by Lisa Jackson
Rhys winced inwardly. The boy, Quinn, was Anna’s son as well. His stomach knotted at the thought, and he was thankful for another swallow of wine.
“But … oh, bloody hell, anyone could be the traitor.”
“You’re losing your touch, old man,” Rhys said, disturbed. He shoved his wayward hair off his forehead. “There was a time when you could sneak in and out of the gates of Twyll without a sentry suspecting.”
“Aye.” Abelard rubbed his chin in frustration. “Tremayne is ever more wary. I found out naught except that there was a search party looking for you. Apparently your brother is not pleased that you have seen fit to steal his favorite steed.”
One side of Rhys’s mouth lifted a bit and he took a swallow of wine. It warmed his throat and settled in his belly. “I claim him not as my brother.”
“As he does not claim you.”
Rhys lifted a shoulder. He’d never felt a kinship to Tremayne. Never. They’d been sired by the same father and that was the end of any family connection between them. No love. No admiration. No warmth. Just cold, hard anger and resentment. Now he walked to the fire and warmed the backs of his legs. He would not think of Tremayne. “So, if you were watching in the woods, you must have seen the ring.”
“What ring?” Abelard asked, though from the gravity of his expression Rhys knew that he understood.
“The emerald ring.”
“E—excuse me, sir,” a soft voice intervened. The lass, Big Rosie’s daughter, Peony, poked her head into the room. “Me mum, she asks if ye would like some more wine or ale.”
“Come, come,” Abelard invited, urging her into the room. She was a shy child with wide eyes and a budding womanhood. “Bring us drink and quickly, then be off.”
She scuttled into the room, quick on her feet in her long brown dress. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and she glanced at Rhys as if frightened of him—or, worse, as if she found him intriguing. She offered him a shy smile, then she hurried about her task, pouring wine from a jug and biting her lower lip with slightly crooked upper teeth.
“See that the woman is cared for,” Rhys said. “She’ll need hot water and clean clothes.”
“Aye, m’lord. Er, sir,” she said, nodding as she lifted the jug, “me mum says as soon as she’s finished tendin’ the kitchen, she’ll see to the lady.” Embarrassed and gawky, she hastily exited the room, leaving the full mazers sitting near the solitary candle on the table.
The second she had disappeared, Abelard turned on Rhys. He drummed his fingers on his chin. “So now you tease me.”
“About the stone? Nay.” One corner of Rhys’s mouth twitched. “I saw it, with my own eyes.”
“The dark emerald of Twyll—this is the gem you’ve seen?” Skepticism tinged Abelard’s words.
“Or one so like it as to be its twin.”
Abelard licked his lips. “ ‘Tis sorcery.”
“I think not.”
“Did you not say that she was a witch—chanting spells?”
“The stone was real.”
“Bah.” And yet he rubbed the tips of his fingers with his thumbs as if he could feel the sharp facets of the stone. “If you be tellin’ the truth—and I’ll whip your sorry hide if you aren’t—then your little witch either stole it or bought it from the true ruler of Twyll.”
“Or she be the ruler herself,” Rhys conjectured aloud, though a part of him wanted to hold this a secret close to his heart. Abelard had a twisted yet noble streak, aye, but when it came to money, his honor could be bought.
“She is a woman. The babe was a boy child.” He shook his great head, loose strands of hair shimmering silver in the firelight. “It cannot be. Nay.” He mumbled a curse under his breath and glanced into the grate, as if he could read his fate in the glowing coals and hot ashes.
“But who was there? Who saw the babe born?” Rhys had pondered this question so many times he couldn’t count them. “All we have is rumor—hearsay from those who were in the midst of a war—some loyal to Baron Gilmore, others to my father.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully, his finger tracing the scar that ran down his face. “Since Baron Gilmore and his wife were killed, who would know if their child, born during the attack, was a male child or a female?”
“This witch is not the heir to Twyll. I believe it not.”
Rhys lifted a challenging eyebrow. “You’ll believe it when I show you the stone, Abelard. When that dark gem winks at you, even your skepticism will be vanquished.”
“Fair enough, Rhys. I’ll wait … though, understand, I be not a patient man.”
“Nor am I, Abelard.” Rhys crossed to the table, picked up his cup and raised it in mock salute, silently toasting his old friend, a man who had saved his life and yet a man he did not fully trust. “Nor am I.”
Tara could not believe her bad luck. How could she have been so unwary as to let the outlaw capture her? For though he claimed that she was his guest, ‘twas a lie—a lie spawned by the very devil. She was a prisoner here. Nothing more. Locked in a room on the main floor of the crumbling castle. She suspected the chamber had once been the chapel of Broodmore, for a few artifacts remained and an altar stood on a raised portion of the floor. Rubbing her arms, pacing in front of a fire that was blissfully warm, she plotted her escape. She would not spend a second longer than she had to in this jail. She knew from just a quick look around, however, that fleeing Broodmore would be near impossible.
Though the door of the room was unlocked, it opened to a guarded corridor that led to the great hall, where there seemed forever to be one or more of the thugs that inhabited this once proud castle. Years ago, pestilence and fire had destroyed a good portion of Broodmore, killing all of those who had walked these halls. In this room there was but one window. No shutters or panes of glass enclosed the room, and there was a view of the bailey, but if Tara hoped to use the window as an avenue of escape she was thwarted.
The sentry, a beast of a man, was positioned near the gatehouse and from there had a clear view of the room. He was a burly man, with thick, meaty arms, stringy hair, a flat nose, and teeth far too small for his wide mouth. His eyes were set close together, but they focused with the intensity of a hawk hunting prey. They moved rapidly in his large head, ever scanning the grounds and the castle, sweeping the countryside, and, she suspected, missing nothing—even in the darkness.
Knowing that her ring wasn’t safe on her body, that Rhys had already spied the emerald and as long as it was around her neck another one of the thieves might see it, she searched for a hiding place. The room was sparse, bare except for a bench, the pallet, and a table that must have once been used as an altar. Quickly Tara ran her fingers around the objects and, upon discovering a dark spot behind the altar with a tiny nail protruding from it, she slid the chain over her head and hung the necklace there. “Please, keep it safe,” she prayed, crossing herself. If Rhys asked about the ring, she would say she lost it in the wild ride from the creek to Broodmore. Until she was certain that she wouldn’t be searched and stripped of the treasure, she would keep it hidden.
Rap, rap, rap! “Here ye go, dearie,” a woman called as she shoved open the door with her broad rump and carried in a large tub. A big woman, with arms that were strong from years of hard labor, she wore a friendly smile and a dress that was stained and dingy. A once white apron was tied around her body where her waist should have been.
Tara quickly made the sign of the cross again, as if she’d been praying, then watched the woman suspiciously. What would any decent female be doing with the ragged band of outlaws and cutthroats that lived within the run-down walls of Broodmore?
“Come on, Pigeon, hurry up with those pails.”
A young girl of about twelve entered. Her thin body was just starting to bear signs of womanhood, and her smudged face was losing its baby fat. She would be pretty, Tara guessed, in time. She lugged two wooden buckets filled with steaming water.
“I be Rose,” the heavy woman stated with a smile. Freckles spatt
ered her face and graying, wiry red hair poked out from beneath a scarf tied over her head. “I tend to this sorry lot. And this be me daughter, Peony, but we all call her Pigeon, don’t we?” She pinched her daughter’s cheek rather roughly, but Pigeon, as if she were used to her mother’s heavy-handed affection, didn’t so much as wince. “Now, be a good girl and pour that hot water into the tub.”
She eyed the tub and shook her head. “This ain’t nothin’ fancy, ye see, but ye can give yerself a good wash and we’ll find something for ye to wear while yer clothes dry.” As if the thought had suddenly struck her, she said, “As soon as ye finish here, Pigeon, go check the old trunks. There may be something of the lady’s that …” Her voice faded. “What be yer name?”
Tara considered lying but decided there was no reason for that kind of deception. No one knew her. Her name meant nothing. “Tara.”
“Of?” the older woman asked as her daughter poured first one bucket, then the second, into the wooden basin.
“Gaeaf. I was raised by Lodema, a midwife.”
“Be ye not a lady?” Her brow wrinkled in wonder.
“Nay,” Tara said, declining to give out any more information. ‘Twas true enough, what she’d said, though Lodema had seen to it that she’d learned not only the dark arts but the fine ones as well. Her education had included learning to identify herbs—from Saint-John’s-wort to foxglove—drawing runes in the sand, and chanting spells to the Great Mother, as well as kneeling for hours on the cold stones of a chapel and praying, seeking forgiveness from the Christian God. Lodema had taught her to speak well and learn the demeanor of a lady as well as the ability to skin rabbits or help with the birth of a new babe. Aye, Lodema had taught her much about life, and as Tara thought of her mother, she felt a pang of regret, for a part of her yearned to be with the woman who had claimed her as a daughter for all her life.
Rose fussed about, tending the fire, grumbling about the filth in the rushes, the cold and the “miserable bunch of thievin’ curs that I have to tend to” as she swatted at cobwebs and motioned for Tara to undress. “Hurry now, you’ll freeze to death in that tunic and I don’t need to be carin’ for ye along with the rest of ‘em.”
“I need not—”
“Ach, don’t ye be arguin’ with Big Rosie, dearie. Ye needs to chase away the chill from yer bones and get the mud from yer face and hands. Come now, hurry up, the water will be cold if ye don’t step quick.”
Though she hated the thought of being without her clothes for even a second, Tara yanked her tunic over her head. Wet boots and damp chemise followed and quickly, sucking in her breath as the hot water hit her chilled skin, she sank into the tub. It was cramped but heavenly. Rose found a chunk of soap and handed it to Tara.
Ignoring the woman, who was obviously curious about her, Tara washed herself quickly, the cold seeping out of her skin, the grit sliding from her hair, and though she could barely move in the tub, she felt her muscles relax. She washed her hair and wound it upon her head, then, with a cloth, scrubbed her skin until it tingled and the water started to cool. By the time Pigeon returned, carrying three dresses, Tara was refreshed, her stomach rumbling, her mind racing ahead to plans of escape. Rose offered Tara a towel that scratched her skin as she dried and ordered her daughter to clean “the lady’s” wet tunic, mantle, and chemise.
Holding the towel around her, Tara reached into the pockets of her cloak and withdrew her most prized possessions, a small dagger with a curved blade and a pouch that held a few coins, some dried herbs, and a bit of candle. “There,” she said and Pigeon mutely scooted out the door. Still clutching the towel at the cleft of her breasts, Tara studied the faded garments that had once been glorious—rose-colored silk, gray damask, and a lavender velvet that was embroidered with silver thread. She reached for the velvet gown. Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside.
The door swung open.
“Ahem.” She froze, recognizing the deep timber of Rhys’s voice, a sound, she was certain, that would follow her all the days of her life.
“Ah, Sir Rhys, ‘tis not finished we are,” Rose clucked purposefully, placing her broad body in front of Tara.
“Ahh.” His gaze slid to the tub.
Holding the dress over her nakedness, Tara stepped from behind the woman who had positioned herself as a human shield. Rhys had already seen her without a stitch on, and this time she intended to give him the response he deserved.
“Is there something you wanted?”
He looked at her half-bare body as he had in the woods a few hours earlier. Tara’s throat turned to sand as he viewed her bare neck, now devoid of her chain and ring. A spark of interest flared in his silvery gaze, and she felt her skin flush. The look that he gave her was not that of a man searching for a valuable stone; it was that of a man who saw her as a woman—a woman he wanted. The memory of his kiss, so fresh and breathtaking, caused her to blush, and she licked her lips before clearing her throat and looking away.
“Abelard wishes to speak to you.”
“Aye, and she’ll be ready in but a second. Tell Abelard he can well wait a minute or two more.” Rose clucked her tongue. “Always impatient, that one!” She wagged her finger in his direction. “You, too, should rest easy. The lady will be out soon.”
“The lady?” Rhys mocked and one corner of his mouth lifted sardonically. “Well, lady, do not tarry too long.”
“Trust me,” Tara said, swiftly stepping forward despite her nakedness. Staring up at him, she held his steely gaze with her own, the lavender dress a thin barrier between them. “I feel no need to linger here a second longer than I must. As soon as my horse is rested, I will be off.”
“Will you now?”
Chin elevating, she clutched the folds of her dress more tightly to her. “Aye, Rhys of Twyll. ‘Tis a promise.”
“We’ll see.” With a glance at Rose, he said, “Hurry her along, will you?”
Then he was gone. Leaving her shivering, her hair dripping, crumpling a dead woman’s dress in her fingers.
“Ahhh, Sir Rhys …” Rose clucked her tongue and shook her head sadly, as if the outlaw’s destiny were a sorrowful twist of fate rather than a life of corruption of his own making. Pigeon, too, watched him leave, and in her wide, innocent eyes Tara saw a naively infatuated girl. Poor thing.
Tara felt not a breath of compassion for the black-heart who had forced her here against her will. Aye, she knew the story—that for some reason Rhys had been stripped bare, flogged until he couldn’t stand, and banished from Twyll, left naked, bleeding, and raw. But there were rumors about how he’d betrayed his brother as well. Nay, any pain the outlaw felt was well deserved, in Tara’s estimation.
“ ‘Tis a pity,” Rose said. “But then love drives many a man to his own ruin.”
“Love?” Tara repeated, stepping into the dress and feeling the softness of the old velvet caress her skin. Though musty, the garment smelled faintly of lavender and rose hips, as if it had been packed away with dried spices.
“Aye. True love. ‘Tis a blessing and a curse and don’t I know it?” She glanced at Pigeon and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Come, daughter. ‘Tis time to check the fires. Ye know what a growling bear Abelard can be if he’s hungry and kept waiting. Miserable man …” Muttering under her breath, she shepherded the love-besotted Pigeon out the door and left Tara to her own devices.
The gown was a little too large, for Tara was a small woman, and the hem dragged on the ground, but she used the extra room for her own purpose. She removed the chain and ring from their hiding spot, then, using a cord from another one of the dresses, she tied her necklace around her small waist, pulled the bodice of the gown over her breasts again and cinched the waist with another dark cord. Satisfied that her prize was well hidden, she filled her pockets with her remaining treasures and was warm at last.
Her stomach growled as the scent of sizzling venison and rich spices reached her nostrils, reminding her that she hadn’t yet eaten this day.
>
Tara spent the next few minutes finger-combing her hair and silently plotting her escape. She had her own mission to fulfill at Twyll and she had no intention of spending a second longer than necessary in the charred, cavernous chambers of Broodmore.
Straightening and silently telling herself she was ready to face the outlaw again, she felt the stone, cold and hard, pressed against her bare skin. Why she needed to know the truth she didn’t understand. And yet she was compelled to uncover the truth, to determine her identity.
So, her mind nagged, what will you do if you find out you truly are the lost babe of Gilmore? So what if ye be the rightful heir? She knew not; but ever since learning of her birthright she’d experienced an intensely burning need, a fire of curiosity that spurred her forward in her quest for the truth.
Tara had been disbelieving when Lodema first reluctantly gave her the news, but two days earlier. Tara had heard from an old gossip in the village, a woman who sold eggs and herbs, that Lodema planned to marry her daughter off to Adair, a lofty merchant who lived far to the south, an old man whose wife had died and left him childless.
“Tell me, Mother, that you did not promise me to that miserable old man,” Tara had demanded, flying through the door of their little hut to find the woman who had raised her expertly plucking the feathers off a dead hen. Lodema’s old hands pulled the quills from the chicken’s flesh while the fire burned bright in the hearth. Her half-crippled old cat was curled in a ball near the warmth. At the intrusion, Luna lifted her head and yawned, showing off razor-sharp teeth and a rough pink tongue, totally unaffected by Tara’s self-righteous indignation. “Tell me!”
“Oh, child, I s’pose ‘tis time.” Lodema’s expression was sad, her usually smiling mouth a slice of unhappiness as she kept at her work, tossing the feathers into a cloth sack.
“Time for what? To get rid of me? To send me off to some … some vile liver-spotted old man’s house and bed?” Tara raged, sick inside. Why would Mother do this? Why?