The Herald's Heart

by Rue Allyn

  A blast of frigid, rain-damp air woke him. A scent ten times worse than any privy followed swiftly on the chill. Men who died in battle smelled better. Talon gagged, came alert, and slid from the bed in one silent motion. He crouched, balanced on the balls of his feet, ignoring the cold of the floor. He closed his hand around his sword’s hilt. His eyes searched the gloom.

  In front of the solar doorway hovered a slim column of white. For the second time that night, Talon felt fear slither down his spine. Were the villagers right? Was Hawksedge Keep haunted?

  His gaze narrowed, focused completely on the apparition that swayed within the opening. He inhaled deep and slow, then choked on the nauseating scent, and barely restrained a cough. A shuffle broke the silence. Shoes! He was right. That pale figure was no ghost. But who was it? And why pretend to haunt an abandoned keep?

  Talon held his breath and waited, certain he remained undetected on the far side of the bed. His muscles coiled, ready to spring at the first sign of discovery. But the shoe-wearing figure turned away.

  He rose silently and followed it down the hallway. The intruder paused near the passage’s end. Talon wished now he had explored the entire keep earlier. The mock ghost had the advantage of knowing the territory. Allowing an opponent an advantage was never a good idea. However, Talon had surprise on his side, and weight as well from the rail-thin look of the intruder.

  The figure paused, stooped, then straightened. Talon halted. Steel snicked on flint. A light flared. The ghost lifted a lantern, opened a door, and disappeared. A faint glow from the lantern spilled into the hall, telling Talon the door remained ajar. Cat-footed, he sped to the opening and peered around the edge.

  The intruder stood before the far wall. The lantern rested on a small table. A pale arm lifted and fell. A small chink sounded.

  Prying with some tool at the wall stones? Were there secrets within the keep’s walls? Talon moved over the threshold, hoping to get close enough to see what the false spirit was about. His raised sword clanked against some object.

  The figure turned, threw an object at Talon, and leaped at him in the same instant. Talon dodged the missile and braced for impact. His movement opened a narrow space. With robe lifted, the intruder sped past him, flying down the corridor.

  “Nay,” Talon roared his frustration. He pursued.

  Halfway to the stairs, he caught the robe’s hem and jerked. The cloth parted just above the ghostly knees. The intruder stumbled but regained balance and ran on, long, white legs aflash. Talon launched himself at the retreating form, desperate to get the upper hand and stop the invader’s escape.

  • • •

  Larkin swung the small mason’s hammer and hit the chisel she’d positioned in the cracked mortar. She’d left the bucket of offal just outside the door. She heartily disliked the stuff, but it was an essential part of the disguise that kept everyone away from the keep. The hammer swung again, and a chunk of mortar flew past her shoulder. She was making progress and had every hope she would soon find her family’s marriage box. Satisfaction settled the nerves that had churned in her stomach from the instant the fog had parted to show a man’s face.

  It had been a close call.

  She’d held her breath, listening to the clop of hooves sounding ever closer behind her. She heard nothing save that cursed squeaky axle. Were it not for the ill-fitted beam’s grinding wail, she and her unshod pony might have passed by the stranger and never seen him, nor he her. Now the lack of grease might lead the man straight to her. She hadn’t dared to breathe until she knew she’d escaped him. No pursuit sounded in the mist.

  “Hell and blast the devil, that hurt,” from out of the miasma, a deep masculine voice had sworn.

  What happened? She had shifted, trying to see behind her. The fog shrouded everything, except for the string of curses that faded even as they echoed from every direction, but she saw nothing and no one. She smiled then sobered. Whatever occupied the man, she was safe—for the time being.

  A full year carting for the abbey in the area around Hawksedge Keep had told her where she was without having to see. The grassy verge she had followed paralleled the keep’s walls, until the mortared stones cornered and the path went on toward the cliffs. ’Twas those cliffs that were her immediate, though not ultimate, goal this night.

  No this night, as she had every night for the past month, she donned a concealing white cloak and entered Hawksedge Keep through one of many caves in the cliff side that arced along the coast. That particular cave led to the keep’s secret passage and allowed her to enter unwatched so she could search the building for her family’s marriage box. Because she was the oldest—and only—married female in her mother’s family, the box belonged to her now. The large box, almost the size of a chest, contained in one compartment locks of hair, cut from each bride on her wedding day, tied with ribbons from each wedding dress. In a second compartment were stored copies of all the marriage documents for the past hundred years. The box was handed down from mother to daughter and held the proof that Larkin was who she claimed to be. With the box in her possession, she could reclaim the Rosham home and title, then seek justice for her family’s murder. The villagers would cease calling her Liar Larkin. The evil, conniving Earl of Hawksedge would be forced to acknowledge her and admit he had ordered the murder of her entire family. All she had to do was find the marriage box that had to be hidden somewhere in the vast levels, rooms, and hallways of Hawksedge Keep. Unless the earl had destroyed it.

  She shook her head and continued to chisel mortar from a section of stone that was obviously more recently laid than the rest of the walls in the room. She refused to believe the box and its contents would be destroyed. The earl needed the marriage box as much as she did, for it was proof that, through his supposedly dead wife, he owned her childhood home, Rosewood Castle, and all its lands.

  Thank the Madonna that the marriage to the earl was by proxy and had never been consummated. Larkin moved the chisel. Once she had the box and proved her identity, she would reclaim her birthright. Then she could petition for an annulment and plead her case for justice to the king. Finally, she would be free to live the peaceful, independent life she’d longed for since the day she’d sat vigil in the dirt and bushes mere steps from her mother’s dead body.

  She forced all thought of her mother and father from her head. The time would come when she would need the fury those horrifying memories created, but not now. Now she needed to remain cool and aware of her surroundings. The earl could reappear as easily as he disappeared. Then his servants would fill the keep, and she would have to restrict her searches to occasions when she knew she would not be discovered. Heavens, visitors unaware of the earl’s absence could arrive at any time. Was that what had brought the stranger to the area? If so, he’d been going the wrong way. She chuckled to herself. Hawksedge Keep had been less than a yard behind him. He was probably still wandering lost in the fog. With luck, he’d find the village and take shelter there. Otherwise, he was in for a long, cold, wet night.

  The sound of metal on stone clanked behind her. She whirled and threw the hammer at the tall, broad man advancing from the doorway. Whoever it was dodged the hammer, leaving her an opening to the hallway.

  Lifting her robe, she leapt forward, tumbling the lamp to the floor as she sped past him and flew down the corridor.

  He pursued, shouting his denial.

  She ran faster. She would escape him.

  A jerk on her robe made her stumble. The cloth tore, and she was able to recover her balance. The stairs were in sight. She could lose him in the gloom at the bottom. She lengthened her stride.

  A tremendous blow knocked the breath from her lungs and the chisel from her grasp, then brought her to her knees. The weight behind the blow laid her flat. Her brain rattled on impact with the floor, and pain burst in her left cheek.

  Her hood fell over her head. Despite the ache in her pate, she struggled to rise, to breathe, but the weight on her back pressed her do
wn. She kicked without effect at the solid limbs that surrounded her legs. Her hands scrabbled. If only she could find purchase in the exposed skin of the face that she knew rose just above her head.

  Luck was with her. One hand filled with a hank of hair. The nails of her other hand sank into his neck. She would not succumb to her mother’s fate. She would slit his throat by hand, if she must.

  “Arrgh!” Iron fingers closed around each of her wrists. A satisfying clump of golden locks flashed by in one of her hands as he jerked them away from his face. The relentless pressure on her back increased, forcing her to exhale what little air she had left.

  Then her back was free of the weight, but more of it settled on her rump at the point where her bottom met her thighs. She sucked in huge gasps of air. Despite the grip on her arms, she twisted wildly, trying to dislodge her attacker and break the hold.

  “Stop,” a vaguely familiar voice ground out as tight and hard as his grasp. “Or you’ll get more than the beating you deserve.”

  She ignored him, pitching herself from side to side and bucking as much as she could.

  The pressure on her arms increased. She shivered as his warm breath flowed over her ear.

  “Sweet Jesu, will you cease before you do us both an injury?”

  Larkin stilled, panting, but could not cease the trembling that seized her body. That voice belonged to the man she’d left cursing in the fog.

  “Much better,” he huffed and eased back.

  He hadn’t hurt her and was trying not to. Why?

  Holding her wrists in one hand, she felt him fumble at her waist and remove the rope that cinched her robe tight. Nay! He would not rape her. Before she could renew her fight, he bound her wrists. When hard hands bit into her upper arms, she writhed in protest. He stood, lifted her upright, and turned her to face him. Her feet dangled above the floor.

  From beneath the shadow of her hood, she stared into the same dark eyes she’d seen in the fog outside. Were they purple? ’Twas too dark to tell much save they were nearly black. Bloody furrows decorated his neck. Scraped skin showed on his nose and chin, and his mouth twisted in a frown. She made a silent prayer for release.

  The prayer found answer in a rapid shaking.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  Larkin closed her eyes against the disorienting motion and felt her hood fall back.

  Of a sudden the shaking ceased.

  “St. Swithun’s toes, you’re the woman from the fog.”

  She opened her eyes and sent him a piercing glare.

  Unaffected, the man turned her around, set her on her feet before him, and pushed her into the solar and down onto a footstool. He pulled up the only chair and sat in front of her. Her gaze traveled from his square chin and firm-lipped mouth, past his broad shoulders, lingered briefly on his lightly furred chest, and then dipped lower. That was the moment when she realized he was naked—completely, hugely naked. She felt her eyes grow round. Her gaze sprang back to his face. Her cheeks burned, though she doubted he could see it in the dimness.

  “Like what you see?” He grinned, showing strong white teeth. Without waiting for her reply, he rose and went to the bed where he donned hose and chausses, then returned to sit with his well-muscled chest entirely too close to her nose. “Now who are you? What are you doing here? Where is the earl?”

  She remained mute under the hail of questions. Why couldn’t she have run faster?

  “Well.” He leaned forward, crowding her. “I’m not a patient man, but I can be merciful, if you tell the truth.”

  Larkin held herself still. Would he believe the truth?

  He leaned forward once more and spoke quietly in her ear. “You were about to explain who you are and what you know about the earl’s disappearance.”

  “I know nothing about the earl.” She answered in the same clear, crisp Norman tongue of the nobility that he used so he could not mistake her meaning.

  “’Tis possible,” he acknowledged, “but not likely. I shall count that as one falsehood against you. Do not tell me another. Who are you?”

  He would not believe her, so why not say true? “I am Lady Larkin Rosham.”

  He heaved a great sigh.

  Mint wafted her way on breath that was surprisingly sweet for such a monster. She shivered.

  “Not many peasants can manage such clear Norman. ’Tis obvious you have been well schooled. I told you not to try another lie.”

  “I don’t lie.” Although she did not bother to correct his assumption that she was a peasant. ’Twould be a waste of breath.

  “Do you not? All England knows that Scots raiders murdered Baron Rosham and his family years ago. Since you cannot tell the truth, I have no choice but to keep you with me.” He grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “’Tis a shame. I would have liked more cooperation this night.”

  He would rape her after all. And she could do nothing to prevent it. She would end like her mother. But before she died, she would find a way to kill him.

  CHAPTER TWO

  She jerked her chin away and, from the corner of her eye, caught sight of the big bed. Fear numbed her ability to resist. She watched as he retied her wrists in front of her.

  He lifted her over his shoulder and carried her to the velvet-draped bed, where he placed her on the thin rug beside one of the posts near the foot of the bed. She mentally rubbed her stinging backside and watched him fumble inside a sack that lay on a chest. What kind of rapine was this?

  He pulled out a rope that he promptly wrapped round her torso, securing her arms to her body. He then tied the rope to the post, leaving enough slack that she might reach the screened chamber pot or lie down, if she wished. As if she could find comfort on the thin cloth covering the hard floor. Hmph. The man had no courtesy in him if he left a lady to shiver in discomfort on a scratchy rug that did little to soften or warm the floor planks while he sought his sleep on a cozy down bed. Of course, he thought her a peasant, not a lady.

  Heavy cloth dropped over her head. Larkin sputtered and struggled to shake off the restricting wool. Her efforts were wasted. No sooner had he covered her than the man’s hands lifted the cloth, freed her face, and rearranged the wool around her for what little warmth the fabric might provide. His hands roamed across her body and legs. Larkin felt heat trail in the wake of his fingers. How could she possibly feel heat when the cold made her shake?

  He lifted her head, and Larkin felt the down of a pillow behind her as he released his grip. The shadow cast by the bed obliterated all light, but she felt his breath on her cheek and knew he held his face close to hers.

  “’Tis not my way to treat any woman with discourtesy. But you do not answer my questions, and your actions tonight resemble those of a thief. Tomorrow, perhaps, will be different. But know this, Mistress Ghost, you will never escape me. I always gain what I want, and what I gain, I keep.” He climbed into the bed and was soon snoring softly.

  Larkin lay awake for a long time working at the knots and failing to loosen them, finally falling into exhausted slumber. Screams woke her, as they had nearly every night for the past seven years. She lay curled tightly against the dark, the fear, and told herself the screams were imaginary, an echo of the horror she’d suffered at mother’s death. But this night, the voice crying out in protest and denial was real and very audible. The rocks and bushes of her personal nightmare had become a hard floor and walls, and a deeper voice moaned against loss and pain.

  Where was she, and why she was not abed? Moonlight streamed in from a high narrow window. She was in the solar of Hawksedge Keep. She’d come to search for the marriage box and been discovered. The man who’d caught her had tied her to the bed, apologized before making that odd threat, “What I want, I keep,” then gone to sleep. She’d heard his snores long before the ghosts of her past allowed her rest. Nay, I will not let fear conquer me again.

  “Nay.”

  Larkin’s body leapt at the voice that echoed her thoughts. Did those agoni
zed cries come from her captor? She listened carefully.

  “Don’t! Please, stop,” came his tortured whisper.

  By the time she struggled to her feet, his voice had gone still. But she knew all too well the demons that hid in the silence.

  One of the man’s arms lay on the bed against his side. His other arm lay across his waist. His jaw slacked open a bit. The firm lips issued the muffled snore. Moonlight fell across his brow and shoulders. He looked ... innocent. Fascinated, she swallowed her fears and stared her fill.

  Ebon lashes fanned against his cheekbones. Her gaze drifted lower, past the sturdy column of his throat and the shoulders that could fill a doorway, to the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Pale, red-gold curls danced from one flat, brown nipple to the other and down his torso in an ever-shrinking spiral to slip beneath the linen. The narrow hips, so different from her round ones, tantalized her. She could see little more than the outline of long, lean legs covered by the bedclothes. But she recalled vividly the one sight she’d had of his naked form. Her face heated.

  His head tossed, drawing her attention back to the blond locks and sculpted face. His eyes remained closed, but his lips moved. He pleaded with someone. Who?

  She knew what it was like to have terror share her dreams. For seven years, she’d started awake in the darkest hours with no comfort to be found. He sobbed, and a lone tear escaped his eyelids.

  She could not allow emotion to make her weak. He’d done her no kindness, tying her up and leaving her to sleep on the floor. Although, he had left her legs unbound, as well as giving her cover and a pillow when he’d no need to do either. What a strange mixture of the brute and the gentle. He claimed ’twas not his way to treat any woman with discourtesy. Oddly, she believed him, as much because of what he did not do, as because of the care he’d taken to give her some small ease. Still, safety demanded she keep her distance. She lay down, wrapped herself awkwardly in the cover, and waited for sleep once more.