by Lisa Jackson
“Sire, listen to me—”
Irritated, Tremayne paused just long enough for the stubborn old man, hobbling and hitching across the muddy grass, to reach him at last.
“I needs speak to you. ‘Tis about James.”
“The spy?”
“Aye.” Percival straightened his stooped back just as a gust of wind caught his hood and pulled it off his bald head. “He’s missing.”
“But I saw him just last night. He was to slip through the gates of Marwood and learn of Cavan’s plans.”
“Aye—I know. But his horse returned to the castle without a rider.”
“When?”
“Just now.”
“Damn it, man, can no one in this bloody castle perform a simple task?” Kicking at a clod of mud, Tremayne swore under his breath and ducked around the corner of the slaughterhouse. “What happened?” he tossed over his shoulder.
Percival, breathing hard, was right on his heels. “We know not.”
“What about Red? Was he not with James?”
“Red and his horse did not return.”
“Then he may still be on his way to Marwood.”
“Or dead, or kidnapped. His horse stolen.”
Pain pounded at the base of Tremayne’s skull. Percival was forever borrowing trouble. “Let us not consider that possibility.” Vexed beyond words, he strode two steps ahead of the old man. Geese honked noisily, flapping their wings and waddling out of his path, leaving a trail of feathers and droppings. A team of tired, muddy oxen strained against their yoke as they pulled a wagon loaded with casks of ale through the gate. Boys chopped firewood and women milked cows. A flock of sheep, pellets of dung caught in their fleece, bleated raucously from a pen, but Tremayne was caught up in his own private thoughts, too angry to notice.
“Send out a search party,” he ordered, remembering the cocky informant who had bartered with him for Regan’s job as constable. James had been so bold as to ask for Regan’s position in front of the man. ‘Twas odd that so brazen and deft a spy would be caught so quickly. Was there a reason? A traitor, mayhap, who within the castle listened at doorways and reported back to Marwood—or to the outlaw.
’Twas not the first time this thought had crossed Tremayne’s mind. Too many incidents had occurred. Too many times the walls of Twyll had been infiltrated. Too often he’d felt that he was being spied upon within his own keep. That James could have been caught so quickly was unsettling—as worrisome as the fact that his outlaw brother had managed to slip into the castle past the sentries, avoid waking the dogs, and steal his prized steed.
His gut still burned at the treachery, the bold arrogance of Rhys.
By the gods, was there no one he could trust? To the old man he said, “Find James and Red. Both of them. Send out search parties with spies and thugs and the dogs as well.”
Percival nodded, following as Tremayne, caught in his own dark musings, made his way to the stables. A striped cat scurried out of his path and two kitchen maids laughing and talking as they walked to the bakery fell into silence at the sight of him. No doubt his expression was as dark and threatening as the clouds gathering over the western hills.
Something was wrong within the walls of Twyll.
Insidiously wrong.
He rounded a corner and the stables came into view.
His mount, deep brown with white markings, was saddled and tethered to a post. “He’s anxious to run, m’lord.” Timothy, a gangly boy with a ruddy complexion and tufts of wiry, burnished hair that stuck out at all angles, handed Tremayne the reins. The lad’s teeth were crooked and too big for his mouth, but oddly they seemed to balance the wild disarray of his hair.
Tremayne eyed the steed and his lips twisted in dis-approval. A fine animal, but nothing compared to Gryffyn, a stallion he’d raised from a colt, a horse like none other in all of Wales.
And now ridden by the outlaw.
Bile rose in Tremayne’s throat.
If only Rhys had died when he was supposed to have, ten years past.
“Take you not a guard?” Percival asked, breathing hard as he once more struggled to catch up with Tremayne’s swift, angry strides.
The lord of Twyll swung into his saddle and adjusted his quiver upon his back.
“Nay.”
“But there is unrest in the land—rumors that the haunted of Broodmore arise, and Cavan is mounting an attack and the outlaw Rhys—”
“I fear him not!” Tremayne growled, rage pounding through his head. He pulled hard on the reins, and the stallion, shaking his head against the pain of the bit, danced in a tight circle. “In truth, if I find the bastard in the forest today, ‘twill be the end of him.” The thought of hunting down Rhys was a pleasant one. Wounding the bastard first, spilling his blood a little at a time, then slitting his traitorous throat was a fantasy Tremayne had dreamed of often enough. The image brought an evil smile to his lips. The demons that tore at his soul were hungry for blood.
“Send out the dogs,” he yelled, and Henry, the stable master, nodded, passing the word along to the kennels. Within minutes the keeper of the hounds arrived with three of the finest dogs in the castle. The animals strained against their leashes, eager for the hunt.
“Release them,” Tremayne ordered, and the burly man untied each of the shaggy beasts.
“At least ye might consider takin’ yer boy with ye,” Percival suggested.
Tremayne’s back stiffened. “Quinn?”
“Aye. Would it not be good for him?”
“Nay. ‘Tis dangerous,” Tremayne replied. “Too dangerous for the lad.” In truth, the boy could handle the danger, was quick with a quiver and bow. A fearless, brash sort, Quinn was a defiant, clever lad, but the thought of being alone with him, even for a few hours, curdled Tremayne’s insides.
“But—”
“Another time, mayhap. When ‘tis more safe.”
“As ye wish,” Percival reluctantly agreed. “Godspeed.”
Tremayne barely heard him as he reined his steed toward the main gate and cast a glance at the threatening sky. ‘Twould rain or sleet soon. Not that it mattered. In his current foul mood Tremayne welcomed the bad weather. ‘Twas fitting.
He kicked his destrier. The horse launched into a smooth gallop, running across the outer bailey, turning up sod as he sped across the winter grass. The portcullis was open, the drawbridge down as the baron of Twyll tucked his head lower and urged the horse ever faster. Soon the smells and sounds of the keep were behind him.
Yet he experienced an odd feeling, one that had cursed him for the past few weeks, that someone was watching his every move. As he glanced over his shoulder to the high walls of Twyll he thought he caught a glimpse of a hooded figure, dark and blurry, hiding in the crenels of the west tower.
His horse missed a stride as the dogs zigzagged in front of him, and Tremayne ordered the baying hounds to follow. By the time he looked over his shoulder again, the figure had disappeared.
“ ‘Tis only your mind playing tricks on you,” he told himself sternly, but the sense that someone thought to be loyal to him was betraying him burned like fire in his gut.
Chapter Six
“Do not let her out of your sight,” Rhys commanded, motioning toward the door of the chamber where Tara was sleeping. The glare he sent Kent was strong enough to wither the boldest of souls.
“She’ll not escape again,” Kent promised, apparently determined to keep Tara under lock and key. Rhys felt a second’s guilt for imprisoning her, then reminded himself ‘twas for her own good. A lone woman riding to Twyll was at risk—a lone woman with the dark emerald in her pocket was an invitation to murder.
“Good. See to it.”
Rhys hurried out of the castle and forced his thoughts away from the witch and the way her body had felt nestled next to his. For three days and nights he hadn’t left her side, and the tension of being with her as well as waiting for news from Twyll had finally caused his temper to snap.
He’d
been sharp with Abelard, barked orders at the men, and tried to convince himself that he could not make love to her. But as the long hours of the nights had ticked by, he had begun to change his mind. He’d endured the torture of holding her close, of smelling the scent of lavender in her hair, of hearing her soft sighs as she slept, and of bearing the pressure of his manhood, strong and throbbing as it pulsed with a need that he’d tried vainly to ignore. The hours had been sweet torment as he lay with her, desire warring with common sense. Bedding her would only spell trouble of the highest degree.
Outside, the night was cold as all December, and the needle-sharp wind slapped his face. Yet the moon was high, an opalescent sliver, and bright stars spangled the sky.
Abelard waited for him by the horses, two of which were saddled and prancing nervously. His wild white hair shone silver, stark against his dark expression. He held both sets of reins in one gloved hand and growled, “Let us not tarry,” as Rhys approached. He, too, had been testy these past few days. Ever since seeing and touching the damned ring, Abelard had been anxious for battle, his caution thrown to the wind, his patience nearly spent.
He’d waited years to exact his revenge against Twyll, and now that it was at hand, he would not be deterred.
He slapped Gryffyn’s reins into Rhys’s hands. “Hurry.” Climbing onto his mount, a striking sorrel, he nodded his head toward the main gate. Rhys swung onto Gryffyn’s broad back. “Let us ride!” Abelard slapped his steed with the reins. Both horses bolted, flinging mud as they galloped through the sagging gates of Broodmore. Down the steep cliffs and into the forest the horses ran, faster than ‘twas safe, as if they, too, needed the raw energy of the run.
As the path narrowed, they slowed, following a trail that was as familiar to Rhys as the corridors and secrets of Twyll. Through the forest, where thick stands of pine were interspersed with rolling hills of grassland, over a river and south past a village near Gaeaf. Rhys and Abelard rode in mute tandem, the only sounds the steady plop of the horses’ hooves as they climbed an old mining trail, the rustle of a bat’s wings, the solitary hoot of an owl. Abelard was deep in his own thoughts, and Rhys knew him well enough not to say a word. From the first time they’d met, nearly ten years past, Abelard had always been moody, and ofttimes after periods of brooding silence his barely restrained temper would explode.
Through the foothills, where the dank smells of the forest filled their nostrils and the trees were thick again, they rode. Finally, as if he could stand his silent musings not a second longer, Abelard spoke. “We need the ring.”
Of course. Rhys had expected as much. Yet he didn’t budge. “ ‘Tis not ours. We already spoke of this.”
“Aye, but that was days ago.”
“Naught has changed. The ring and the emerald belong to Tara.”
“What says she?”
“We speak not of it.”
“Bah!” Abelard glowered into the night, staring at the space between the sorrel’s ears. “She is our prisoner. Whatever she owns is now ours. ‘Tis our rule.” Twisting in his saddle so as to stare hard at the younger man, he asked, “Do you not remember?”
“You needs not remind me.” Rhys shifted uncomfortably upon his mount.
“ ‘Twas our bargain—yours and mine. You agreed.”
How could he argue with the man who had saved his life? Were it not for Abelard, who had found him naked and bleeding in the forest, he would have died of the cold or been killed by marauding beasts. Wolves were howling in the forest that night, wild boars grunting, bears hiding in their lairs. As he’d shivered and drifted in and out of consciousness, he’d felt icy rain pound against the raw wounds in his bare, flayed flesh, and through the fog in his brain, he heard the creatures of the night stirring, smelling blood.
His skin was on fire, the sleet painful as it struck his body, balming as it melted. He was too weak to rise, unable to walk or crawl to shelter. Left for dead, he lay on the forest floor, wet leaves, worms, and insects beneath him, a dark, cloud-covered sky above.
As he closed his eyes and succumbed to unconsciousness, he envisioned her image. Anna. Beautiful. Playful. Blue eyes dancing with mischief, pale hair falling around her face in long, damp strands. Her warm, lithe body had eagerly curled up to meet his as they joined at a fever pitch, only to tumble into each other’s arms spent and sated. Pine needles were their mattress, lacy, entwined branches their canopy.
He’d told himself that the lovemaking was worth the risk, that intimately caressing his hated half brother’s betrothed was a joy he would carry with him to his grave. But they’d been caught the day before the wedding.
He’d spent the night in the forest with her and they’d returned to the castle at dawn. Despair and hopelessness weighed heavily upon him. He drank a tankard of ale, dropped onto his bed, and didn’t hear the bolt of his door slide out of place, had no chance to open his eye and catch a glimpse of the strong hand that forced a rough sack over his head and beat him until his nose cracked and blood smeared his face, until he lost consciousness.
Hours later, deep in the dungeon of Twyll, he awakened. He was strapped to two iron posts, not wearing a stitch of clothes, his arms and legs spread as far as they would stretch. When he tried to break free, the leather around his wrists tightened painfully. Blood crusted his nose. His face was swollen, his eyes nearly shut from the beating he’d received.
“So, the bastard awakes.”
Tremayne’s voice was behind him, and though he tried to twist his head, he couldn’t see anything in the smoky torchlight but the dripping, dank walls and rusting chains. Several cells, barred doors locked, faced him, and the prisoners, who were not much more than agitated skeletons with hollow eyes and stringy hair, glowered at him, reminding him of cornered hungry beasts.
Fear congealed Rhys’s blood.
Tremayne, dressed in a fine linen shirt and dark breeches, rounded one post. His lips were curled in disgust, his gaze aglow with unmasked hatred. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, he plucked a long, thick-handled whip off one wall. Without a word, he strolled behind Rhys once again, and Rhys braced himself. There was a long silence, then Tremayne’s swift intake of breath.
The whip cracked.
Like a snake, it bit into Rhys’s flesh.
Pain shot up his spine. His body jerked.
Crack!
Again.
Pain burst between his shoulders.
Crack!
Again. His entire body convulsed.
Crack!
Another spasm. And a sting that roared through his senses.
Rhys closed his eyes. Bit down on his lip. Tasted blood.
Blackness hovered around the edge of his vision.
Crack!
His body tensed.
The whip flailed.
Again and again and again.
Ten times. Twenty. He lost count. Oh, God save me. Losing consciousness would be heaven. His knees buckled.
Crack!
Blinding pain.
This time he sagged, the welcoming blackness swirling over him like soothing waters. Blissfully, he succumbed.
Water, near the temperature of ice, splashed over his face, ran down his body. Sputtering, coughing, gasping for breath, he awoke, his swollen, slitted eyes barely able to focus.
His back throbbed, his leg muscles cramped, his hands were numb. Pain pounded through his brain. Oh, God, he was still here.
“ ‘E’s comin’ ‘round, m’lord.” A toothless goon who reeked of these foul dungeons smiled evilly as he threw another pail of water over Rhys’s head.
Cold water cleared his brain, fired his hatred. Coughing, Rhys sagged against his bindings.
“Good.” Tremayne, striding in front of his victim, slowly removed his shirt. Sweat sheened beneath the swirls of graying chest hair. “Now, we’ll see how strong you are.” His eyes gleamed fiercely and he walked behind Rhys again, the length of whip dragging behind him. Slowly he coiled it and Rhys, half dead, steeled h
imself yet again, refusing to bend or beg for pity.
He heard a shuffling on the stairs, a horrified woman’s cry. “Nay, oh, nay, do not take me—”
Anna. Sweet, sweet lady.
Propelled down the stairs and into the dank cellar by a guard with arms as big as hams and a bland, spiritless expression, Anna was flung into the dungeon. She stumbled on the hem of her silk gown, and spying Rhys staked between pillars, she gasped. “Oh, God, no!” She recoiled in sheer horror and tried to return to the stairs, but the guard grabbed her arms, turned her around, and forced her to stare at the man with whom she’d so recently been intimate.
Despair clawed his soul.
“I take it you do not want to watch,” Tremayne said from somewhere behind Rhys.
Anna, her face ashen, shook her head vehemently and stared past Rhys’s bare, bleeding shoulder. She was quivering with fear, the shiny blue silk shimmering in the dim, smoky light. Tears streamed from her eyes. “Nay, oh, please do not. Leave him be … he … he … sweet Jesus, he is half dead as it is.” Her voice cracked, and one lovely hand covered her mouth, as if the very sight of him made her stomach roil.
Rhys sagged in his chains, his shoulders screaming in pain, his back burning.
“He is only getting the punishment he deserves for betraying me,” Tremayne said calmly. Rhys, his head pounding, barely heard the words.
She couldn’t stop shaking.
“This is what happens to those who deceive me.”
“Dear God,” she whispered hoarsely as Tremayne, still dragging his whip, approached the woman doomed to be his wife.
“You see, love, I know of your trysts.”
“Nay—”
“Oh, yea, my bride. I’ve seen you with him. You’ve made me a laughingstock with your whoring.”
“Nay, I did not … we did not …” She was trembling so violently she could barely stand. Through his blurry vision, Rhys saw her quake. He tried to break free from his bonds but could not. “Stop this … this torture,” she pleaded. “Tremayne, please, you must!”
“Shh!” He raised his hand, ready to slap her hard, and she, sobbing, cowered. “You, Anna, must promise never—do you understand, never—to betray me again. From tomorrow morn until forever you will remain faithful to me.”