more likely because he’d been away awhile. The conversations he overheard entailed little more than cursing about the weather that was damaging crops, or worry about Lord Romney’s son not being able to run the castle as well as his father. The girl who filled his cup, however, was all too willing to gossip in more detail about how a priest was running the keep until the baron returned, and, aye, that she had seen a noblewoman traveling alone, a woman with red hair, dirty clothes, and a white horse.
“Paid for a room she did,” the girl said as she poured another stream of ale into his mazer, “then visited the seamstress before bathing and riding off. We expected her back, but when she came, she had the old woman Gleda with her. Gleda, she’s the goat farmer’s wife. She keeps bees herself and sells honey here and to the cook at the keep.”
Gleda. He turned the name over in his head but it meant nothing to him.
“So the red-haired girl left to stay with Gleda?”
“Could be.” She lifted a shoulder. “I know not.”
He smiled. “Do you know where Gleda lives?”
“Aye, about a mile outside of town to the east, mayhap less.” She caught her mother’s critical eye. “Oh, I’d best be off taking care of the other customers,” she said hurriedly, her cheeks instantly flaming.
’Twas odd, he thought. Why would Bryanna pay for a room and then vacate it? What had she learned from the farmer’s wife? What was so damned important that the woman returned with her and helped her move out?
He drummed his fingers upon the table, then decided that if he was to find Bryanna, he would have to find the beekeeper. For some reason Bryanna had sought the woman out. He had little doubt it had to do with the map and the dagger. But what?
He lingered a bit longer, listening for anything else that was of interest, then paid for his ale and walked into the night. He glanced up at the castle rising high on the hill, a dark, foreboding keep.
It, too, had been pictured upon Bryanna’s map. A rudimentary square with towers pointing upward.
He walked along the well-trod road leading to the main gate, where puddles and dung and mud had collected in the deep ruts. When he was near the keep, he heard voices from within, then the groan of metal and the grinding of ancient gears as the portcullis was winched upward.
Backlit by a few torches, a lone rider appeared upon a small dark horse. A woman. Strange that a woman would be leaving the castle alone, this late at night.
His heart beat a little faster at the thought it might be Bryanna. As she rode beneath the rattling grating, he ducked deeper into the shadows and squinted, but he knew instinctively this little, hunched-over woman was not her. He’d spent hours with Bryanna and knew every inch of her silhouette upon her horse. Nay, ’twas not her . . . and the broken-down animal the woman was riding was not Bryanna’s white jennet.
With darkness as his cover, he followed the woman, keeping to the shadows. When she turned her horse toward the river, then eastward along its banks, he wondered if this woman could be Gleda, the beekeeper and farmer’s wife, the woman Bryanna had been with. At the tavern Gleda had been described as an old woman living on a downtrodden farm.
More voices reached him. Male and deep, approaching from the short road leading to the gatehouse. Gavyn hung back in the shadows behind the corner of the stable and caught bits of the conversation as two foot soldiers passed.
“. . . not happy about having an unannounced guest.”
“Hell, the father, ’e’s not ’appy about nothin’ these days. Not lookin’ forward to the return of Sir Mabon, if ye ask me.”
“Lord Mabon. ’E’s the baron now and ye’d best be remembering it. And ye’re right, Father Patrick will have to get used to living like a priest again instead of a lord.”
The two men chuckled as they reached the inn, where lights burned bright and conversation spilled into the night.
“I wonder if she’ll still be there,” one of the soldiers said. “What do ye make of it, a woman riding alone?”
“She had a companion.”
“Who left her there.”
“With the good priest.”
Again the men laughed and Gavyn’s jaw tightened. He was certain that the guards were talking about Bryanna. Slinking through the shadows, he was determined to find her.
It shouldn’t prove too difficult, for he’d lived in Tarth as a youth and had returned here after being banished from Penbrooke. He knew which doors in the town were locked and which were open. He’d spent enough time in the castle to know how to enter and leave without being noticed.
It would be simple enough to sneak inside and find Bryanna.
Gavyn only had to bide his time.
The storm worsened unexpectedly.
And became terrifying.
Urging the lazy gelding through the pouring rain, Gleda wondered if she’d made a mistake. Mayhap she should have taken advantage of Father Patrick’s hospitality, even though it had been offered without enthusiasm. Holier-than-thou, sanctimonious, and downright mean-spirited, the priest ruffled her feathers more than most men, and whenever she was around him, she wanted to take him down a peg, give him a dose of his own supercilious disdain.
“Fool,” she muttered, and as the rain ran down the front of her cowl she wondered if she were talking about herself or the bloody priest.
“Hurry on there, Harry,” she said to the horse, clucking her tongue as the wind picked at the hem of her dripping mantle. She didn’t have far to ride, just half a mile. Once she crossed the creek she’d be home and she could toss off her wet mantle, shake the rain from her hair, and warm herself by the fire, where Liam was probably sitting now, refitting the shafts of his arrows with feathers or steel tips.
Oh, to be warm and dry again.
Her old bones felt soaked through.
And Harry, with his uneven gait, was not a comfortable horse on which to ride. He’d been hurt as a foal and ever since favored one leg, though he never seemed to be in pain.
She spied the creek, a dark snake of water that cut through the earth and wound across the valley. The rain had swollen the creek to a rushing stream, and Harry balked at the prospect of stepping through. “Oh, for the love of St. Peter, ye’ve done it a thousand times before, you stubborn nag. Come on now.” She gave him a little kick, just enough to show him she meant business, and still he refused, backing up and nearly rearing.
Her house was in sight just on the other side of the water. She saw the fire burning through spaces in the closed shutters, smelled the scent of burning wood.
“Come on, damn ye,” she said. “What in the name of the Holy Mother is wrong with you. . . ?” But as she said the words, she saw something in the dark, swirling depths. ’Twas a body floating in the creek, caught on a shelf of rocks.
“Oh no.” Without a thought she climbed off her horse and stepped into the swirling eddies. Ice-cold water caught on her skirts and filled her boots, dragging her down as she made her way in the shallows to the place where the man lay, facedown. He was certain to be
dead, no doubt a traveler who had stumbled when he tried to cross the stream. She reached him in the knee-deep water and pulled on his shirt. Though it was dark, there was something familiar about him, about his size.
“Liam?” she whispered, her old heart clutching in her chest. Surely not her husband. He was a cautious man, a careful farmer who would not endanger his life even to save his own livestock. “Liam!” She leaned over and, using all her strength, rolled the dead weight of the man over, exposing his pale face.
Pain and despair cut her to the bottom of her soul.
Her husband, dead and cold, stared sightlessly upward.
“No!” she wailed in anguish. “No! Oh, God, no!” She sobbed and clung to him, cold water soaking through everywhere. “Please, Liam, for once in your stubborn life, fight!” she cried, pounding on his chest. How dared he leave her? What foolish notion had enticed him to emerge from the warmth of their hut? Had one of the goats escaped? Had a boar taken off into the woodland? Or . . . had he come looking for her?
Guilt clawed at her and she refused to let her thoughts wander in that direction. She couldn’t, wouldn’t think that he’d lost his life because he was worried about her. She’d told him she would be long . . . oh, sweet Jesus! Sobbing, she pulled upon his heavy body, trying to drag him to the bank. Her boots slipped in the mud and her teeth chattered in her head as the water slapped her ever downward.
“Here, boy!” she yelled, calling to the horse. “Come, Harry. That’s a boy.” If she could rap the reins around Liam’s cold hands and then force the horse to back up and drag him from the creek, then maybe, just maybe, she could save him.
He’s gone, Gleda. Liam is dead as a stone.
She wouldn’t listen to the reason in her head and called to the horse over the wind and rain. “Come on, Harry. . . .”
Snorting, the horse took one step in her direction before stopping and rearing. “Harry!” she shouted in frustration.
Pounding hoofbeats resounded in the wind. She turned and saw a dark rider approaching from the other side of the creek. “Help!” she yelled, blinking against the rain. “Please help me! It’s me husband—” But her voice was dulled by the wind.
Frantically she waved at him, and the rider splashed through the shallows, his big destrier cutting through the water. He had seen her! He was coming this way. Her hands relaxed on the hem of Liam’s wet shirt, and she felt a moment’s relief.
Please, she silently prayed to any deity who was listening. Let Liam live. Let me get him home to safety, let—
She gasped as she saw the rider’s arm swing high in the air. Something in his hand?
A sword? A dagger? No, something round and—
Quick as lightning, he hurled it directly at her.
She tried to duck, to throw up a hand, but she was too slow. A rock with edges honed knife-thin crashed into her forehead.
Pain exploded in her skull. Flashing bursts of light . . . and then darkness.
She stumbled backward, twisted, then fell facedown into the icy water.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He came to her in a dream in the dark of the night.
Rain had begun to splash upon the roof tiles so noisily that Bryanna groggily woke, barely aware of the gurgle of that Bryanna groggily woke, barely aware of the gurgle of water coursing through the gutters. She glanced up briefly, confused at the swirling bloodred silk overhead. ’Twas just the sleeping chamber at Tarth Castle. Bryanna turned over beneath the coverlet and wandered back into the dark unknowing, caught somewhere between wakefulness and deep sleep.
Facedown upon the pillow, she fell into a chaotic, distorted dream that took place within this very bedchamber of Tarth Castle.
The details of the hand-hewn bedposts and crimson silk hangings were vivid, as was the touch of the man.
Her lover, it seemed.
For though she couldn’t see his face, she sensed he was there, hidden in the shadows and moving soundlessly to the bed. She tried to roll over to face him but was pinned to the mattress. Strong hands covered her shoulders, forcing her to lie prone, upon her stomach so that he could come to her from behind.
“Wait,” she whispered, but her breath died in her throat as he pushed her hair aside and kissed the back of her neck, his breath warm and sensual. Her veins tingled and her blood began to heat. Desire curled deep inside her as his lips trailed along the slope of her shoulder. She wanted him.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice husky and unfamiliar, muffled by the pillow. “Why are you here?”
“For you.” Strong arms surrounded her, slipping around her waist, fingers inching up her rib cage. Hard. Hot. Determined as they found her breasts and began to knead, pulling her to her knees upon the mattress though she was still facing away from him. His fingers summoned fires within her unlike any desire she’d ever known. He knelt behind her, never releasing her, always touching. Body pressed to body. Male and female. Poised to mate.
Her mind swirled and she told herself this was a dream, a sensual dream, sweet and thick as honey. She knew no lover, and yet he was with her. In the bed. In the dark. In this nether land of primal desire and hot flesh.
“Bryanna,” he whispered. “Wanton witch.”
Hard fingers scraped her nipples, teasing them, toying with them.
“Mmm . . .” She growled like a tigress as he pinched one nipple lightly, causing a needle-sharp sensation to pierce her consciousness—sweet, deep, and overpowering.
What is this? The question floated above her, and yet it didn’t seem to matter as desire thrummed deep inside, her body responding and eager as he held her tight against him. His chest rubbed over her naked back and a thickness pressed hard into her buttocks, smooth and slick, rubbing . . . rubbing . . . moving against her. How she loved the feel of him . . . hot, hard, so smooth.
Who is this man with his honed muscles, skilled hands, and insistent pressure?
A lover?
A friend?
An enemy?
But she had slept with no man. . . . Who would she allow to be so intimate with her, so sexual?
Gavyn.
Her heart leapt when she realized he’d found her.
He’d known where she was going; it was he who had first deciphered the map.
Of course.
She smiled in the darkness.
He is teasing me. Tormenting me. He will only reveal himself to me once I have given myself to him.
Aye . . . then he shall have me.
She sighed and leaned back against him, giving herself over to the waves of pleasure, the throbbing deep inside as he kissed her bare shoulder. Reaching one hand upward and back to sink her fingers into his hair, she stretched languorously. He growled deep in his throat, one hand splaying over her breasts, the other lower, toying with her as she smelled his deep, musky odor.
“I know who you are,” she said, and though she was facing away from him, she reached back behind him, her fingers skimming the strong, smooth muscles of his back.
“Of course you do.” Wet lips trailed along her spine and she gasped as he began to spread her legs with his fingers and touch her intimately. She shivered, not from the cold but from a want, primeval and deep. As he pressed her downward into the mattress, she lifted her hips and writhed, eager for release.
His hardness pressed intimately along her backside, searching for entry.
“Gavyn,” she whispered. “Please.”
The ministrations stopped. “What?” he asked.
“I said, please,” she murmured. “Please.”
“You called me Gavyn.”
“Yes, yes,” she said, pressing her hips to him. She could not bear the thought of his hands dropping from her hot, moist skin, his body moving away from hers.
“I’m not Gavyn,” he whispered in a heart-stopping instant.
Part of her could not make sense of his words. What could that mean? ’Twas nonsensical. A mere laugh in this swarming roar of sensation. All confusion melted in the bli
stering heat of his body over hers. One knee slid her legs apart and strong fingers slid between her legs, bringing a wild frenzy to the recesses of her being.
“Now, witch,” he said, “’tis time to fulfill your destiny.”
A wall of pressure from behind pushed her face down into the pillow as he thrust deep. Hard.
A cry escaped her throat at the rending of flesh. Her maidenhood gone. But her voice quickly quieted to murmurs of pleasure as he pulled back and plunged into her again . . . and again and again.
How she loved the slow sultry rhythm of mating! She had never been with a man before and yet her body seemed to know what to do. She felt herself opening to him as her hips writhed in time with his, eager to meet him, to receive him, to feel him deep inside her.
She felt his excitement in the slick sweat that melded his body to hers, smelled it in the deep odor of musk, heard it in his panting. His ardor stoked the flames that curled within her, hot and crackling, dancing and leaping skyward. His passion became her passion, his lust her lust.
Her fingernails dug into the sheets as the warm honey began to soak through her body, thick and sweet, hotter and hotter as he moved faster and faster. But the dense nectar in her veins slowed her passion and dulled her senses like a dark potion until she felt her spirit floating aloft, separate from this man moving over her.
With a final deep stab, he growled and collapsed over her, their bodies enmeshed in feverish heat and sweat.
“Daughter of Kambria, you are mine,” he said in an animal voice that seemed to come from a distant chamber. “Forever bound.”
The keep had changed since his last visit. Gavyn, who had slipped unnoticed beneath the gates when the foot soldiers had returned, walked through the wet bailey, just as he had years earlier. He’d been a groom then, tending to the horses, learning his skills from Neddym, the stable master.
Unerringly he made his way through the darkness, across the bailey and beneath the pentice near the kitchen. He looked up at the keep and wondered which of the windows would open to her room. Not that he could hope to scale the sheer walls, and yet, being so near her, knowing she was close, he felt a glimmer of life return to him, like a returning hawk. He was still mad as hell that she’d left him, though in truth he couldn’t deny his fascination with her.