Temptress

  Graydynn’s eyes narrowed on Theron. “So you brought allies with you?”

  “Nay.”

  “I come from Calon!” Dwynn said, nodding his head frantically.

  “He seems to disagree,” Graydynn pointed out.

  “He may have followed me, but I knew nothing of it.”

  “I come alone. There—there is trouble in the keep!” Dwynn said, his gaze meeting Theron’s for a second before dropping to the floor again. “She needs help.”

  “Who?” Theron demanded, but he knew. Morwenna’s image cut through Theron’s mind. His blood turned to ice. “What kind of trouble?” he asked, his heart thudding at the thought that she might be hurt, or worse.

  “She—”

  “The lady? Morwenna?”

  Dwynn nodded. “She’s in danger.”

  “How?”

  “The brother,” Dwynn said, but still he wouldn’t meet Theron’s gaze. He bit his lip and acted as if he was giving up a great secret and was afraid he would be punished for it.

  “Carrick,” Theron guessed tightly. “Carrick has returned?”

  But Dwynn turned mute suddenly and wouldn’t say another word.

  “Tell me!” Theron demanded, grabbing the smaller man by the shoulders. “Damn it, Dwynn!”

  “The brother!”

  It was useless. Frantic, Theron turned his attention to Benjamin. “I need five men and fresh horses. To ride to Calon.”

  Ten soldiers stepped forward.

  “Good.” He was thinking fast, already making plans, and he noticed Graydynn searching the faces of the men who hadn’t volunteered. He said to his cousin, “I’ll take care of my brother, Graydynn, worry not. But in the meantime I think your idea of the dungeon is a good one. I suggest you spend the night there and consider what you’ve done.”

  “I did nothing,” Graydynn protested. “You can’t . . .” His gaze swept the room, his words dying in his throat as he counted all the men who seemed more than willing to carry out Theron’s wishes.

  “No?” Theron’s smile was cold as ice. “Then, Lord Graydynn, you have no fear of retribution or of being punished, do you?” He slid a glance at Sir Benjamin and added, “Lock him away.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Redeemer fingered his knife.

  He was ready.

  Anxious.

  His nerves stretched to the breaking point.

  From his hiding spot behind the curtain in the balcony, he’d observed as Carrick was captured and dragged into the great hall, only to learn that the cur was really Theron.

  The Redeemer’s insides curdled at that thought. He’d always assumed that Theron had died in the fire, and it made him feel unworthy to know that not only Carrick but now also Theron had escaped the blaze meant to wipe out the entire house of Wybren.

  But now he did know the truth and that knowledge gave him power. Insight.

  Worse yet, though, had been witnessing Dwynn, that idiot, as he’d been hauled into the great hall and inanely blathered things he should have kept to himself. To think that all the Redeemer’s carefully laid plans could be undone by that pathetic half-wit was irritating beyond reason. Dwynn, too, would have to pay the ultimate price.

  Now Theron and his group of soldiers were on their way to Calon. Another irritation. One he would have to deal with. But first, Graydynn.

  He’d managed to sneak from the balcony and down several flights to the dungeons—a horrible, dank place where only pestilence and despair could breed. The cells were, for the most part, uninhabited aside from the rodents, insects, and snakes that crept and slithered through the rusted bars of the jail. Water dripped somewhere, and the scents of mold, urine, dirt, and rotting straw mingled into an odor that burned one’s nostrils.

  But he wouldn’t have to stay long. As soon as Graydynn was behind bars, he’d sneak up to the unsuspecting guard, drive his blade between the man’s ribs to his heart, and then unlock the door. Graydynn would assume he was being freed. Only when Graydynn attempted to step out of the cell would he understand. For then he would feel the blade at his throat and within seconds he would be slain, a perfect W carved into his lying throat.

  From his hiding spot, the Redeemer felt a tremor of excitement race through him; the warm buzz of anticipation made his pulse beat hard. He ran the pad of his thumb over the razor-sharp edge of his blade and waited, listening.

  Within minutes the sounds of boots tromping down the stairs reached his ears. Along with the heavy footsteps, he also heard Graydynn ranting, proclaiming his innocence, offering bribes of money, women, or anything the guard so desired.

  Oh, it was good to hear him barter for his life. To plead with the guard. To make promises that he couldn’t possibly keep. To know the fear and frustration of losing everything he’d thought he’d earned.

  Chains rattled, a rusted key turned in the lock, and in the dim illumination of two rushlights, the Redeemer witnessed Graydynn’s final mortification as he was cast into the stinking, dingy jail.

  Graydynn whimpered and then shouted out obscenities.

  He never knew that he should be sending up prayers for his soul.

  To the Redeemer’s amazement, the guard locked the cell door and then left, hanging the ring of keys on a hook set into the wall near the staircase.

  “You’re not leaving me down here! You can’t!”

  The guard turned, looked Graydynn square in the face, and then spat on the floor. A second later his heavy tread thudded as he climbed up the stairs.

  “Bloody hell! You can’t leave me down here!” Graydynn, frantic, held on to the bars and shook them wildly. “I command you to set me free!” he ordered. “Sir Michael! Come back down here! Sir Michael!” Graydynn drew in a long breath and kicked at the floor, sending something, a piece of bone or a dirt clod or a rock, sailing into the wall, where it hit with a hard thud. “Damn it all to hell!” Graydynn raged.

  The Redeemer almost smiled. He heard a door above close and then no other sound but the prisoner’s rantings. Stepping away from the shadows, he moved into the weak light.

  So caught up in his fury was he, Graydynn didn’t see his approach until he was nearly at the cell.

  “Who are you?” he asked, startled, eyeing him in the darkness.

  “I’m here to help.”

  “Well, you can bloody well start by unlocking the damned door.” With both hands, Graydynn shoved his hair from his eyes. “I can’t believe this! Locked down here like a common criminal! Can you hurry it up a bit?”

  The Redeemer nodded and walked to the staircase to retrieve the keys. As he did, he slid his knife from its sheath with his other hand.

  Graydynn didn’t notice.

  All he saw was the key ring and freedom.

  The Redeemer considered toying with him, taking his time, even teasing the would-be lord of the keep, but he thought better of it, for he needed to return to Calon and the hours to dawn were waning.

  He inserted first one key into the lock and turned.

  Nothing happened.

  “Christ Jesus, must you be so slow?” Graydynn growled.

  Another key.

  Still no opening click.

  “Give me the key ring, you idiot!” Graydynn said and snatched the heavy circle from his hand. One after another he tried the keys, and when at last the lock clicked open and he pushed open the door, the Redeemer was waiting.

  Graydynn stepped past him. The Redeemer grabbed hold of the man’s hair, pulling back his head and carving a quick, neat W across his throat before Graydynn opened his mouth to scream.

  “I’m sorry, m’lady,” Brother Thomas said as they searched the solar one last time. “Mayhap when it’s light out we’ll find something, but I fear we’ll discover nothing tonight—mayhap not at all.”

  Morwenna wasn’t about to give up, but she could tell that the old man was already overly tired. The dark smudges beneath his eyes were more pronounced and he was slowing down. Worse yet, they’d been searching for h
ours and had discovered nothing.

  “You’ve done all you can, Brother Thomas,” she said, her eyes noticing the first light of dawn creeping over the eastern hills. ’Twas morn again, the roosters already giving up their raucous cry, the sentry in the watchtower blowing his hunting horn, signifying the changing of the guard. “Have Cook give you some porridge, blood pudding, or finch pie before you go back to your room.”

  “Mayhap,” he said softly, his old eyes glinting at the mention of food.

  As he started to turn toward the door, Morwenna touched him lightly on the arm. “You need not spend all your time up there. I would find you a warm place with a fire and a mattress for your cot.”

  “Nay, child,” he said with a faint smile, “but thank you. Now, get some rest.”

  Rest! ’Twas the last thing she could do. Already the castle was stirring and she had much to do.

  She saw the old monk to the kitchen, where one of the pages promised to walk him back to the tower after feeding him some of Cook’s mutton stew. Morwenna then returned to her room, splashed water over her face, and renewed her determination to find the secret rooms.

  They could be just the idle thoughts of a half-addled old man, she reminded herself. Toweling her face, she shook her head. She still believed him. In the hours she’d spent with the monk, he’d been clearheaded and had barely repeated himself. He insisted that his grandfather had created a hidden series of passageways.

  There was one room they had not yet checked, but now, with the morning light, it was time to search it as well. Besides, she wanted to speak to her sister. Mort, who had been sleeping curled on the bed, lifted his head when she passed, and then thumped his tail as she petted his head. He promptly returned to snoozing, having tagged after her most of the night.

  “I don’t blame you,” she admitted, eyeing the bed and thinking it would be heaven to sleep for a few hours. Just not yet. She’d made promises that she herself would ride at dawn to search for Alexander and Payne; she would have to tell Sarah of the meeting last night with two of Carrick’s men.

  Carrick!

  The betrayer.

  Why had he wanted to bargain for her men’s release? Was it for money? But no ransom had been demanded from the two lying dogs he’d sent inside. Mayhap she should have thrown them in the dungeon, but she’d been afraid Carrick would slit Alexander’s and Payne’s throats.

  Her heart nose-dived.

  Mayhap they are already dead. If the thugs return, demand proof that the men are alive.

  She wouldn’t think that way, wouldn’t believe it. Not yet. Nor would she think that something dire had happened to the other people missing in the keep, though if the physician, priest, and Dwynn didn’t appear today, she would search the town herself.

  She rapped upon Bryanna’s door and waited.

  No answer.

  “Bryanna?” she called, knocking more loudly, as sometimes the girl slept like the dead. “Bryanna, I need to speak with you.” Again she waited, then pounded again. When there was no sound of her sister’s footsteps, Morwenna shoved open the door. “Bother and broomsticks, Bryanna, wake up. I know you’re grieving about poor Isa, but—”

  Inside the room was cold. Empty. The bed without a wrinkle.

  Morwenna’s heart pounded crazily. Her sister had to be in here, had to! But she searched. The room was smaller than her own with but a tiny alcove by the fireplace, where shelves had been built. Her sister wasn’t under her bed. Nay, she wasn’t in the room. But she had to be!

  Morwenna rushed to the window. It was high, but could be reached if one pulled one’s self up, and it was large enough for someone of Bryanna’s size to escape through it. The ledge was wide and solid but the drop was steep, three stories down. Morwenna peered outside to the misting dawn and the bailey far below. No ropes dangled from the ledge. Even if a person was foolish enough to jump to the soft, muddy ground, she would risk serious and almost certain injury, if not death. No, Bryanna had not leapt out the window.

  Morwenna gazed around the room helplessly. Bryanna had to have left by way of the door. Had her sister sneaked away, unable to deal with the tragedies and pain that had occurred in the keep? But where would she run? To Penbrooke?

  Had she been kidnapped?

  Morwenna’s stomach clenched. The hairs on the backs of her arms lifted. Had Bryanna, sweet sister, suffered the same fate as Isa and Vernon? Had the monster taken her and sliced her young throat?

  “Oh, God,” Morwenna whispered, her knees threatening to give out. She looked up at the ceiling. Had the same killer who had struck before been watching?

  She flew toward the door, but as she was about to run into the hallway she nearly collided with a man entering Bryanna’s room. She would have screamed, would have yelled for the guards, but her throat failed her as she stared into the eyes of her old lover.

  Her hand flew to her mouth and she felt as if she’d been tossed back to another time, another place.

  Carrick of Wybren was before her. There was no doubt in her mind. Nowhere was there a scar or bruise upon his face, no evidence of a nose that had been broken, just the same blue eyes she remembered from three years past.

  “Don’t say a word,” he ordered. He shut the door behind him with a distinct thud. Morwenna’s heart thundered painfully. Her mind scattered.

  “But . . . you’re not the man . . . we found. You . . . you’ve suffered not a beating?”

  “Shh . . .” he said, and though he held a sword in front of him, she felt no fear of him.

  “Who was he?” she whispered, her world spinning when she thought of the wounded, scarred man, how she’d lain with him, trusted him, believed him to be the very man standing before her—the very strong, unbruised warrior she’d known before. “Who was he?”

  “My brother.”

  “They all died in the fire,” she protested, but the resemblance between the two men was unmistakable.

  “Not Theron.”

  Morwenna struggled to take it all in. “Theron? Alena’s husband?” she said, remembering the woman’s name on the wounded man’s lips, the name he called in his delirium. She felt as if she might collapse. Theron. Did he know? Had he lied to her? Pretended to be Carrick?

  What had he said? In an instant she recalled his confession:

  “I know not if I’ve ever taken a man’s life . . . and there are pieces of memory . . . a rage that flows through my blood, but I swear on all that is holy, I did not slay my family. Nor do I believe I would ever have left you. With or without a child.”

  She swallowed hard as shock gave way to rage. “Where is he? Theron . . . where is he?”

  “I know not. I thought he was here with you.”

  “You beat him, left him for dead!”

  “No!” Carrick’s eyes glinted. “I made a mistake. He’d been in the service of the king, far away, using a name that was not his own, and I found out that he’d returned and was riding to Wybren. Already everyone thought I’d killed my family, and Theron, too, believed so. I knew that he would cause a new interest in the fire and that I’d be hunted again, as I was just afterwards.”

  “You set the fire.”

  “I did not!” he swore, his eyes flashing, his lips curling in disgust that she would think such a thing. “I told my men to stop him, and they . . . they took it too far. By the time I arrived, he was nearly dead.”

  “And you left him?”

  He nodded, his chin sliding to one side.

  “That’s as good as murdering him.”

  He drew in a long breath. “I’ve done much in my life I’m not proud of, Morwenna. As for Theron, I heard the hunters, knew they would find him. He had no chance with me, living in the forest, but if he was brought here, to the keep, he had a chance, albeit a sorry one, to survive. I took off my ring and forced it onto his finger, knowing that you . . . you would try to help him.”

  “And if he died, everyone would assume he was you and that you’d gotten what you deserved, that you had
been punished for murdering your family. You would allow that to happen? And then what? Did you not think people would still recognize you?”

  “I hoped that Theron would survive.”

  “To be tried as a killer? To take the blame for your crimes?”

  “I did not kill my family!” he swore again. “I did not know that when Theron awoke, if he awoke, he would not have his memory!”

  “So that was just convenient. How did you know that he could not remember? Oh!” She inhaled sharply. “You have spies in my keep.” She recalled all the times she’d heard people whispering, seen looks exchanged, felt unseen eyes upon her—and all the time it was Carrick!

  “There are men who would take a coin for information,” he admitted, and she thought first of the potter—a crafty, nosy man whom she didn’t trust. Yet he was only one of several.

  “So your spies have been walking through the secret hallways of this keep?” she challenged.

  “Secret hallways?”

  “Do not pretend that you don’t know about the hidden chambers, the secret portals, the corridors within corridors that run throughout Calon.” She was guessing, but he did not know that.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The means by which your spies slunk through this keep!”

  For once Carrick appeared tongue-tied.

  “You deny knowing about them?”

  “I deny that they exist,” he said, baffled. “I’ve had spies here for nearly a year and never have I heard of these . . . passages you speak of.”

  She stared at him and didn’t know what to believe. He seemed genuinely lost, but she knew he was a consummate actor. Had he not pretended to love her? Had she not believed him that summer that seemed so long ago?