Payne had listened to all the rumors. He’d hoped that someone might inadvertently slip and give out new information, but he’d been disappointed. ’Twas as if the killer had appeared, killed Vernon, leaving the savage, bloody W on the big guard’s throat, and then disappeared again. He imagined that the criminal was strong, clever, and trustworthy, for Vernon had been a big man, a trained soldier who would not give up his life easily.
’Twas a mystery. Payne drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Mayhap he’d been going at this all wrong. Mayhap it wasn’t Vernon’s death on which he should concentrate. The killer wanted him to consider Wybren. Why else had Carrick’s ring been stolen and Vernon’s throat slashed so significantly? Certainly the two crimes could be linked and were most probably connected to Carrick’s brutal attack.
Was the killer trying to force Payne into examining the murders of the family of Dafydd of Wybren more closely? Seven people had been killed that night. Seven! And now the man thought to have set that fire was here, not even under lock and key.
Why had this stranger not been killed? Why left for dead only to survive? A mistake made by whomever had assaulted him? In the beaten man’s state it would have been easy enough to slip a blade between his ribs and nick his heart. He would have easily bled to death. But no . . . either the attacker had been frightened off, or he had intended for Carrick to survive, to live.
Why?
Just so he would suffer? Mayhap the killer planned to return and finish the job.
Why had a ring been stolen? And again the robbery victim not killed? Was the attacker’s purpose not to take his life? To have him sent to Wybren and face judgment? Why then not just bind him, throw him over the back of a mule, and haul his near-dead body to the gates of Wybren?
Payne frowned, took a swallow from his mazer, and decided that the stranger’s attack had something to do with Calon, with Lady Morwenna. Most of the trouble within the keep, including this latest spate of horrors, had occurred since she’d been handed the barony by her brother less than a year ago.
Why then kill Vernon?
“Bah,” he muttered into the bottom of his cup. Mayhap his theory was all wrong. Mayhap he should concentrate on those who would benefit from Carrick of Wybren’s death. Was it possible that Sir Vernon had stumbled onto something that the killer wanted to remain hidden? Overheard a conversation that might implicate someone?
He shoved the fingers of one hand through his hair, making it stand on end.
“Come to me, husband,” his wife, Sarah, called from the bedroom. A big woman with pillowy breasts, silver blond hair, and cheeks like apples, she was the one person he trusted in the world. A truer heart no one would ever find. “You’ll not solve the puzzle of Sir Vernon’s death drinking ale and staring at the embers.”
“Many a crime has been solved right here,” he countered, and she laughed that deep, throaty laugh that he’d loved for nearly twenty years.
“And many have been solved here, in the bed.”
He smiled and took another swallow of ale, feeling its tangy warmth slide down his throat. He never tired of her. Never. She’d been with child when they’d wed and he was certain, all those years ago, that she was not a woman he would want to spend the rest of his life with. But he’d been wrong.
She had known.
As she knew so many things.
She patted the bed. “A good night’s sleep will help you,” she said, and he turned, looking over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow to stare through the open doorway. He saw her half lying on her side of the mattress, the covers hiding little of her enticing breasts, her come-hither smile always tempting.
“So you’re thinking I need sleep.” He drained his cup, slammed it onto the floor, and then stood and stretched. Mayhap she was right.
“Sleep? Aye, well . . . eventually.”
“You’re a wench, Sarah.” In his stocking feet he walked into the bedroom only to stand over her when he reached the edge of their bed. The room was near dark, but he saw her. She’d aged so much in the years since their wedding. Her skin was no longer tight, lines fanning from the corners of her eyes and etching around her mouth. Her hair no longer shone with the luster of youth, yet she was still beautiful to him.
Never had he strayed. Never had he been tempted. “A wench, I say.”
“Only for you, my love.” She chuckled then, that deep, throaty sound that touched his heart and made him smile. “Every other man in this keep thinks I’ve got ice in my veins. Only you know better.”
“Fools. All of them.” He pulled off his tunic and unlaced his breeches as she watched.
“Let me,” she offered, and the covers slipped away as she reached forward, her fingertips lithely loosening the leather laces.
A tiny smile played at her lips as she met his gaze. She reached into his breeches with warm, knowing fingers. “I think we might not get much sleep tonight, Sheriff,” she teased, moving her fingers up his chest to tangle in the gray hairs that sprouted there.
Weary as he was, he didn’t care.
He had to leave.
Now that Morwenna knew he was awake, that she suspected he’d heard her desperate confession and angry rantings, now that she was determined to contact Lord Graydynn, Carrick had to find a way to escape.
He was about to search the passageways again when he heard the laundresses arrive. He recognized their voices as they flirted and teased Sir James in the hallway before stepping into Carrick’s chamber.
“So no one knows who killed Sir Vernon,” one woman was saying as she changed the bedclothes on which he slept.
Killed Sir Vernon? The sentry who had been at his doorway? The deep-voiced man who had argued with Morwenna and had subsequently been relieved of his duty? Vernon was the man who had been slain?
He’d heard some of the guards talking but hadn’t been able to make out their conversation, and though he’d sensed a change in the atmosphere, he hadn’t understood what had happened.
He waited impatiently, silently hoping the gossiping hens would give him more information.
“Nor does the sheriff have any idea who took the ring,” the other woman with a high-pitched, wheedling voice agreed.
Deft hands moved him with practiced ease. He risked lifting an eyelid and saw a woman wearing a scarf wound tightly over her large head. Her face was fleshy, her lips curved in upon themselves, her movements brusque and practiced. The other woman was a birdlike thing with frizzy brown hair, fair skin, and dark eyes. She tossed the dirty bedclothes into a basket and snapped the fresh linens out of their folds.
“If ye ask me, there’s been nothing but trouble in this keep since this one”—the larger woman tapped the side of the bed—“was dragged in here. I’m beginnin’ to believe what Isa says, that he’s cursed.”
Cursed?
“I just don’t know why the lady keeps him here, him being a murderer and all,” she continued.
“So ye believe that he truly is Carrick of Wybren.”
“Who else? Look at him. Now that he’s healing, it’s more obvious than ever. The lady, she knows it, too. She is finally sending word to Lord Graydynn.” She clucked her tongue. “Such a waste. A handsome man, son of a baron. What would make him do such a thing?”
“Money or a woman,” the birdlike maid said. “Unless he’s just plain mad, there is no other reason. And I’ve never heard it said that Carrick of Wybren was out of his mind. Treacherous, aye. A blackheart who had an eye for the ladies. Mayhap even mercenary, but mad? Never.”
“And yet seven people were killed—eight, if ye throw in Sir Vernon. This man here—Carrick of bloody Wybren—is a murderin’ bastard, and the sooner the lady sends him to Lord Graydynn, the better. Maybe then we can all rest easy again; maybe then this curse will be lifted.”
Quickly, as if spurred by their own words, they finished their job and left him alone in the clean bed.
Until this moment he had accepted the fact that he was Carrick. The name was familiar,
and mention of Wybren brought back memories. Surely he’d been there. Lived there. Was he the vile bastard? In his mind’s eye he saw a huge keep with round towers and turrets, a wide inner bailey, sweeping fields, and a moat that ran from the river and surrounded most of the castle. His head pounded as he remembered pages shouting near the quintain, an old farrier bending horseshoes, the huntsmen returning with stag and boar and pheasant through a portcullis that yawned wide . . . or had it all been a dream?
Nay . . . his family had lived there. . . . He saw faces, a large, swaggering father and a milder, hard-lipped woman who was his wife . . . his own mother? His jaw tightened as he tried to draw up the images, but they were unfocused and skittered in and out of his mind, just as did his name.
What about Morwenna? Did you know her?
His throat went dry at the thought of her. How could he forget her with her heart-shaped face, smooth skin, and curling ebony hair? In the few moments he’d seen her, he’d noticed her eyes, a deep, dark blue and quick with intelligence, surrounded by a sweep of black lashes and eyebrows that arched in interest or doubt. In those fleeting instances she’d spent in his room, she’d displayed violent changes in temperament. She’d been wildly passionate, filled with despair, blazing with hot fury, or coldly determined. She’d sworn at him, accused him of all kinds of vile acts, and yet she had kissed him with tenderness and longing, an ache and heat he’d felt himself.
And in their few, brief meetings he understood one truth: Morwenna of Calon was still in love with Carrick.
Christ Jesus, if he could only talk to her, plead his case, ask her forgiveness.
For what?
What sins have you committed?
Do you think you truly are this horrendous monster who is capable of destroying his entire family?
No! he silently raged. Impossible!
His fists curled impotently and he heard her voice, soft and low, instructing the guard to let her inside.
His heart sank.
He would never be able to keep up this pretense. She knew that he could hear, could speak.
A key turned in the lock and he braced himself, every muscle straining.
He recognized her scent: Morwenna.
Whoring wench!
The Redeemer had watched as Morwenna slipped out of her room. She’d bathed and washed her hair, then nearly fallen asleep in the tub, her breasts rimmed by the soapy water, her dark nipples puckering as the temperature in the room chilled.
Oh, to suckle from her. To touch her. To rim his tongue over each little bud and to bite down . . . He’d let out a low moan at the thought, and her damned dog had looked up, barked, and growled.
Morwenna had suddenly roused, wrapped a towel around herself, and, following the dog’s lead, looked upward to the very place he stood. Her eyebrows had knotted, her lips flattening in anger. She’d stared hard, as if she could actually see the narrow, nearly invisible slits, and then said, “What did you hear?” to the stupid, mangy mutt. She then quickly donned a scarlet tunic and cinched it with a silvery belt.
Still eyeing the wall suspiciously, she’d started combing out her hair near the fire when a sharp knock registered on the door. Morwenna had visibly started as the dog charged to the door to bark and snarl crazily, all the while wagging its fool tail. What a useless creature.
Gladdys, that little goose of a maid, had announced herself before entering. Then, sending the mutt a glance suggesting she’d like nothing better than to kick him over the castle wall, she had helped Morwenna finish drying her tangled loose curls.
Disgruntled, the speckled beast had growled but settled into a ball on the bed again.
Nearly two hours later, after dismissing the serving maid, trying and failing at sleep, Morwenna had climbed out of bed, thrown on a long black robe, cinched it around her slim waist, and made her way to the prisoner’s chamber. And make no mistake, the man in the bedroom across the hall was a captive. Lady Morwenna could lie to herself and call him what she would, a guest, a visitor, or a patient, but the man was a hostage, held in a room, awaiting judgment.
Which was only fitting, the Redeemer thought, smiling to himself. Silently he had followed Morwenna’s movements, knowing with instinctive, gut-burning clarity where she would turn. Deftly, he had padded through the narrow passageways and waited, only to see her appear in the patient’s chamber.
The Redeemer’s back teeth clenched as he studied her.
Innocently seductive.
Intelligently alluring.
Her gaze centered on the unmoving man on the bed.
With naked fascination, he observed her every move, heard the low whisper of her voice, and felt the hate pulsing through his veins.
He should have killed the man when he had the chance, should have heeded his baser instincts rather than enjoying the wait, drawing out the pain, seeking satisfaction in a judgment yet to be passed.
He licked his lips and reached for the dagger strapped at his waist. A few seconds alone with the man and he would send him straight to hell.
Patience! his mind screamed. You’ve worked too hard, spent too much time planning what will come.
He’d lingered much too long already. And he couldn’t take a chance that he would be missed.
You must leave. Now!
If you are discovered missing, all will be lost.
Every muscle in his body tensed. Blood thrummed in his ears. Silently and furiously he lifted his fist, clenching the knife until his knuckles showed white as he wordlessly railed against the gods while he stared unblinkingly through the gap in the stones. He watched her step farther into the beaten man’s chamber, walking without so much as a second’s hesitation to the cur’s bed.
What torment to witness her in another man’s chamber, observe the interest in her eyes as she approached his bed.
Curse your soul, Carrick of Wybren. May you rot in the fires of hell for all eternity.
There was a noise from the hallway outside the chamber—no doubt the changing of the guard. He’d tarried much too long as it was, and though he was fascinated with the scene unfolding in the chamber below, he had to force himself away from his viewing area.
There was a chance he’d waited too long.
Mayhap he should just kill the cur and be done with it.
His pulse jumped in anticipation of the deed. His fingers itched to plunge a dagger into the bastard’s heart.
No one would know. He could steal into the chamber and quickly do the deed. . . . No one would find his hidden door.
Or would they?
Control, take control of yourself. You have chosen a path—now follow it!
But how much longer could he stand this agony? This wretched, soul-jarring knowledge that she lusted after another man, a traitor no less?
In time, she will see the truth. Realize that it is you she loves, that you and she are destined to be together. Do not stray. Keep to your plan and now, before ’tis too late, leave!
Teeth gnashing, he released his stranglehold on the blade and jabbed it into his pocket. He took one last glance through the slits in the wall and then silently crept from his hiding spot.
But he would return.
This night.
After he had made certain no one had missed him.
And if she gave herself to the bastard, he would watch every excruciating moment.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“So, Carrick,” Morwenna said, staring at the wounded man and trying to imagine what he looked like without his bruises. His swelling had receded and beneath his beard she noticed the shape of sharp cheekbones and an angled jaw. His forehead was only slightly discolored now, dark hair falling to his eyes. “The deed is done. At dawn, Father Daniel, Graydynn’s brother, will ride to Wybren with the news of your discovery.”
She watched for any sign that he heard her and found no indication that he was awake. She believed that he fell in and out of consciousness, that at times he knew exactly what was going on while at other times he wa
s unaware of anything. He rarely reacted when touched by the physician or maids in his attendance, and yet she’d seen his eyes open, viewed his erect manhood, heard him whisper another woman’s name. He’d shrunken since arriving, what little gruel and broth had been forced over his lips unable to sustain him, and yet he hung on, if not thriving, then at least sustaining.
“I know you can hear me,” she said with conviction, though she was lying through her teeth. “And I can prove it.” She glanced to the fire, where the embers glowed a soft red. “A coal upon your chest should do the trick. Or the touch of the poker after it’s sat for a time in the flames.” She was walking around his bed, eyeing him, wondering what it would take to wake him. “You asked for my help once; now ’tis your last chance.”
She touched him on the shoulder and then gasped as his eyes opened suddenly and he stared at her from the bed. Her hand flew to her mouth. “You can hear, you miserable slime!” Her pulse was pounding in her brain, her nerves stretched to the breaking point.
“Sometimes,” he admitted, his voice a rasp.
“And so you let me rail on and on last night!” she said, embarrassed at her admissions. “Have you no shred of decency?”
“Apparently not.”
“What?”
“It seems every person in this keep, including you, is convinced that I’m a traitor, a murderer, a thief, and God knows what else.”
She took a step forward, and the question that had been keeping her awake at night sprang from her lips. “Are you Carrick of Wybren?”
“I don’t know.”
“Answer me,” she demanded.
“I wish I could,” he said, and there was something in his tone that made her want to believe him.
“What are you saying?”
“That I don’t remember.”
“Oh, fie and fiddlesticks! You expect me to believe that you can lie there on the bed, talk to me, and make sense, and then believe that you know not who you are?”