Temptress

  “Will he live?” Morwenna asked and glanced down at one hand where the knuckles were cut and had bled, two fingernails nearly missing.

  “ ’Tis too early to tell,” Nygyll said with a deep frown. He ran experienced hands along the stranger’s limbs. “I think none of his bones have been broken aside from ribs, which may have cracked.” The physician’s thick eyebrows knotted, his eyes narrowing. “ ’Tis hard to believe, with the extent of his wounds, but again, too early to tell. If he rouses, we’ll see if he can use his arms or legs.”

  Nygyll lifted one of the man’s hands. As Isa had stated, a ring encircled a dirty finger. It winked in the candlelight, and Morwenna’s mouth went dry at the sight of the crest etched into the gold. Her heart jolted . . . and a memory, as clear as ice, cut through her brain. . . .

  It had been over three years past. Summer. They’d been riding and had stopped near a mountain stream. Carrick, nineteen and already a blackheart, had plucked a wild rose and handed it to her. One irreverent eyebrow had risen and a smile had toyed at the corners of his mouth as, with a flourish, he’d given her the bloom. She’d felt it then, that if she took the flower, she would pay a price, yet she’d gladly accepted the red-petaled gift and cut her finger on a thorn hidden beneath a smooth green leaf.

  “Ouch!”

  “Ah, m’lady,” Carrick had mocked, “one must always be careful. That which appears most innocent ofttimes proves to be the most deadly.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” she’d asked as he’d lifted her finger to his lips and sucked the drop of blood that had appeared upon her skin. She’d caught sight of the ring then, not for the first time, as it glinted in the hot summer sun. “Do you now want to speak in silly riddles?” His mouth was warm, the tip of his tongue gentle and wet as it touched her tiny wound. She felt a tingle that ran up her arm and down her body to settle deep in that moist, most intimate part of her.

  “ ’Tis not silly. ’Tis true.” Again the knowing lift of a dark eyebrow even as his teeth had brushed against her fingertip.

  Something warm and hot unwound within her, and fearful lest she fall into a deeper state of wanting, she yanked her finger away only to see the flash of his deadly smile and the sparkle of amusement in his clear blue eyes.

  “Afraid?” he’d taunted.

  “Of you?” she’d thrown back at him, baiting him as she stepped closer. “Nay, Carrick, just careful.”

  His laugh had been rich and full, echoing off the canyons and ricocheting through Morwenna’s heart. She’d fallen in love with the blasphemous beast soon thereafter.

  “M’lady?”

  Morwenna blinked, suddenly conscious that Alexander had addressed her. Father Daniel’s whispered prayers had ceased and everyone attending the weakened man seemed to be staring in her direction.

  “Excuse me,” she said, clearing her throat and feeling heat steal up her cheeks, as if everyone within the keep could read her thoughts. “What is it?”

  The captain of the guard said softly, “If I may, I would like a word with you.”

  “Yes. Of course. Come. To the solar,” she said and quickly motioned him up the stairs. “Do not move this man,” she ordered the physician, “until I return or send word otherwise.”

  “As you wish.” Nygyll barely looked up as he cleaned a particularly nasty wound above one of his patient’s swollen eyes.

  She hastened up the stairs with Alexander at her heels and was grateful to get away from the wounded stranger with his horribly battered body, tattered clothes, and disturbing ring.

  The solar was a large room that could be reached from the hallway or her private bedchamber, and as she entered, one of the serving girls who had cleaned out the ashes and relit the fire bustled out.

  “M’lady,” she said, bowing her head as Morwenna passed. “Is there anything else I can do for ye?”

  “Aye, Fyrnne, if you could bring the captain and me some warm wine, ’twould take off the chill.”

  The serving girl offered a gap-toothed smile. Springy red hair surrounded a face splashed with freckles. “I’ll bring it up right away,” she said and scurried off down the hall, her skirts rustling the fresh rushes she’d strewn upon the floor.

  “You wanted to speak to me,” Morwenna prodded as the captain of the guard hung near the door. “Please, take a seat.” She motioned to the two chairs near the fire and settled into one of them. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “ ’Tis the prisoner,” he said and reluctantly, it appeared, took a seat as the fire crackled and spit, offering golden light that played upon his rough-hewn features. A big man with a crooked nose and dark, anxious eyes, he’d been a part of Calon, one of the servants and soldiers she’d inherited with the keep.

  “What about him? And remember, Sir Alexander, until I’m certain that he’s our enemy, I shall consider him a guest.”

  “That could be a mistake, m’lady.” His thick fingers rubbed the hilt of his sword nervously, tracing the intricate carving on the weapon’s handle.

  “Why?”

  “Mayhap we should consider him an enemy until he proves otherwise.”

  “You think he’s dangerous?”

  “Aye.”

  “But he’s near death.” She tapped a finger on the worn arm of the chair and tried not to think that the man could be Carrick. Nay, that was impossible. “I doubt he’ll harm anyone.”

  “ ’Tis never a sin to be careful,” he said, and Carrick’s own warning, issued on the summer breeze so long ago, again teased her mind. “One must always be careful. That which appears most innocent ofttimes proves to be the most deadly.”

  Alexander’s dark gaze touched hers, and not for the first time did she notice something in those brown eyes, something he quickly disguised as he glanced away.

  A sharp rap on the door broke the uncomfortable silence. “ ’Tis Fyrnne, m’lady,” a soft voice called.

  “Come in, please.”

  “The cook, he thought ye might like a little nibble as well.” Carrying a wide tray, the servant bustled in. She set the tray upon the small table between Morwenna and the captain of the guard.

  “Ah, thank you,” Morwenna said as Fyrnne left a basket of warm bread and small dishes of jellied eggs, salted eel, and baked apples. Morwenna’s stomach grumbled as she offered Alexander a cup. “That will be all, Fyrnne.”

  “As ye wish.”

  Once Fyrnne slipped outside the door, Morwenna turned her gaze onto the captain of the guard. “Now, tell me, Alexander. You think the man downstairs is dangerous. Why?”

  “He was found not far from the castle, hidden in a copse of trees that overlook the road to the rear gate.”

  “And beaten within an inch of his life. Did he have any weapons upon him?”

  “Aye, a dagger strapped to one leg, within his boot. And a sword.”

  “Sheathed?”

  “Aye.”

  “Was there any blood upon it?”

  Alexander shook his head and took a swallow from his cup. “Nay.”

  “So he did not even defend himself from this attack?”

  “Not with a weapon that we can determine. The sheriff and some of his men are searching the area near the spot where the man was found.”

  “For others?”

  “To try to learn what happened.”

  “Was he robbed?”

  “Not of his weapons, nor of his ring, but he had no horse nor cart nor purse upon him, so, aye, he could have been.”

  She plopped a jellied egg into her mouth and ignored the pounding of her pulse as she chewed. The man downstairs may be Carrick. Were there not rumors that he had escaped the blaze that had taken the lives of his family? Was there not gossip that a stableboy had seen him ride off? Had it not been conjectured that Carrick himself had started the fatal blaze? Why? What reason would cause him to kill his entire family? It was certainly not to inherit the keep, as he had let everyone think himself dead. No one had seen him in over a year, since the rumor sp
read by the stableboy.

  Until now.

  “It seems to me we should fear those who besieged this man rather than the man himself.”

  Alexander studied the contents of his mazer before looking directly at her. “He wears the ring of Wybren.”

  Her heart nearly froze. “So I saw, but Wybren is not our enemy.”

  “There is much amiss at Wybren.”

  So there was. Everyone who noticed the ring would remember the blaze that ravaged Wybren Keep a year ago last Christmas Eve and the accusations that Baron Graydynn, now lord of the castle, had done little to squelch. “You are speaking of the fire?”

  “It killed at least seven people. Nearly every member of the baron Dafydd’s family, including his wife, five children, and his daughter-in-law. The only one who escaped was his son Carrick. And there is talk that it was murder.”

  She fingered her mazer of wine. “You think Carrick set the fire, murdered his family, rode away, disappeared for over a year, and now, somehow, lies battered upon a table downstairs in the great hall?”

  “ ’Tis possible.” Alexander had been reaching for a piece of eel but stopped, his hand hovering over the platter.

  “But not probable. Why would he do it? Why kill his family and disappear?”

  “I know not. Mayhap he had a grudge.”

  “Against his entire family? There were seven bodies accounted for. Seven,” she reminded him as well as herself. “Sir Carrick somehow escaped the blaze—or . . . or so it seems. But there is no evidence he is the one who set the fire. The man downstairs either stole the ring on his finger or someone placed it there.” She finished her wine and wiped her lips with a linen napkin. Her fingers were shaking. “Why don’t you take me to the place where he was found? In the meantime, have him transferred to Tadd’s room across the hallway.” Tadd was her brother but rarely visited, for which Morwenna was usually grateful, but today she would have sought solace in his counsel, disrespectful though it may be. “You may post a guard at the man’s door, but we will treat him as a guest until we find reason to think he is a foe.”

  “But, m’lady—”

  She gazed at him sharply and felt her chin hike upward, the way it involuntarily did each time anyone dared defy her or insinuated that because she was a female she was any less a leader than a man would be.

  Alexander caught the gesture. “As you wish.”

  “I’ll get my mantle and meet you at the stables. Tell the stable master to ready my horse.”

  He looked about to protest but set down his cup and nodded before quickly exiting the room.

  Morwenna let out her breath. She brushed her fingers clean of crumbs and slipped into the next chamber. Closing the door, she tried to dismiss thoughts that the wounded stranger downstairs might be Carrick. ’Twas a foolish notion, as she’d so recently told Sir Alexander. She glanced at her bed and remembered her vivid dream, the heat and lust, the wanting and desire, and then waking to the feeling that she’d been observed as she’d writhed on the bedclothes. Another silly thought. Aye, Castle Calon was an intricate keep, one with many sets of stairs and hallways, some of which she had yet to explore, but no one was lurking in the shadows, watching her from gloomy corners. ’Twas only her too-fertile imagination running away with her again.

  She slid on a warm mantle, pulled her gloves on with her teeth, then dashed down the curved staircase to the great hall, where soldiers were lifting the wounded man onto a stretcher.

  He let out a moan as his body was shifted and for a second she thought his swollen eyelids might flutter open, but he only groaned and didn’t waken as soldiers raised the stretcher from the table.

  “Will he survive?” she asked the physician.

  Nygyll shook his head and wiped his bloody, wet hands upon a towel. “ ’Tis doubtful. He is in a sorry state. Too many wounds. He appears strong, but it will take much fortitude for him to prevail. He will have to want to survive.”

  “ ’Tis in God’s hands now,” the priest added, making the sign of the cross over his own chest and shaking his head, as if in judgment of the poor soul lying before him.

  “Then I guess I have little to fear if he’s inside the keep,” Morwenna said. The priest turned to leave, but Morwenna placed her hand upon his arm. “Father, a minute, please,” she said, and the priest’s icy gaze met hers. Quickly she dropped her hand. “The man wears a ring with the crest of Wybren.” She noticed a barely perceptible tightening of the priest’s lips. “The crest of your brother Graydynn’s keep. The crest of the keep where your uncle Dafydd’s family died.”

  The priest said nothing.

  “There is . . . Some are concerned that the wounded man is Carrick. Your cousin.”

  “The traitor.”

  “So it’s said.”

  Father Daniel’s gaze followed the soldiers hauling the stranger upstairs. “Oh, it’s more than said. It’s the truth.”

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No more than did you,” the priest said, and she could only catch her breath. “You knew him, did you not?”

  “Aye, but—”

  “It is impossible to tell who he is.”

  “Until he heals.”

  One of Father Daniel’s eyebrows lifted. “If he heals. As I said, ’tis in God’s hands now.” He made the sign of the cross over his chest and then added, “But, of course, it would be prudent to notify my brother that his enemy, our cousin, may have been captured.”

  “When I’m certain that the man is truly Carrick,” she said, watching as the soldiers rounded the corner of the stairs. “Rumors may reach him at Wybren before morn but until we are certain who he is, they will just be that—rumors.”

  Who would beat the man so badly and then leave him for dead? Why? she wondered. Had it been robbery—the work of cruel thieves? Then why were some of his valuables not taken? Had the robbery been thwarted; had the would-be killers been scared off before they’d stolen all they wanted and killed their victim? Or had the harsh beating been for revenge? For what misdeed? What sin had this man committed to warrant such a brutal attack?

  And why is he wearing the ring with the crest of Wybren?

  Morwenna had no answers to any of her questions and was pacing when Alexander returned, Bryanna following him like an orphaned pup. “That man is staying in the keep?” she whispered, her eyes bright as she looked over her shoulder as if expecting the wounded man to appear like a specter behind her.

  “Aye.”

  “Is it not dangerous?” Bryanna asked with what seemed to be great anticipation.

  “I think not, as he’s unconscious and barely breathing.” Ignoring her younger sister, Morwenna turned to Sir Alexander. “Let us be off to the place where the huntsman found our guest. Mayhap we will be able to determine what happened.”

  Alexander snorted. “Guest,” he said under his breath.

  “I’ll come, too,” Bryanna said, and she flew toward the stairs, nearly bumping into the priest in her haste. “Excuse me, Father,” she managed and then called back to Morwenna, “Just give me a minute to get my things.”

  Father Daniel’s eyes met Morwenna’s, and she saw there the unspoken recriminations and something more, something murky and dark—even forbidden—lingering in their blue depths only to rapidly disappear. As if he, too, was aware of what passed between them, the priest glanced quickly away and hurried toward the eastern corridor and the chapel beyond.

  “I don’t know what good this will do,” Alexander grumbled as Morwenna gazed after the priest.

  What were Father Daniel’s secrets? For that matter, what were everyone within this keep’s most private thoughts? A chill settled deep in her bones. Not for the first time she felt estranged from everyone else in the keep, a shepherd who knew not her flock. She’d been here less than one year. She was the outsider.

  “M’lady,” Alexander said, clearing his throat.

  “What? Oh!” She remembered his statement. “I, too, know not of what we’ll find
in the forest, Sir Alexander, but let’s take a look, shall we?”

  Morwenna nodded to the guard and waited as he pushed open the heavy door to the outside. Mort, who had been snoozing before the fire, stood and stretched. As she stepped into the inner bailey, a rush of winter wind screamed bitterly over the winter grass to burrow deep through Morwenna’s mantle and slap at her face. Ignoring the icy blast, she bent her head and made her way along the well-worn path to the stables with Mort tagging at her heels. The grass was yellow and trodden, crisp with frost, puddles along the pathway showing bits of ice.

  Two boys, noses red, wool caps pulled low over their ears, hauled firewood toward the great hall while another carried pails of water. A girl, not quite in her teens, was throwing seed and oyster shell for the chickens, which clucked and pecked at one another. Feathers scattered as the hens hurried out of the way. The smell of smoke, fermenting beer, animal dung, and rendering fat tinged the cold air. In the pens, pigs grunted noisily and goats bleated as they were milked.

  The castle was at work, everyone at a task; the momentary disturbance of the wounded man was seemingly forgotten. She glanced up at the wall walk and saw sentries posted, as always. Merchants and farmers were flogging their beasts as huge carts were pulled through the crusted ruts of the main road leading into the keep.

  Morwenna ducked along a path leading past the alewives’ hut, where the women were talking loudly, discussing the discovery of the wounded man.

  “. . . beaten so badly his own mother would not recognize him,” one woman—Anne, a true gossip—whispered.

  “A robber, no doubt, who deserved his fate,” another responded.