by Lisa Jackson
Biting her lip, she kept moving, wondering if she was only going in a huge rectangle and would eventually end up at the staircase again. Her heart thudded, her fingers were raw when she sensed the change, a subtle shift in the atmosphere.
She paused and realized that she was feeling the whispery touch of fresh air, a breath of wind gusting into the old chamber. But from where? Slowly she rotated until the breeze was against her face, then edged in the direction of the unseen and welcome current.
Thunk. The toe of one boot encountered a mound. She jumped and cried out. Hideous images of dead bodies, rotting carcasses, or skeletons devoid of flesh raced in ugly detail through her mind, but a soft chink as she moved told her that she had only encountered a coiled chain, long forgotten and used for heaven-only-knew-what.
Stay calm. Keep your wits. She moved forward slowly toward the breeze until she reached the wall, where an uncovered window was positioned at the height of her head. As far as she could tell, it was her only means of escape. With nothing to step on, she couldn’t scale the wall. She leaped up and grabbed the sill but couldn’t pull herself through. Her nails scraped as she tried to hold on. Slowly her own weight dragged her down and her palm scraped against a rough shard of metal—pieces of bars that had long ago rusted through. She dropped back to the floor and flung herself upward yet again, only to fall onto the cold stones of the floor once more. “You must,” she told herself, grit and determination forcing her to leap upward again. This time she caught the far end of the smooth stone sill and felt the bits of bars press painfully into her belly. Nonetheless, she pulled herself into the opening and tried to get her bearings.
Blinking hard, she gazed into what had once presumably been the bailey. It was impossible to gauge how far beneath her the ground was, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t return to the dungeon. She balanced and twisted carefully in the small space, moving cautiously so as not to jab herself with the remainders of the bars while forcing her feet outside. The voluminous folds of her skirt caught several times, and she had to strain to maneuver into the right position, but eventually she was able to lower her body slowly, her fingers holding tight to the sill. As much as she could guess, the drop to the ground was only a few feet. Bracing herself, she let go of the sill.
She landed on the wet grass and nearly sank into the mire to the tops of her boots. The rain had stopped, but the ground was soft beneath her feet and her skin exposed by the square neckline of the dress felt the chill in the air.
With difficulty she started walking, keeping to the darkest shadows near the wall, needing to get some distance between herself and the dungeon. The walls of Broodmore encircled her. With its uneven blackened towers and decaying curtain, the castle was a perfect prison. She had no idea which way lay freedom, but she knew she would find it. She had no choice. Her destiny lay with Twyll and Father Simon. She only hoped that the priest who had brought her as a babe to Lodema’s hut would know whether she was the daughter of Lady Farren and Lord Gilmore.
And what if you be their heir? What then? Would you confront Baron Tremayne with the truth, show him the stone, be so daft as to think he would lay down his right to rule to you? She could not look that far forward. First she would find out the truth; then she would decide what to do with it.
Her head cleared, she started toward the tallest tower. Mayhap beneath the watchtower would be a gate that had rotted through. She had taken but a few steps when she heard a soft nicker.
The horses!
Her heart leaped at her sudden turn of luck, for there, not fifty feet away, were several mares and stallions, tethered to an ancient wagon that was missing its wheels. Tara spied Dobbyn and nearly shouted at her good fortune, for she now had the means to ride away from this miserable castle with its crypts and secrets and darkly brooding men.
Or did she?
Would not Rhys expect her to escape on horseback?
Was there not a guard? Her gaze surveyed the curtain wall and the rectangular towers that rose above it. In the darkness she searched the confines of the bailey, wondering about the thickset guard who had been posted outside the window of the chapel. Was he asleep? Or if he had given up his post, would not another man, just as earnest in his job, take his place?
Convinced that someone must be about, she squinted into the darkness but spied no one. Rhys had to know that she had fled her room—would he not think she would take her horse? Or had all the men been alerted and even now were searching the inside of the castle?
Noiselessly she crossed the expanse of weeds and grass to the broken-down wagon. The horses stirred, snorting and pawing as she walked along the tether line until she reached her nervous jennet. Dobbyn snorted and pranced, pulling at her lead. “Shh.” Gently Tara rubbed the mare’s nose, feeling her warm breath and velvet-soft muzzle against her chilled, scratched fingers. “Aye, ‘tis a good girl you be, Dobbyn,” she whispered while untying the tether and preparing to use it as a single rein. As the horse minced in a tight circle, Tara managed to hoist herself up on the mare’s sleek back, certain at any moment that she would hear a sentry’s shout or spy a man leaping out of the dark shadows to accost her.
Morrigu and Rhiannon, guide me.
With her nerves strung tight as bowstrings, she urged Dobbyn across the bailey toward the main gate. She planned to ride the interior perimeter, searching for rotting timbers, an open door, a crack in the curtain wall, anything. Her dress bunched around her legs, bare from thigh to the tops of her boots, and she clung tightly to the single rein while winding her fingers in the mare’s thick mane.
Please, God, let me find a way out.
Most of the bailey was overgrown with berry vines and bracken along with tall grass … it mattered not. Past an old well and an eel pond that had long ago flooded its banks she rode.
Somewhere far away a wolf sent up a lonely cry, and for a second she thought she heard a man’s shout. Her heart froze. She urged Dobbyn ever faster in the wide circle. Come on, come on. There must be a way out. There has to be!
The main gate was closed, a rusting portcullis blocking her exit. Her mount broke into a gentle lope. Searching every inch of stone and mortar—the collapsing towers, the once-regal fore buildings, the turrets—Tara saw no one and no way out of this tumbledown prison. ‘Twas futile. ‘Twas no wonder Rhys was not chasing her. He was probably watching from some hidden window, laughing at her thwarted attempts to find freedom.
Defeat entered her heart and she pulled back on the single tether, only to spy it—a dark crevice at the corner of one of the towers, a crack in the curtain wall. Her heart leaped for a second, then she told herself she was imagining things. But nay, it was truly there—a wide, jagged gap in the rough curtain wall.
Was it possible? Could there be so easy an escape route? Her heart pounded.
Tugging on the rein, forcing the little bay’s head in the direction of the crumbling wall, Tara felt a small glimmer of hope. There was enough room for a horse to pass through the fissure in the chipped mortar and stone. “The fates be with us, Dobbyn,” she said, though she hardly dared to believe her own words. Anticipating her first taste of freedom, Tara dug in her heels. The mare picked up speed, her hoofs no longer quiet as she raced toward the wide gap, the crevice yawning open. Tara’s heart took flight. “Come on, come on,” she encouraged. Then she saw him.
Tall and strapping, his shape even darker than the night as she approached, Rhys stepped out of the shadow of the tower.
So the outlaw was waiting for her.
At the very spot in the wall that she had thought was her means of deliverance.
No! No! No!
Despair tore at her soul.
For a second she thought about reining Dobbyn to a stop, but then she would have no chance to get away, no means to ride to Twyll, no way to find out for herself if she truly was the daughter of Gilmore.
All would be for naught.
Nay, she could not give up. This was her chance and take it she would. �
�Go!” she cried to her horse. “Run like the bloody wind!” Leaning forward, tangling the fingers of her free hand firmly into the mare’s thick mane, she kneed Dobbyn hard in the ribs, intent on forcing her to fly past the cursed criminal. “Go! Run, damn you, run!”
Dobbyn’s strides lengthened again. Galloping head-long toward the opening, she ran fearlessly—as bold as any warhorse. Tara clenched her legs tight around the horse. The wind tore at her hair. Her skirt billowed wildly behind her.
Rhys didn’t budge.
Was he daft?
“Move!” Her heart was racing as fast as the horse’s hooves. Sweet Mary, she didn’t want to run him down.
But she would.
Dobbyn’s hoofs flung mud, her neck extended, and she was running as if the devil himself were on her tail. The crevice was close, barely thirty yards.
“Halt.” Rhys’s order echoed throughout the bailey.
The game horse sailed onward.
Tara held on for dear life.
Rhys had to move. He had to! He had no choice—and yet he stood his ground. Arrogant and imperious. And a damned fool.
Faster and faster Dobbyn ran. Go! Go! Go!
The space between them was so small. Oh, merciful God—
He stepped aside at the last possible second, before Dobbyn’s steps faltered, before he was trampled.
Tara’s spirits soared. She was free!
But, nay!
From the corner of her eye, she saw a flash. Rhys coiled, then hurled himself at the bay. “Nay—” As agilely as if he’d flung himself onto galloping horses any day of the week, Rhys wrapped one arm around Tara and managed to swing onto the jennet’s back. “Oh!” Startled, his weight slamming into her, Tara screamed as she started to fall. The night swirled in her vision as her head pitched forward. Strong arms hauled her back onto the horse’s shoulders, viselike legs clamped around the racing mare’s sides.
Dobbyn stumbled, caught herself, then as if whipped, she soared over a pile of rocks and landed on the soft loam outside the castle walls.
Shocked and shaking, Tara clung to the horse’s tether and mane. Rhys held her fast. Steely arms surrounded her, pulled her tight against him, so that her back was molded to his chest, her legs shaped to his. He moved with the horse, as if he’d ridden without a saddle all his life. “Hang on!” he ordered as he snatched the tether from her hand.
Tara shook her head. “Nay! You get off!”
He laughed then, unafraid as Dobbyn careened around the massive exterior of the castle, hooves flashing, eyes wild with fear.
Tara was doomed. Rhys would never let her escape. Short of throwing herself off the flying animal, she was trapped. Again.
Freedom, it seemed, was not to be hers.
Threading the tether through the fingers of one hand, Rhys took charge. His other hand was flattened tightly on her abdomen, his long fingers splayed possessively under her breast. She could barely breathe, didn’t dare move. Oh, the Bastard Outlaw was a fiend! Letting her have a tiny taste of freedom, only to thwart her.
“Damn you!”
He laughed again. “I am.”
“You have no right—”
“I know.”
“Then let me go—”
“ ‘Tis too late, witch. Far too late.” Rhys guided Dobbyn toward an old foot track that cut through the woods. He was breathing as hard as the horse. His chest was firm against Tara’s back and his crotch was pressed hard against her buttocks. The only barrier between his body and hers was a few folds of velvet. Not that she cared. Not that it mattered. He was her jailer, nothing more. A man to be tricked.
Though she had failed.
“God’s eyes,” she swore, using a phrase that Lodema had always sputtered out when she was particularly disgusted. Rhys pulled gently back on the lead, slowing Dobbyn to a walk. “You were waiting for me.”
“Aye. ‘Twas only a matter of time before you found the only gate out of the bailey.”
“Bastard!”
“Some say.”
“You be the most irritating, arrogant, miserable blackheart … oh!”
He pulled her roughly to him and his lips were warm against her ear. “Careful, witch, or I just might prove to you how right you are.” The hand on her abdomen was warm, the feel of him as seductive as the moonlight that pierced the thin veil of clouds.
’Twas impossible to escape the man! Fury pulsed through her blood as she tried again to devise a plan to rid herself of him, and failed. The arm around her was strong as steel.
Oh, cursed, cursed luck! She thought of the damned stone. ‘Twas truly as if the ring were damned.
“Where did you think you were going?” he said in her ear as he guided Dobbyn into the darkness of the forest. The smell of rain still lingered.
“Anywhere,” she replied, furious that he’d caught her, sick at herself for the tingle of her skin where his breath brushed the back of her neck and where his legs touched hers behind her knees.
“To Twyll?”
“Mayhap.”
“To claim your birthright?”
“If it be mine.”
She felt the horse begin to turn, and she realized that Rhys was drawing up on the makeshift rein, forcing Dobbyn to return to Broodmore. Sweat covered the bay’s dark coat, and flecks of white lather showed in the moonlight.
“ ‘Tis dangerous at Twyll.”
“More so than being trapped in a castle filled with the most vile of men?”
“No harm will come to you at Broodmore,” he assured her, “Well—as long as you don’t tell the men what you think of them.”
“I should trust you?” she asked, unable to keep the sting of sarcasm from her words.
“You have no choice.” His arm tightened a bit around her, and she tried not to notice the pressure of his chest against her spine, the way his thighs fit so perfectly against the back of hers. He was her captor, her sworn enemy, the reason she was not at this moment at Tower Twyll discovering the truth.
The moon, now low in the sky, cast a few weak rays through the trees to illuminate the decaying bastions of Broodmore. A prison. Her private dungeon. With a bastard outlaw as her jailer. Aye, the fates were cruel. Morrigu had abandoned her. As had God.
Rhys guided Dobbyn through the very crevice in the wall that she’d thought would be her portal to freedom. Ha! Freedom! ‘Twas no more than a humorless joke.
“Halt! Who goes there?” A hearty voice ricocheted through the bailey.
Rhys turned his head upward and shouted, “ ‘Tis I, Peter.”
So now the sentry made himself known. Had he been posted there in the turret all along? Hiding in the broken crenels? Ordered into silence so that Rhys could allow her false hope only to humiliate her?
“Oh. Sir Rhys.”
“Sir?” she repeated, surprised at the title.
“No longer,” he said curtly.
She saw movement near the broken wagon, and three men, dark shapes with sailing capes, ran toward them. As the trio of outlaws approached, Tara recognized their faces. Old beyond their years, with shifting eyes and scraggly beards, they were only a few of the men with whom she’d shared her last meal. Three pairs of eyes, shadowed by hoods, stared up at her without the slightest bit of warmth.
“So there ye be,” the tallest man said. Though his features were shadowed, she recognized his shape and raspy voice. He was the one they called Benjamin. “And ye found the lady.” Was there the hint of mockery in his words? Clucking his tongue—either to encourage the horse to step forward or to register the folly of Tara’s attempted escape—he grabbed the rein as Rhys tossed it to him.
Finally releasing Tara, Rhys slid to the ground, then turned quickly and grabbed her waist again, forcing her off Dobbyn’s back. The horse pulled at the tether and started to rear, but Benjamin held fast to the rein.
“Take care of the beast,” Rhys instructed as Tara, slipping free of him at last, marched angrily over the bent grass to the damned castle. Though it was
a prison, ‘twas her fate. At least for a while. Her fists curled tightly, her nails biting into her already scratched palms. The wind picked up, racing across the bailey, toying with the hem of her dress, snatching at her hair. Tired, defeated, and feeling a fool, she forced her chin up and headed toward the oncegreat hall.
Within a heartbeat Rhys caught up with her. Steel fingers grabbed her elbow.
She tried to jerk away. “You need not lead me around like a hunting dog on a leash.” His grip over her sleeve only tightened.
“A dog I would trust. You, m’lady, I do not.”
“You are angry because I tried to escape?” She whirled on him, her temper exploding, every muscle in her body tense with rage. “And what would you do, eh, Sir Rhys? If you were forced to stay in a castle against your will, a place where you were watched every moment of the day and night, a disreputable stone keep where the servants and peasants are all outlaws—thieves, murderers, pickpockets, and the like? Would you sit idly by, twiddling your damned thumbs, and meekly accept your fate?” She angled her face upward to stare into the silvery depths of his eyes. “I think not!”
“I would do as I was told if it be for my own good—”
“Never!” she cut in, furious that he would lie so baldly. She jabbed a stiff, angry finger at his chest. “You would fight as I have, try to find a means of escape, a way to elude your captors. Do not lie to me, Rhys of Twyll. I know of you. Know what you’re made of. ‘Tis an insult to expect me to believe that you would accept your imprisonment and lie down, rolling over like a submissive hound. Nay, you would never.”
With that she turned on her heel, and with her teeth clenched, her temper seething, she strode the final few yards to the center of the keep. Rhys, though silent, was with her every step of the way. His fingers never once relinquished their tight, uncompromising grip.
Fiend!
Criminal!
Bastard!
Her back as unbending as solid oak, she climbed the chipped stone steps to the great hall, and the night, moonlit but cold, closed around her. Who was this man, to treat her as if she were his own personal property? Again she tried top pull away from him and was rewarded by his fingers digging into her flesh.