by Lisa Jackson
“Of course!” Was the girl a half-wit? “And please, see that you mark the cup clearly this time. There can be no mistake.” Kiera straightened and tossed the plait over her shoulder as she faced Hildy, the old nursemaid and sorceress. “You can send the extra vial of potion by wrapping it in a cloth and hiding it in a basket of ... bread or cheese or clothes to wash ... or whatever.” She crossed to the door. “But please, hurry!”
Penelope fidgeted with the neckline of her dress. “What will you do?”
Kiera paused, her hand resting upon the latch. “Get Elyn’s husband drunk again and hope that he falls into a deep sleep that lasts for hours.” She felt a jab of guilt for this deception, but ignored it. She couldn’t let recriminations stop her, not now. “After he falls asleep, I will retrieve the old vials, escape the room, and try again to find our sister.”
“How?” Penelope asked, clearly doubting this was possible.
“I know not, but we have to do something. And soon,” Kiera admitted as she opened the door. “Elsewise this deception has all been for naught.”
Chapter Ten
His new wife was a puzzlement.
Kelan rolled off the bed. He’d been dozing on and off most of the day, which, it seemed as he glanced to the window, was now waning to dusk. He winced at the pain blistering through his brain. ’Twas as if a dozen steel-shod horses were galloping through his head. Any light burned his eyes, and his bladder was stretched to its limit.
Yet he couldn’t help but consider his bride. An enigma she was, a pleasant surprise.
Kelan had met more than his share of women in his days and they were all different, all unique. But this one, this female to whom he was married, intrigued him as had no other. He’d known her but a day ... no, that wasn’t true; he didn’t know her at all. Most women, given enough time, revealed themselves, but he had a feeling about his wife that suggested he would constantly be surprised by her.
He set the tray with its few remains of their shared meal upon the floor and made his way out of the darkened room. His legs were still unsteady, his muscles tight, and the pain in his groin reminded him of the pleasures of the night before. Aye, she was a wild, beguiling woman, Elyn of Lawenydd.
He stepped into the hallway, where the rushlights burned low, then made his way to the latrine to relieve himself. The corridor was dark and deserted, the tiny garderobe icy cold from the open slats on the windows. His member was sore, but the pain was pleasant as it hinted at pleasures yet to come. This marriage might not be as bad as he’d expected. He laced up his breeches and walked down the short flight of stairs to the third floor.
As he entered the corridor he heard voices. They emanated from the room next to his wife’s, the chamber that belonged to Elyn’s middle sister, Kiera. He wondered about that one. He’d learned that Kiera was close in age to his bride, and yet she had not been at the wedding. He’d been told that she’d been too ill to attend, and yet now she was in her room with others. One voice sounded as if it belonged to an older woman. Another, he swore, was his wife’s.
Woman talk, he thought with a snort and reentered Elyn’s chamber. The smell of sweat and sex was thick over the fragrances of the rushes, but the room was as cold as a tomb. Empty.
Plowing stiff fingers through his hair, he wished his bloody headache would fade. He couldn’t help but wonder about the wine he’d consumed and whatever else might have been in it, for the vials were testament that something was amiss. Seriously so. He fingered the small vessels again, smelling them and deciding that once Elyn returned he would confront her with them.
In the meantime, there was much to do. He needed to get dressed, find his small company of men, and make plans for leaving Lawenydd. ’Twas time to return to Penbrooke. His frail mother would be impatiently awaiting his return. Imagining Lenore’s pleasure at seeing him happily wed, Kelan grinned and reached for his tunic. He would find Tadd, Orvis, and the priest, tell them that they would leave at dawn.
But first things first. He made his way to the grate and found a stack of split, mossy oak, which he arranged in the fireplace, then blew on a few remaining coals. The embers glowed red and slowly a flame emerged, crackling as it began to devour the dry, moss-laden oak.
Kelan rocked back on his heels. He’d thought Elyn’s odd behavior during the wedding had been due to shyness, and then her refusal to come to the feast, evidence of a defiant streak. He’d come to this room intending to make her bend to his wishes ... and he’d ended up making love to her and caring more for her own needs than his. She was bold one minute, flirtatious the next, then incredibly demure the following. He’d suspected she had feigned her illness, that she had been avoiding him, and even that she was impure. Yet when he came to her, she was living, breathing passion. A virgin, yes, but one who was a willing, nay, eager lover. Just thinking of the night before brought his manhood to attention. So why had she slipped out of bed and gone riding? Then returned and insisted upon bringing him a meal rather than allow the servants to carry in the food? And what of the damned vials he’d discovered in the rushes?
’Twas troubling. And his head, oh, how it thundered. From too much wine? Too little sleep? It was unlike him.
The latch of the door clicked. Turning, he caught a fresh glimpse of his wife entering the chamber. She’d tied her hair back and changed into a dress that shimmered and rustled as she moved.
“I’ve asked for more wine to be sent up,” she said, and even in the darkening room, where the light was fleeing with the setting sun, she was beautiful to him, her features muted by the shadows.
“Should we not join your father?”
“Later,” she insisted and sent him a glance from the comer of her eye, a glance that was innocence and seduction.
“I was about to meet with my men and discuss leaving. We should set out for Penbrooke early tomorrow, as soon as dawn breaks.”
Was it his imagination or did she stiffen just a bit? “So soon? Can we not wait another day or two?”
“I think not.” Again the reticence. She walked to the bed and he noticed that her small hands were clenched into tight fists.
“Don’t you want to see Penbrooke? ’Tis your new home.”
“In time.” Again he noticed that hardening of her spine. She picked nervously at the folds of her skirt. “ ’Tis just so soon.”
“You can visit here often, if you like. ’Tis but three days’ ride.”
“I know, but ...” She bit her lower lip, then seemed to find some inner strength.
He felt himself cracking. Giving in. His mother would surely survive a few more days. When he had left four days ago, she had been frail but in good spirits at his upcoming nuptials. “If it would please you, we can stay another day, mayhap two, but then we must be off.”
“Yes, oh, yes,” she said hurriedly. “Two days. ’Tis all I need; then I’ll gladly ride with you to our new home.” She offered him a smile, though there were doubts shadowing her eyes, and something else. Fear?
“So be it.” Straightening, he dusted off his hands. ’Twas time to ask her of the vials. “I found something,” he said, reaching into his pocket just as someone tapped on the door.
She visibly started.
“I’ll get it,” he said. Already half across the room, he noticed that she walked to the window and stared out, turning her back at the visitor as he yanked the door open. An older woman servant stood in the corridor, one he’d seen at the nuptials. Her face was lined and grim, her eyes dark as stones. She balanced a tray upon which was a large jug and two half-filled mazers as well as a smaller platter of tarts.
“M’lord,” she said, bowing her head of black hair streaked with gray. “Congratulations on your marriage.” Her old voice cracked a bit, but he recognized it as the same one he’d heard earlier talking in Kiera’s chamber.
“Thank you.”
Some of the starch left Elyn’s spine as she turned to greet the woman. “This is Hildy. She was my mother’s maid, our nursemaid, and
now attends me.”
“Aye, ’tis true, I’m afraid. I’ve known the lady since she was a babe. How are you this day ... Lady Elyn?” she asked, setting her tray upon the small table and brushing some crumbs to the floor as she glanced at the bed.
For a mere second, there was a flicker of disapproval in her eyes, her lips pursing a bit as she caught a glimpse of the rumpled bedsheets.
“May ... may your union produce many strong sons and daughters,” she said as she handed him a cup. “And for you, m’lady.” Cradling the other mazer, she approached his wife. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Not right now.” Elyn took the cup from the older woman’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, Hildy,” she said as the maid picked up the tray with the remains of their earlier meal, then disappeared through the doorway.
And then they were alone again.
Elyn flashed him a smile. “To us,” she said, her back to the fire, her face in shadow, as she lifted her cup.
“The Lord and Lady of Penbrooke.” He touched the rim of his cup to hers and they both took a drink. “May we reign forever.”
“Forever’s a long time.”
“Mmm. And maybe just enough for me to get my fill of you.”
She smiled and his heart caught. Even in the dusky light, he saw her beauty. She buried her nose in her mazer and he drank as well, letting the sweet liquid slide down his throat. He thought fleetingly of the vials he’d found, but finished his cup and couldn’t believe that she would be a part of any deception. Not when she was smiling at him so, her chin elevated a fraction, her lips twitching in amusement, her eyes shining with the secret they shared.
Before she finished her mazer, he took the cup from her fingers and set it with his on the floor. Before she could utter a word, he straightened and looked down at her upturned face. By the gods she was a beauty.
“There is much we need to discuss,” he said.
“Much.”
“But it can wait until morn.”
“Can it?” Her smile was positively wicked.
“Oh, yes, lady.” His arms surrounded her and she didn’t resist, but fell readily into his embrace. He lowered his head, gently brushing his lips over hers. She let out a soft little sigh and turned her face up to his.
’Twas his undoing.
While thoughts of deception and vials and strange conversations skittered from his mind, he fastened his mouth to hers. Her lips were full and soft and tasted of wine. She gasped and he took advantage, sliding his tongue between her parted lips, bowing her back as he pulled her tight against him.
“Kelan, love,” she whispered, blinking and pulling back inexplicably. “I—I cannot.” Her voice caught and she looked away.
“Why?”
He noticed her swallow hard and though she tried to pull away, he held her fast.
“There is much to do.”
“We have time.”
Slowly he untied the ribbon holding her hair back, then leaned her over the bed. Her protests were weak and she didn’t say another word as he loosened the laces of her dress. It fell over one shoulder and he worked with the ribbons of her chemise, opening the cloth, exposing her skin to him.
She sucked in her breath as he pressed his lips to the top of her breast and as he slid the dress lower, he discovered her nipple, a hard, ready button that he licked until she groaned and her arms surrounded him. He suckled, pulling hard. Her knees buckled, and they fell onto the bed. His erection was thick. Throbbing. His blood pounded with the want of her, and yet he took his time. Deliberately peeling her silky dress over her head, he kissed her, massaged her, made sure that she was ready. Her skin flushed in the firelight, her legs parted, and he quickly loosened the laces of his breeches and pushed inside her sweet, moist warmth. Dear God, he wanted to claim this woman, to make her his own, to ... for a second his concentration shattered. He felt woozy again ... like before.
Suddenly she surrounded him, her legs hooking over his waist, and he pulled her up, propping that delicious rump on bedclothes so that he could delve deeper, harder, thrusting in and out, the world fading into the shadows. Nothing seemed to matter, just that white heat between them. He heard her cry out, felt his own release, and then, in an instant, tumbled forward, losing consciousness.
Joseph counted again.
Thirty-nine horses.
Not forty.
Standing on a knoll overlooking the pasture, Joseph’s gaze swept the herd as he mentally clicked off each familiar animal. Lawenydd’s stable boasted jennets and palfreys for everyday use; sumpter horses for heavy work; roundseys, which were usually ridden by the peasants; and, of course, the pride of the castle, the destriers. Joseph knew them all.
His jaw hardened and his eyes narrowed. He must’ve made a mistake. Bay, sorrel, dun, gray, black and dull brown, the horses ambled in the weak light as the sun sank lower in the sky. Snorting, they picked at the winter grass. A few newborns scampered at their dams’ sides, frolicking on their spindly legs, or nudging at the mares’ flanks with their noses, ready to nurse. The stallions were kept separately, tethered away from the herd. But as Joseph’s gaze shifted to the field on the other side of the creek, he knew he would come up with the same damning number. One horse short.
Nonetheless, he checked again, taking into account that three horses were being used on a hunt, five by soldiers patrolling the forest, two were at the farrier’s hut being reshod, four of the mares were housed in stalls while awaiting the imminent arrival of their foals, and one old stallion had pulled up lame and was hopefully recovering in yet another box. Thirty-nine.
That left the missing mare. The small, feisty jennet who always fought the bridle and, if given the opportunity, would take the bit between her teeth and ignore her rider’s commands. Temperamental and fiery, the sleek bay was a small, compact animal that few of the soldiers favored. However, Lady Kiera was known to ride the bay when Garnet, her favorite, wasn’t available.
Lady Kiera. The sweetest woman in all of Lawenydd, mayhap all of Wales. Not like her sister Elyn, whom Joseph unfortunately had fallen for long ago. It was foolish to even think of her. Yet think of her he did. All too often.
Some people in the keep insisted that the eldest two of Baron Llwyd’s daughters looked so much alike as to have been twins, but Joseph thought that was nonsense. Physically, aye, they resembled each other much in face and stature and, yes, even in mannerisms. But that’s where the similarities ended.
Whereas Elyn was competitive, sharp-tongued, and a general pain in the arse, Kiera was much warmer. She, too, had a temper, but it was cooled by a sense of humor, and no matter what, she always had a kind word for him. Though Elyn had intrigued and attracted him as a younger man, ’twas a foolish notion on his part. Wrong.
The trouble had started when he’d turned eleven and had begun having dreams of Elyn, of taming her. Dark and sexual, the dreams had oftentimes caused him to wake up hard as granite, lying in the straw over the stalls of the stable. Alone in the hayloft, with moonlight streaming through the small window, he’d conjured up her beautiful haughty face time and time again.
Her eyes were wide and green, like the mists at dawn, her cheekbones sculpted, high and regal, her lips the color of roses in full bloom. And he’d seen her naked once, when she didn’t know he was about, years ago when she and Kiera had taken off their clothes and swum in the millpond. He’d never mentioned it to a soul.
But in those long, long midnight hours alone in the hayloft, he’d remembered her white skin, dark hair, and the glimpse of a rosy nippled breast. Though he could be damned to hell for his thoughts, he’d allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to bed her, to slide between cool sheets and feel her hot body next to his.
Oh, ’twas a sin and he knew it, but his own mind was sometimes his worst enemy. What would it feel like to bed the lady? To his shame, while in the midst of his erotic musings, he’d even gone so far as to touch himself as he fantasized about her.
; Afterward he’d always felt dirty and foolish, and his conscience and faith had forced him into the chapel, where turning ten shades of scarlet, he had confessed his sins to the castle priest.
Never once had Joseph mentioned Elyn’s name in his confessions. He would never defile her name so, nor embarrass himself further. Not even to God.
He tried to be pious, to do God’s will, though sometimes it was difficult. And he attempted to be truthful and confess his sins. He’d even owned up to the fact that it was he who had allowed Kiera to ride off on Obsidian that evening three years earlier, he who had disobeyed all reason and saddled the horse for her, promising not to tell a soul that she was borrowing her father’s prized stallion. His mistake had cost the baron a priceless steed and nearly cost Kiera her life. The flogging he’d received was small punishment for his stupidity. That his own father, Orson, had not lost his job as stable master was a miracle, one Orson never let Joseph forget.
Even so, even with his attempts at piety, he’d held his tongue when it came to his feelings for Lady Elyn. And his passion for her had cooled. Now, ’twas her younger sister, the kinder of the two women, who caused his blood to heat, his stupid member to rise as sturdy as an oak tree at the most awkward of times. Christ Jesus, he was a fool.
He couldn’t think of either lady now. Not with the horse missing. Squinting hard, hoping he was somehow mistaken, Joseph again studied the field only to find no sign of the temperamental mare. She was gone. Vanished. Or ... his gut tightened at the turn of his thoughts.
“Hey! Joseph! What’s the matter with ye?” his father demanded. Carrying a whip rolled tightly between his fingers, Orson limped up the crooked path traversing this hillock. “We’ve got work to do, if ya haven’t noticed. The red mare’s in labor and havin’ a time of it. Don’t ye think ye should tend to her?”
“Aye.” Joseph nodded. “I’m on my way.” He hesitated, then decided his father needed to hear the bad news. “I think a horse is missing,” he admitted. “Royal, the little bay with the crooked star.”