If so—why?
His feelings for what he remembered of his family were hard to sort, his memories broken and jumbled. . . . He did think he had brothers and sisters . . . aye, and he hadn’t been fond of all of them. But their faces were a blur to him—murky images that evoked sensations of restlessness, pain and, aye, jealousy and hatred.
Was it true?
Was he the monster everyone believed?
He set his jaw and forced the damning questions from his brain. He didn’t have the time now to concentrate. Soon the guard would check on him. He had to act quickly.
As he had throughout the day when alone, he forced one leg to move. Again. It swung off the bed without too much pain.
He tried the other and felt the sluggish muscles protest as he shifted so that both feet landed on the floor.
Now the real test.
Slowly, thinking he might fall into a heap, he pushed himself to a standing position. To his surprise his legs were able to bear his weight. For the first time.
Taking a deep breath, he took one step.
Pain burned up his leg.
His knee held. He took a deep breath.
Another step.
He nearly fell, then caught himself. Sweat covered his body. Every little movement was an effort. But his knees didn’t buckle.
Again he tried to walk. He felt some pain, but with each step it lessened a bit, his stiffened muscles loosening. To his surprise most of the agony he’d experienced when he’d first awakened in this chamber days before seemed to have eased.
He had no real plan, just an understanding that if he didn’t escape, he would surely be sent to Wybren to face Graydynn’s justice, whatever that might be. He couldn’t remember his cousin but instinctively distrusted the man, who would doubtlessly hang him and then draw and quarter him for treason and seven deaths.
Unless you are not Carrick.
Surely Graydynn would see that you’re not the traitor.
Or are you?
He had to bear at least some resemblance to Carrick, as everyone’s reaction to him was the same: he was the killer. Even if he remembered his true identity and protested his innocence, it would be to no avail. Even if there was doubt as to his identity, because of the damned ring being found with him, he would be considered at the very least a thief.
There was more, as well.
The person who had benefitted from the fire had been Graydynn. So did it not stand to reason that Graydynn or one of his soldiers may have been behind the tragedy at Wybren? Mayhap the stableboy who had witnessed “Carrick” ride away had been paid to make the claim.
Only he could uncover the truth, and there was no time to waste. Every so often a guard, or a servant, or even the lady herself would visit his room, and if he was discovered awake, he would have no chance of escape, no opportunity to redeem himself, no way to uncover the truth.
If he were not to ferret out what really happened at Wybren, then who?
No one! You, alone, must do it.
He would start tonight. Slowly, ears straining to hear anything from the hallway on the other side of the large oaken door, he walked the perimeter of the large chamber, and as he did, his gaze swept the walls and floor. He studied the corners and where the individual stones butted against each other. Somewhere, he knew, there was another entrance to this room, a hidden doorway. Unless he’d dreamed of the man standing over him, of the quiet sound of stone scraping against stone as a secret portal opened. He’d not been able to move his head or cast his gaze about when his nocturnal visitor had arrived, but he’d been awake enough to know that whoever had hovered over him that night had made his way through a secret entrance in the corner opposing the doorway to the hall.
Carefully he lifted a rushlight from a wall sconce and held it aloft. Was he wrong? His nightmares from the pain so vivid that he believed them? Gaze inching over each stone, he scrutinized the wall and floor, touched the smooth stones and rough mortar, and found nothing.
’Twas just a dream, he decided, but the rushes on the floor caught his attention. They had been strewn randomly, straw and dried flowers scattered over the stones, but in one spot, close to the far corner of the room, they’d been pushed into a small pile, as if swept together.
Heart thudding, he knelt closer, ignoring the jab of pain that ran up his leg. He ran his fingers over the flat stones of the floor and noticed the tiniest scratch upon the surface of one large stone. Here, he thought, here is where the bastard entered. Narrowing his eyes, he focused hard on the wall above the scratch. Nothing seemed amiss.
“Damn,” he muttered but refused to give up.
Surely, if there was an entrance, it would have to be cut squarely, so that the door would move easily. And it would have to be raised ever so slightly from the floor.
In pain, he lay upon the floor directly in front of where he suspected the door to be. He closed his eyes and concentrated, and yes, he felt the slightest hint of a draft that moved beneath the area where the door should be. So where was it? How did it move?
“M’lady!” The sentry’s voice from the other side of the door.
Damn.
“I’d like to see the patient.”
“Again?” the sentry demanded.
He jumped to his feet. His knees protested and he bit down hard to keep from crying out.
There was a heart-stopping moment of silence.
He crept back to the bed.
“Now, Sir James,” Morwenna said. “And I’ll hear no argument about it.”
Then came the sound of a lock opening, and he dived into the bed, his body screaming with the effort. He managed to slip beneath the covers and close his eyes just as he sensed the door swing open.
“I’d like to be alone with him,” Morwenna ordered.
His heart was knocking so loudly, so quickly. Surely she would be able to hear it.
“Sir Alexander won’t like it.”
He forced a calm over his muscles, breathed deep through his nose.
“I’ll handle Sir Alexander, and I see no reason to have this conversation again.”
He slowly let out his breath.
There was a tense moment in which the patient could feel the guard’s indecision before he said reluctantly, “As you wish, m’lady.”
She waited a few minutes, as if giving herself time to compose herself or to make certain they were alone, and then he heard the sound of quick footsteps as she approached his bed. His every nerve ending was taut, aware of her movements as she slowly walked around his resting spot. At first she didn’t speak and it was all he could do to feign unconsciousness.
“Well, Sir Carrick,” she finally said, as if she expected him to hear her. “ ’Tis done.” A few seconds passed and he still pretended to sleep, not daring to move a muscle. She plunged onward. “As I promised, I’ve composed a letter to Lord Graydynn, though it’s still in my keeping. If I decide to send the letter and Baron Graydynn isn’t away but is actually residing at Wybren, he could know within a day’s time that you are here at Calon.” She waited as if she expected him to say something.
He concentrated on his breathing.
Sensed her stepping closer.
Her voice lowered to the barest of whispers as she inched her mouth so close to his ear that he felt the warmth of her breath slipping across his skin. “Listen, Carrick, and I pray to God that you can hear me: I know not what you did at Wybren, and even though you are a scoundrel—nay, much worse, a piece of pig dung—I find it impossible to believe that you killed your family, that you’re a murdering traitor. That is even lower than I would expect of you.”
Again the hesitation, and it was all he could do to keep his eyes shut, his body relaxed as if in slumber.
“But what happens to you next is not my decision. No matter what I believe. It is my duty to my ally to report that we’ve found you. So if you can hear me, let me know. Move your eyelids or your fingers or . . . Oh, fie and fiddlesticks!” She blew out an exasperated breat
h. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here. ’Tis a mistake.” She straightened, and he no longer felt the heat pulsing off her skin but imagined her pushing her hair away from her face in frustration. “So . . . Oh, by the gods, this is mistake. . . .”
He thought she might leave, sensed that she’d turned toward the door again, and then she abruptly wheeled and faced him. “So, damn you, if you awaken, it would be best for you if you called for me. . . .” Her voice broke and she took in a long, shuddering breath. “I should hate you and I’ve sworn that I do . . . but . . . ’tis a lie. I do not. I . . . I wish there was another choice. I wish that . . . Oh, we both know that wishes are for ninnies! Just . . . just please believe that I do what I do with a heavy heart.”
It was all he could do to lie motionless. Yet he did. And when she approached again and her lips brushed against his temple, he thought he might groan in the sweet agony of it or, worse yet, be unable to keep his arms pinned to his sides rather than pulling her down upon him.
With all his strength, he managed to remain unmoving and was able to breathe as if he were asleep. He didn’t so much as flutter an eyelid and waited, seconds ticking by, his entire body seeming to center on that tiny spot near his hairline where her warm, pliant lips touched his skin.
His pulse pounded wildly, his blood ran hot, his heart thundered in his chest. Could she not hear the pounding, nor see the jump of his vein in his throat, nor notice the beads of sweat erupting upon his skin?
He strained to appear deep in slumber, his breath coming through his lips in soft little puffs, his muscles slack, his eyes closed.
“Carrick! Can you not hear me? Please, please, awaken!” she whispered desperately against the shell of his ear.
Do not listen to her. Don’t let her see that you can hear her.
“I need to talk to you. . . . By all that is holy, Carrick, wake up,” she ordered.
When he didn’t respond, she let out an angry sigh. “I hope you rot in hell!” she vowed.
He thought she would leave then, prayed she would end this sweet torment, but instead she lingered, moving closer again, her breath racing across his skin as, once again, she leaned over him. His guts twisted. He nearly groaned. She placed her lips upon him and then slid a kiss across his bearded cheek to his mouth.
Oh, God, no!
He tensed.
Felt her breath mingle with his.
No!
Her smooth, supple mouth touched his.
How could he ignore this? The warmth that invaded his blood, the tingles that ran through his entire body, the raw pulse of need that rushed through his veins? Desperately he fought the urge to surround her in his arms, to crush his mouth against hers, to taste the salt upon her skin. . . . His groin tightened and he became so stiff he ached. Heat radiated from the innermost part of him. He refused to let his mouth respond.
As if to test him, she rimmed his still swollen lips with the tip of her tongue, and he nearly moaned aloud before she straightened, leaving his mouth tingling, his body desperate for release.
“By the saints, Carrick,” she said on a disgusted sigh, “I fear you’re doomed. If you will not waken, there is nothing I can do to save you.”
He knew his manhood was rock hard and he half expected her to throw back the covers as she had before. She didn’t. Instead her voice turned harsh as she whispered, “I swear on my mother, Lenore of Penbrooke’s, grave, if you can hear me, you son of a wild dog . . . if . . . if this is all an act . . . then you’re a worse bastard than even I imagined, and I’ll send you to Graydynn and gladly accept whatever punishment he metes out for you. If you’re pretending about this . . . this state you seem to be in and I find out, trust me, Carrick, you’ll rue the day you crossed me!” Her anger seemed to pulse through the room. “I will never forgive you!”
He reacted then. Instinctively he opened his eyes and his hands captured her wrists, holding her fast.
She gasped, startled. Her heart pounded a thousand beats a minute and she tried to pull away.
He held her as if his life depended upon it. “Help me!” he rasped, forcing the words out through vocal cords that strained. “Help me!”
“Oh, my God, you can hear me!” she cried. “Carrick, oh, God . . .”
The world spun, darkness threatened. Still he grasped her wrists.
“I cannot believe you’re awake,” she said, as if through a long tunnel. As if the effort of holding her were too much, he dropped her arms and fell back against the bed. Groaning, he tried to stay alert, to tell her . . .
“Carrick!” she cried, but he couldn’t respond. Fingers grabbed his shoulders, pulling at him. “Please, talk to me . . . oh, no . . . don’t do this. Don’t you dare do this!” she ordered.
He heard the desperation in her voice, felt her shake his shoulders roughly, but he was already drifting away, his energy spent from his earlier efforts to stand and walk, as well as the effort to deceive her. Now he was being sucked under by the blackness again, and though he fought the sensation, it had its talons dug deep into his brain.
“You bastard, do not leave me again. . . .” But he was quickly fading and she knew it. “You . . . you miserable blackheart, you deserve whatever fate decides for you!”
He felt a rush of air as she turned quickly and her footsteps pounded to the door. He heard her say something unintelligible to the guard and then shout, “God’s teeth, Dwynn, you nearly scared the liver out of me! Why are you forever lurking about?”
He caught a glimpse of a man hurrying away. Then the door slammed shut with an echoing thud. As if Morwenna were closing him out of her life forever. He felt a second’s pang of regret, and then, blissfully, he faded into unconsciousness.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
His horse was panting in the moonlit night, lather appearing upon his dark hide, his wet sides heaving as the Redeemer slid from the saddle to the near-frozen ground. His boots sank deep into the mud near the stream that ran through the forest of Calon. He cast a glance at his steed. The ride had been long and arduous and the stallion’s breath spewed out of his nostrils in twin shots of steam. The beast deserved to be walked, groomed, fed, and watered and yet there was no time.
Holding the bridle in his gloved hands, he allowed the animal a few long swallows of water from the icy brook where the water splashed over stones and cut beneath overhanging roots. Seconds later, fearful that the horse might become ill, he pulled his mount away from the rush of the water, swung up into the saddle again, and rode to a small clearing where he stared up at the battlements rising on the hillside.
This keep was not his home. Nor would it ever be. A strong fortress it was, but it was smaller than Wybren by half, the square towers not the perfectly rounded turrets that were mounted high on the walls of Wybren, the battlements of Calon not as steep. The only assets this castle had that Wybren did not were the labyrinthine secret passageways and the woman. Oh, yes, the woman. His pulse quickened at the thought of her. Morwenna. Proud. Tall and striking. A woman with intelligent blue eyes that seemed to see past his facade to the man within.
The chill of the night seeped through his hood and mantle, reaching to his bones. He thought of a warm fire, a cup of wine, and a hot, supple woman to chase the coldness from his soul, but he would have to wait. There was much to do.
Since Sir Vernon had been found, it was much more difficult to ride through the gates of Calon. He had to be careful, making sure his excuses for leaving, should they be checked, would be verified. No one in the castle doubted his need to leave, nay, it was a necessity, and yet everyone was being more closely observed since Vernon, the fat old fart, had been killed.
The Redeemer smiled as he remembered the act, the surprise on Sir Vernon’s face, the gasp of horror as he realized he was about to die, the satisfaction that came to the Redeemer as Vernon sputtered a bloody last breath.
Though killing Vernon had not been in his plan, he’d been unable to stop himself, had been pressed to find a way to service his
bloodlust. When he’d seen the single sentry rooting around in the cranny cut into the wall walk, he’d known the man would have to die. Though he hadn’t realized it, Vernon had come too close to discovering a latch for a hidden door, one the Redeemer used to make good his escapes. If the simpleminded soldier had been left up on that walk, searching for places to hide his jug, there was a chance he would stumble upon the Redeemer’s private labyrinth, and if that had been allowed to occur, all his plans would have been threatened, perhaps exposed. No other sentry had paid the slightest mind to the small little cuts in the towers and curtain wall, and the Redeemer had felt safe. Until Vernon had started poking around.
It had been necessary to stop him.
That part had been easy.
And enjoyable.
As the Redeemer remembered the exact second Vernon’s eyes had met his, the instant of fear and confusion, he felt satisfaction. The guard had recognized him and then, quick as a bolt of lightning sizzling to the ground, the Redeemer had struck with all his fury, flinging his body upon the bigger man’s back, drawing his blade and plunging it deep into his prey’s thick neck, reveling in the guard’s pathetic struggles, his flailing arms, reeling body, and finally the moment the life seeped out of him as he’d tumbled to the hard stones of the wall walk. . . .
The Redeemer had been forced to work fast, and luckily the downpour had leached the blood out of his dark cape.
In the end he’d duped them all.
Tonight, astride his mount, the Redeemer smiled to himself and felt a tingle of excitement, a thrill hasten up his spine in anticipation of his next kill.
This one would be more difficult but even more satisfying.
The wind sighed through the trees, causing dry leaves to swirl and dance and the fronds of ferns to sway. Somewhere he heard the sound of a woman’s voice intoning indecipherable words without a bit of inflection.