by Lisa Jackson
Her heart clamored in the cage of her ribs. No, no, no! She silently screamed while her muscles softened, and his tongue slipped easily between her teeth. His whiskers tickled her skin. Sensations, foreign and familiar all in one instant, caused her flesh to tingle, her blood to heat. The ivy-laced branches of the trees swam in her vision and she closed her eyes, losing herself to him.
Her knees went weak. Unwilling arms suddenly clung to him.
He groaned and an answering moan escaped her lips. Her breasts flattened against his chest and all the reasons not to kiss him scattered in the wind.
She kissed him back, unable to resist. Wanting more.
Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. Once.
He raised his head and a touch of a smile lifted one side of his mouth. “Finally. He comes.”
The hoot came again, sharper this time.
The outlaw froze. “Blast,” he whispered.
Again the hoot. Harsh. Near.
“Bloody Christ,” he growled in her ear. “Three hoots. God’s teeth!”
What?”
“Shh!” Still holding her prisoner, he glanced quickly around the mist-shrouded forest, his eyes scouring the canyon walls as if searching for a hidden enemy. “Don’t say a word,” he whispered in her ear, his breath teasing, his whiskers tickling her skin.
“But—”
“ ‘Twas a warning.” He raised a finger and glared down at her with such fierce conviction that her question died on her recently plundered lips and she bit her tongue.
“Go,” he mouthed. “Quickly.”
Somewhere nearby a twig snapped and he, spinning, released her, his hand on the hilt of his sword. She didn’t wait a second longer. The determination in the set of his jaw, the sense that he was about to do battle propelled her. She took a faltering step backward, nearly tripped on an exposed root, then grabbed the rest of her damp clothes and half ran across the stream to the spindly oak where her mare was tethered. Wild-eyed, the horse snorted as the sound of hoofbeats reached her ears. “Shh, Dobbyn!” Half-frozen fingers worked at the swollen knot in the reins. She glanced over her shoulder as she heard the hiss of a sword being unsheathed.
The outlaw was astride his warhorse and urging the gray through the stream. “Run!” he ordered, and she knew not if he was speaking to his own mount or to her. Swinging into the saddle, she gave the mare her head, leaning forward, digging her heels into the anxious horse’s sides.
Dobbyn bolted.
From the corner of her eye she spied horsemen. Dark warriors riding eerily through the fog.
“Run, damn it!” the rogue whispered harshly, and she took heed, her heels kicking against the panicked mare’s sides.
“Rhys of Twyll, show yourself!” The voice was huge and boomed through the fog.
Rhys? Her heart missed a beat. The outlaw?
Slap! Dobbyn doubled her effort as the outlaw smacked her rump with his hand. Tara clung to the reins, leaning lower, blinking against the branches and spiderwebs that stretched over the trail and slapped at her face. The shouts of their pursuers reached her ears.
“Rhys of Twyll! Halt!”
Dear Lord, help me!
Zzzt! An arrow whizzed past her head.
Thwack! Another lodged in a tree.
“I saw ‘em, sure as ‘ell,” one man cried, his voice high-pitched as it carried on the wind. “Acrost the stream they was.”
“They?”
“Aye, two of ‘em.”
“Then let’s find them, shall we?” The ground shook as the search party spurred their horses on. Hooves pounded the mud of the trail and splashed noisily through the stream.
“This way,” the outlaw ordered as his steed galloped past her and veered away from the path, taking a sharp turn into a copse of trees that provided little cover. Tara hesitated. Why had she thrown in her lot with his stranger? This criminal? As if he sensed that she might turn back, he slowed his horse, reached back and grabbed hold of Dobbyn’s reins, jerking hard enough to strip the wet leather straps from Tara’s fingers and force the mare to follow him.
“Wait—”
“Ssh! Do you want to get us both killed?” he demanded, his voice low, his eyes harsh as he sent her a glare that would have bent steel.
Any further protest died in her throat.
Behind them, on the trail, she heard the small army. Bridles jangled, men shouted, swords rattled, and hoofbeats echoed through the canyon as the pursuers urged their steeds ever upward.
Rhys doubled back, the gray warhorse running swiftly through the gloom while Dobbyn strained to keep up with the stallion’s swift strides. Trees and bracken flashed by in a foggy blur. Tara’s fingers wound into the mare’s mane. Fear pumped in her heart. Mist collected on her skin and ran down her neck, and the horses, lathered now, ran with the speed of lightning. The outlaw’s mantle billowed behind him. He couldn’t be Rhys of Twyll. There had to be some mistake. Surely the fates would not have been so unkind. Yet as she stared at his back, the width of his shoulders, how easily he stayed astride though he held the reins of her mare in one hand and a sword in the other, she knew he was no ordinary man. An outlaw? A rogue? A blackheart? Aye, she would expect no more. But Rhys of Twyll. Nay!
If not Rhys, then who? And why were the soldiers after him? Were he not the blackhearted outlaw, then why did he run? And if he was … The thought curdled her blood.
Without slowing, he crossed the creek again. Icy water sprayed upward as the horses splashed through a pool and gamely scrambled up the opposite shore along the steep trail. The noise startled a bird; wings flapping, it flew wildly from its hiding spot, rising before them, only to disappear in the fog. Dobbyn side-stepped, nearly stumbled, but somehow kept her footing.
The sounds of pursuit faded as they sped deeper into the forest, and the mist gave way to a gentle rain that was as cold as death. A doe scurried out of their path, springing effortlessly over fallen logs and stumps before disappearing into the shadowy undergrowth. They were alone again. Somewhere. She had no idea how far they’d ridden, but the fog-shrouded sun was giving forth no more light and she could feel the darkness encroaching.
Tara’s teeth chattered, her fingers were frozen, her vision blurred. For the first time since the beginning of her quest, she wondered at her stupidity. Even now she could be secure in the warmth of Lodema’s cabin, mending clothes, drying herbs, gutting fish, making soap, and listening to her mother’s off-key humming as she went about her daily tasks. Instead, because of her own impetuosity, she was cold to the bone and alone in the forest with a stranger who might well be the bastard of Twyll.
But only for a while.
She had held no thought of escape before now, had not even considered the fact that she was his prisoner. Just because he held the reins of her mount’s bridle didn’t mean that she could not find her own way back to Twyll. And find it she would. No one—not the woman who had raised her, the soldiers who had chased them, or this arrogant rogue—would keep her from her quest—her destiny.
“Where are you—?”
“Shhh!” His command was harsh, and over his shoulder he sent her a fierce glance.
Biting her tongue, she forced herself to keep her silence. They rode up a steep hill, and the trees became sparse. At the top of a rise, the forest gave way to a small clearing. He slowed the horses and, guiding his mount along the fringe of the woods, circumvented the open space until he found a wide trail that may once have been a road. Without a word he turned onto the rutted, overgrown path, which wound down to a river. A few blackened pilings were all that remained of the bridge that had rotted and partially washed away years ago.
He urged his horse straight into the torrent that cut through the land. Dobbyn tried to stop, to pull back, but the man was strong and he yanked hard on the reins, forcing her to follow. “Come on, you damned nag,” he growled, as the muddy water swelled around his stirrups.
“Are you daft?” Tara cried. The river here was narrow but deep, its w
aters swollen and swirling.
“ ‘Twill be all right.”
She had no choice but to cling to the saddle and horse’s mane as the water crept up, over her heels, her calves, the tops of her boots. God in heaven, how had she managed to end up here with a dark stranger who had not a brain in his head? Ice-cold water eddied over her thighs and Dobbyn held her nose aloft.
By the gods, the poor animal was going to have to swim! They would surely drown! “Halt!” she cried just as she saw Gryffyn begin to climb upward, his wet gray coat slick and dark. Dobbyn, too, found her footing and a reserve of energy, bolting from the river as if she were on fire. Tara clung to the horse’s mane and tried vainly to catch her breath. Only when the rushing waters were far behind them did either horse slow.
“Where the devil are you taking me?” Tara demanded. Her teeth were rattling in her head, her body shaking with the cold and covered with mud and wet leaves. He pulled up and sheathed his sword but didn’t release Dobbyn’s reins.
“Somewhere safe.”
“Safe?” she repeated. “Safe? Naught you’ve done has been safe—the ravine, the creek, the cursed river.” She was shivering uncontrollably, her bones feeling as if they were ice. Every inch of her tunic was dripping wet, and poor Dobbyn was breathing as if she might expire.
“Would you rather be left to Tremayne’s men?”
“How know you they were soldiers of Twyll?”
The look he sent her was dark as night.
“Why are they after you?”
One side of his mouth lifted in a sardonic and heartless smile. “Mayhap they were after you, Morgan Le Fay.”
“ ‘Twas not my name that was called. You … you be the outlaw Rhys.”
His mouth twitched and a wicked gleam appeared in his eye. “As I said. Now, come—” He yanked the horse’s reins again, and short of jumping off midstride and being left without her mount, she could do little more than accept her fate.
“We be far from Gaeaf,” she said as darkness deepened through the trees.
“Aye.”
“And Twyll.”
“And the soldiers,” he pointed out.
’Twas small comfort for Tara, frozen to her very marrow. She stared into the gloomy woods and the hairs on the back of her neck raised slowly, for as her mind cleared and old stories whispered through her head, she understood where she was. A tall tree, split clean through by an ancient fork of lightning, stood guard beside moss-covered boulders as tall as her mare. “Broodmore Castle,” she whispered.
“You’ve heard of it.”
“Who has not?” she asked, fear congealing in her heart as her horse continued, pulled by Rhys’s strong arm. “ ‘Tis cursed,” she said, and crossed herself deftly as they rounded a final bend and the old keep, now in ruin, loomed ahead-dark, dangerous, and haunted by spirits who had given up their lives to the fever and a fire that had killed everyone within the crumbling walls generations before.
“As well it should be.” She heard the cry of a night warbler. A second later a man dressed in black leaped out from a hiding place and landed squarely in front of them. “Who goes there?”
“ ‘Tis I, Johnny,” Rhys said with a sigh. “Did you not recognize me or my horse?”
The boy, for he was barely in his teens, sheathed his weapon but sent a suspicious glance in Tara’s direction. “The horse is new.”
“Aye.” Rhys smiled wickedly. “A gift from my half brother.”
“But I thought ye stole ‘im.”
Rhy laughed and winked at the boy. “Aye, Tremayne did not know he gave him to me, nor would he have done it willingly.” He patted his mount’s muscular shoulder. “A good steed he is. Take care of him for me.”
“I will.” Johnny’s head bobbed emphatically. “Aye, I will, but who”—Johnny indicated Tara with a gloved finger—”is she?”
Rhys jumped to the ground and handed the boy the reins of both animals. “Well, son, as she tells it, she is Morgan Le Fay.”
“Nay!” Even in the twilight, Tara saw his face pale in fear. His upper lip, barely sprouting the hint of a red moustache, quivered. “Morgan Le Fay—the … the …”
“And she is my guest.” He reached up to help Tara climb off Dobbyn.
“I be not—”
“She’ll be staying with me, Johnny. Tell Pigeon and Rose that we be hungry and cold.”
“Nay,” Tara said, her eyes locking with those of the man who so insolently gave her orders. She had her own reasons for being in the forest, and she was far from Twyll, far from her destiny. She glanced at the looming, blackened ruins of the castle. What was the old children’s rhyme she’d heard years ago?
Broodmore, Broodmore
All that lived there died.
Broodmore, Broodmore,
All the children cried,
Broodmore, Broodmore,
The kiss of death be there,
Broodmore, Broodmore,
All visitors beware.
She swallowed hard. Surely ‘twas only superstition, but the menacing towers with their crumbling parapets and jagged wall walks did little to alleviate her case of nerves.
Clearing her throat, she told herself to take heart. Nothing sinister would happen to her. Nothing would deter her from her mission. There was naught to fear. Naught at all.
So why, then, as she reluctantly allowed this wickedly handsome man to put his hands around her waist and swing her down to the sodden ground, did she feel the footsteps of doom tread through her heart?
Chapter Two
“You broke the rules.” Abelard’s fist slammed down on the table. The candle jumped. Wax splattered. Mazers sloshed wine that spilled blood red across the heavy planks. Two men, a pickpocket and a poacher who had pledged their lives and skills to Rhys, backed away from the confrontation, as the fury of Abelard’s temper was well recited.
“I had no choice.”
“Bah! We make our choices!”
Rhys picked up his cup from the table and took a long swallow. He was tired and cold and had no use for Abelard’s anger. Resting on the small of his back, he closed his eyes for a second and willed the aches from his body. This very chair had once held the lord of Broodmore, years ago, before the pestilence and death had struck. Broodmore had been teeming with life, a castle filled with bustling servants, hardworking peasants, knights and maids, heraldry and the laughter of children. Since the fire, no mason’s trowel had helped rebuild the walls, no carpenter’s hammer had pounded new nails into sagging timbers, no farrier’s fire had burned bright, no potter’s wheel had hummed, no weaver’s loom had clucked. Nay, there had been more than a generation of silence in these blackened old walls.
Now Broodmore was an outlaws’ lair. His hiding place. Charred and empty, filled with scarred men who hid their own secrets, none of which were shared. All that Rhys required was obedience—unwavering and true. What a man had done before he came to Broodmore was of no concern. What he did once he’d pledged his life to the others was carefully scrutinized. There was no room for dissent or any form of disloyalty. Not even from Abelard.
“No visitors. None.” Abelard, an imposing man who stood at more than six feet, leaned across the table. His white hair fell around his face like a lion’s mane, his amber eyes sparked with a seething fury—a rage born of injustice. “There can be no exceptions.” He pointed the stub of his index finger—the one that Tremayne had lopped off years before—at Rhys. “This was your law.”
“I could not leave the woman for Tremayne’s men.”
“Why not?” Abelard lifted both eyebrows. “What had she to fear from him?”
Rhys held his silence.
“If you ask me, you found a fetching maid in the forest and you brought her back here just to have your way with her!”
Rhys was on his feet in an instant, his broken nose so close to Abelard’s that he could smell the wine on the older man’s breath, see the web of tiny veins that had broken beneath the skin of his cheeks. His own mazer to
ppled, nearly falling to the floor, spilling a few drops. “There are reasons—”
“More than the simple fact that you’d like to lift her skirts?”
Rhys grabbed Abelard by his tunic. “I said there are reasons.”
Abelard’s mouth became a thin, impatient line. “What be they?”
With a glance at the two other men, Rhys jerked his chin toward the door. “Leave us.”
Will and Benjamin, two sorry thieves without a set of teeth between them, were only too eager to make haste from the room. They hurried off, their worn boots scraping against the cold stones of the floor at a quick pace, before the animosity that was always simmering between the two prickly friends ignited.
Slowly Rhys uncurled his fingers. “Where were you?” he demanded. “You were to meet me at the canyon.”
Abelard lifted a huge shoulder. “I was detained. Tremayne’s soldiers were about. Heard you not my warning?”
“Too late,” Rhys admitted, remembering the sharp hoots of an owl as he’d fallen into the seductive trap of kissing the witch. Even now he could feel her chilled lips against his, how she’d warmed at his touch. How she’d trembled.
“Because you’ve lost your edge, my friend,” Abelard charged, spitting out the last word. “Because of the woman.”
“You saw us?”
“Through the mist. Shadows only.” He grabbed his wooden cup and gulped the last of his wine.
This was the way it was with Abelard, the way it had always been—a friendship that had survived all the hardships but had often worn thin with the difference of opinion and the struggle to dominate. Two men sharing the role of leader—’twas difficult.
“Why did you not show yourself?” Rhys demanded.
“Because of the soldiers from Twyll. Sent by Tremayne. They followed me from the castle and somehow knew that I was to meet you.” His eyes narrowed as he slammed his empty cup onto the table. “Someone betrayed me.”
“Know you who?”
“Nay … well, mayhap the lad.” Abelard scowled and shook his head as if he didn’t believe it himself. “Tremayne’s boy—about nine he is and slides through the shadows like a cat on the hunt, silent and swift.”