Dark Emerald

by Lisa Jackson

  The men grumbled among themselves, but no one answered as they buried their noses even deeper into their cups.

  “Aye, and I’ve mentioned it before,” Rosie said, nodding her head like a stern mother.

  “And what would ye do, Big Rose? If it weren’t for what we get thievin’, ye’d have no roof over yer head, no place fer you and yer little one. Ye’d have to start liftin’ yer skirts fer a coin, methinks.”

  “That’s the trouble, Samuel, ye don’t think,” she said, and she picked up a plank that still held a fat piece of eel and conked him on the head. “ ‘Twill be a cold day in hell before I’ll be sellin’ meself.” She spun on her heel and looked hard at each man in turn. “And any of ye who thinks otherwise can take it up with me.” She flounced out of the room, and not one of the motley crew of crooks, petty thieves, and kidnappers dared breathe a word.

  Rhys didn’t comment, but a smile danced in his eyes as he finished his meal and the talk circled back to Baron Innis and his death.

  “There’ll be trouble,” Abelard thought aloud. He pierced a piece of venison with his knife and wagged it in front of Rhys’s nose. “Some say he thinks he’s the damned heir of Twyll.” He bit the meat off the knife.

  “Do they?” Rhys bristled. The emerald felt suddenly very heavy.

  “He plans to make war.”

  “Why would he think he be baron?” the well-dressed thief asked.

  “Good question, Kent.” Abelard dropped his knife and rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “We all have heard the rumor—that Lady Farren was delivering a babe at the time of the attack on Twyll. Somehow both she and her husband, Lord Gilmore, were slain by Merwynn, who then declared himself the new lord.”

  The skin over Rhys’s face grew tight and his jagged scar paled. Abelard’s eyes, a shifting shade of amber in the firelight, focused steadily upon Tara, as if he were speaking directly to her. “Merwynn was Rhys’s father as well, y’see. Anyway, the babe disappeared. Unborn or brought into this world, the infant vanished—no tiny body was ever discovered, alive or dead. ‘Tis said that a servant ran off with the child and, as he did, managed to steal an emerald ring the likes of which no one has seen.”

  Tara wanted to wrap her fingers around the stone tied to her waist. Instead she lifted her chin and met Abelard’s gaze. “And Cavan—this son of Innis—why would he think he be the ruler?”

  “That’s the interesting part. Aye, he was adopted by Innis, who fathered no sons of his own despite having two wives. Each died before she could provide Innis with any sons.”

  Abelard pulled off a hunk of bread and held it as he spoke. “Old Innis was a secretive man. He told no one of the circumstances of the child’s birth. Many thought Cavan was the son of one of the women who warmed his bed. Who knows?” He lifted a broad shoulder. “There is no proof, of course, unless he somehow still owns the ring that was stolen with him.” Tara’s heart thundered and she was certain the cord around her waist would unravel and the jewel would drop to the floor at any second. She glanced nervously at Rhys, for he’d seen the stone, but his expression was calm.

  Only when the others had left the room, upon Abelard’s orders, did the white-haired man turn to her. “Now, Lady Tara, I think ‘tis time we spoke the truth. Rhys told me about the emerald ring. If I be not mistaken, ‘tis the jewel that was missing from Gilmore’s castle when he and his wife were killed and their babe disappeared.” Folding his arms over his chest, he said, “Where is it and how did it come to be in your possession?”

  “I—I know not of what you speak,” she protested, getting to her feet. “There is no—”

  Rhys’s reaction was swift. Grabbing her arm, he pulled her onto the bench, so close to him that their legs, separated by only a layer of velvet and his breeches, were pressed together. His fingers, tight around her wrist, were like manacles. “Tell him, Tara,” Rhys said in a firm voice that brooked no argument, “for I, too, would like to know where the dark emerald of Twyll be and how you came to have it.”

  Chapter Four

  Tara couldn’t deny the truth. Rhys had seen her with the ring when she was chanting at the creek. Oh, she’d been such a fool, such an utter idiot to let him catch her. “My mother gave it to me.”

  “Your mother?” Abelard sneered, shaking his head and draining his cup. “The woman who once owned the ring has been dead for nearly twenty years.”

  “The ring was given me by Lodema, the woman I thought was my mother.”

  “Is she yet alive?”

  “Aye.” Tara experienced a pang of loneliness, for she missed Lodema, with her off-key humming, shuffling gait, and easy smile.

  “Show it to me,” Abelard ordered.

  “The ring?”

  “Is it not what we be discussing?”

  “Oh, ‘twas lost,” she lied, knowing he wouldn’t believe her but unable to admit the truth. “In the river where we crossed.”

  “I think not.” Abelard’s face had turned a rosy hue, either from the wine or from a quietly seething rage—mayhap a little of both. He snapped his fingers impatiently. “Show me.”

  “But I—”

  “Do as he says,” Rhys growled through clenched teeth, “or I will search first the clothes that you wore at the creek, then the chamber where you were bathed, and then, if the ring still be missing, I will undress you myself and search your dress and whatever is underneath.” His jaw was set, his eyes unabashedly demanding. “Where is it?”

  She swallowed hard and fought the urge to run. She would get only a few steps before Rhys would catch up with her. Damn the man. Silently she cursed the second she’d met him. She should have run away when she heard the first jangle of his horse’s bridle.

  “The ring?”

  Fire swept up her neck. Her mind raced with possible lies, all of which she quickly discarded.

  “Where is it?”

  “I have it. Beneath my dress.”

  “Good,” Abelard said, some of his irritation seeming to disappear. “Let me see it.”

  “But … but … I cannot undress here …” Cheeks already flaming, she blushed to the roots of her dark hair and couldn’t help notice the mockery—the damned amusement—in Rhys’s expression. Her lips pursed, and pride lifted her chin a notch though she was dying of shame inside. Had he not already seen her without clothes—not once but twice?

  “The ring,” Abelard insisted, snapping his fingers yet again and holding out his calloused palm.

  “But—”

  “Oh, for the love of Saint Peter—” Rhys’s grip tightened over her wrist.

  “We will be but a second,” he assured Abelard as he dragged her to her feet and hauled her out of the great hall to the darkened corridor. His legs were long, his strides swift, and Tara had to half run to keep up with him.

  “Stop!” she cried, her boots scraping on the cold stone floor of Broodmore. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He didn’t answer, nor did he pause until he’d taken her into the chamber that had once been the chapel, the room where she’d bathed and he’d so recently seen her partially dressed.

  “Get the bloody ring for Abelard,” he ordered.

  “But—”

  “Now!”

  He released her and stood in the doorway, feet planted shoulder-width apart, arms folded angrily across his broad chest.

  “You would watch me?” she demanded.

  “Aye. Gladly.”

  “But, but—” she stammered, then caught herself and glared at him. “ ‘Tis a beast you be, Rhys the outlaw. A blackhearted, cursed dog who—”

  “No more arguments!” His eyes flashed fire and his back was stiff as newly forged steel. He posed a formidable jailer as he blocked her only avenue of escape. One long finger jabbed the air between them. “Get on with it.”

  Again she had no choice, and silently vowing to find a way to break out of this prison, a way to prove that she would not let any man, especially a criminal, tell her what to do, she spun on her heel,
turning her back to him, and unlaced the quilted bodice of the velvet dress. Cold air caressed her bare skin as she lowered the soft fabric, and she felt his gaze, hot and burning, against her back. Help me, she prayed silently as her fingers fumbled with the cord tied around her waist. While unknotting the thin strap of leather with the fingers of one hand, she tried in vain to hold the dress over her naked breasts.

  “Oh, bother,” she muttered under her breath as the knot refused to give way.

  “No spells to untie knots?”

  “Nay, but I surely have one that will still your tongue,” she snapped back.

  “Do you?”

  “Aye,” she lied, “and another that will cause your eyes to dim and your brain to turn to gruel.”

  “ ‘Tis too late for that, I fear,” he replied, amusement ringing in his voice.

  Oh, the devil be with him! Arrogant son of a—

  “Here”—she heard him approach—”let me help.”

  “Nay!” she spat, her spine stiffening. “Nay, I can do it—”

  “ ‘Twill be faster, and we need not to keep Abelard waiting. He be not a patient man.” She sensed him near, felt his breath against her skin, and yet she nearly jumped out of it when his warm fingers grazed the bare flesh of her waist. She sucked in her breath and held the dress tight to her chest. Heat started at the small of her back and climbed up her neck as he, growling about the knot, which had apparently swollen, worked with the cords. The touch of his fingers caused her to flinch a bit, not from pain but from anticipation. The knot gave way at last. She let out her breath as she slid the ring and necklace off the cord with fingers that shook.

  “There. ‘Tis done,” Rhys said through clenched teeth. ‘Twas all he could do as he’d fiddled with the knot not to move his hands up her rib cage, feel the weight of her breasts in his palms. He’d fought the urge to spin her in his arms, kiss her until the fight left her body, and then slide down to kiss her nipples and dig his fingers into the firm flesh of her buttocks. Instead he’d released her and stepped back, forcing those thoughts away.

  He leaned a shoulder against the doorway and studied her without a trace of his earlier humor. Spying her at the creek, he’d been fascinated by her beauty. Earlier this evening while she was dripping from her bath, he’d been amused at her fury. He’d found her state of undress and ire erotic and, yea, amusing. Now after touching her smooth skin with the tips of his fingers, he was furious with himself for his attraction. Worse yet as he felt compelled to bend her will to his, he found no satisfaction in the flash of indignation he saw in her eyes. He should never have told Abelard about the stone—’twould only bring them grief. He could feel it in his bones.

  She slid her arms into the sleeves of the dress.

  Rhys was not only aroused—his damnable manhood springing to attention—he was furious with himself for wanting her. She was a witch, or so she thought—a woman who chanted on the banks of a stream in winter. She was a liar and mayhap a thief, not unlike himself. How else would she have come into possession of a stone so valuable?

  There was another possibility.

  It could be that she was the rightful heir of Twyll, the only issue of Lord Gilmore and Lady Farren, who were murdered by Merwynn.

  Your father, Rhys. ‘Tis possible this mite of a woman is your sworn enemy.

  His teeth ground together and his jaw ached at the thought. Was it possible? Could the rightful ruler of Twyll be a woman—this beautiful sorceress whose skin appeared flawless, her muscles sleek? He remembered the cleft of her spine slicing delicately down the middle of her back to disappear invitingly beneath the gathered folds of velvet.

  He caught himself up short and swore under his breath. “Curse it all!” For the love of Saint Jude, what had he been thinking?

  “Pardon?” she asked, casting a look over her shoulder while struggling into the bodice and straightening the slender sleeves that tapered to points over the backs of her hands.

  “Nothing.” He cleared his throat and coughed. “You have the ring?”

  Rotating swiftly, her hair and the skirt of her dress billowing, she held the chain aloft by one finger, the ring dangling seductively from her hand. “Right here.” The gem sparkled in the dying firelight.

  Striding quickly forward, Rhys reached for the priceless jewel, but Tara was faster. She swung the ring into her palm and captured it with eager fingers. “Let us be done with this,” she said, starting for the door. Rhys was at her side in an instant. They returned to the great hall and once again, she dangled her prize from long, slim fingers, suspending the legendary stone before Abelard’s greedy eyes.

  For a second the older man was entranced with the glittering emerald as it swayed seductively in front of his nose. “Has it any power?” he asked. “Rumor has it that it brings good fortune.”

  “Since it has been in my possession, I’ve been kidnapped, chased by soldiers, and held prisoner in a crumbling keep where ghosts are said to walk and robbers and murderers hide.” She gestured with her free hand to the empty, dark chamber lit only by a solitary candle and the weak light from a dying fire. Charred walls, cobwebs, faded tapestries, dust and a few battle-scarred tables, chairs, and benches were all that remained of the once fine and lively hall of Broodmore. “Nay, sir,” she mocked, “I cannot say this stone brings any luck other than bad.”

  “Still, ‘tis powerful.” Abelard, his large features shadowed in the semidarkness, snatched the prize in midair, and this time Tara, with a lofty lift of an eyebrow in Rhys’s direction, let it be taken from her. “By the gods,” the white-haired man whispered, awestruck as he turned the ring over and over in his fingers, holding it in front of the candle’s thin flame. “This is it. The damned dark emerald of Twyll.”

  “How know you this?” she asked.

  “The size—the cut … what else? And all these years I thought mayhap it was idle gossip—only the wishful thinking of old women whose time has passed them by and now they enhance their own sorry lives by creating stories—braiding the truth with lies as easily as they weave scenes into a tapestry.”

  “So now we have it—proof that the stone and possibly an heir exist, that the rumors surrounding the siege of Twyll be true,” Rhys said, taking the ring from Abelard’s strong fingers and handing the treasure back to Tara. “Hide this. ‘Tis not safe here.”

  Abelard seemed about to protest, but Rhys cut him off. “If you haven’t noticed, my friend, there be a pickpocket or two here who, if given half a chance, would rob the lady blind.”

  “Would they now?” she asked insolently. Oh, she was a fearless wench.

  “Aye, without the slightest bit of encouragement. Mayhap even slit your throat.”

  “ ‘Tis a pleasant place you’ve brought me to, Rhys of Twyll.”

  “Fear not, m’lady, for I will sleep at your door, keeping the vermin and thieves out.”

  “Or me in.”

  “Aye, that too,” he admitted, unable to stay his lips from twisting into a grin that she appeared to find disquieting. Her mouth pursed in irritation, and if looks were to kill, he would certainly be ready for the grave, for she was glaring at him with all the hatred and disgust she could muster.

  Abelard rubbed the silvery stubble that had the nerve to grow on the lower half of his face. “So,” he said thoughtfully, his stub of a finger moving over his lip, “it seems Lord Tremayne has reason to fear an uprising from the issue of Gilmore, does it not?”

  “Aye.” Vengeance and satisfaction warmed the cold hatred buried deep in Rhys’s heart. “So it does.”

  “But he knows not who that issue is.” Gold eyes assessed Tara as if she, not the ring, were the true prize, and Rhys experienced his first unwelcome stab of jealousy.

  Snapping his fingers noisily, Abelard called to the open doorway, “Rosie, girl, bring us more wine.”

  “And haven’t ye had enough?” Rosie’s voice was muffled.

  “Now.”

  Tara stuffed the necklace into her pocket.<
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  “Lord in heaven,” Rosie grumbled. “Pigeon, the jug—nay, I’ll do it meself. His lord and master be dyin’ of thirst, it seems.”

  Abelard swallowed a smile, and his eyebrows rose in eager anticipation. “Let us celebrate, my friend,” he said to Rhys, “for, soon, methinks, revenge will be ours.”

  “Mayhap.” Rhys wasn’t convinced.

  “ ‘Twill be.” Abelard motioned Rosie to quicken her step as she entered the room carrying a jug and wooden cups.

  “I be not yer slave, Abelard,” she reminded him. “I do this only from the goodness of me weak and foolish heart.” She poured three mazers of wine and set them on the table near the candle, then tucked an errant wisp of hair under her scarf.

  “And because you worship the ground I tread.”

  “In a pig’s eye.”

  “Rosie, girl, won’t you join us?” Abelard asked, and the heavy woman shook her head.

  “ ‘Tis way past me bedtime, Abelard, and if I know ye, ye’ll be yowlin’ for a meal the minute ye wake up.”

  He picked up his mazer, held it aloft, and grinned wickedly, his golden eyes narrowing as he said, “To the defeat of Tremayne of Twyll. May I have the pleasure of sending his soul straight to hell.”

  Lodema closed her eyes and winced against a sudden jab of pain—the same piercing agony that fired her joints with each cold spell. Her knees creaked and his fingers were knotted and thick, aching more profoundly as the cold of winter seeped through the cracks in the walls of this old hut.

  And there was more than the pain that bothered her. She was lonely, feeling more alone than she had ever in her life. Before she’d been given the baby, she was young and independent, and though many people in the village seemed to pity her, to think her odd for living alone in the forest, she’d cared not. Their eyes, filled with empathy, understanding, or even fear, had only amused her. She had reveled in her oddity and smiled inwardly to herself when they’d been desperate for her help. Oh, they shunned her in the village, women often crossing the muddy road quickly, dashing past wagons pulled by teams of oxen, or frightening high-strung horses as they scurried through the puddles just to avoid meeting her. She’d heard that many considered her a witch, a sorceress, or even a female emissary from Satan.