by Lisa Jackson
“Joseph? The stableboy?” Disgusted, Penelope tossed up one hand and rolled her eyes as if the mere suggestion was ridiculous. “How can he get away? Won’t someone notice?”
Kiera was one step ahead of her. “He is someone we can trust, and he will have some time away from the castle with the excuse that he’ll be looking for the mare that is missing.”
“What mare?”
“The one Elyn took!”
“Oh, we are doomed. Doomed.” Penelope dropped onto the bed and shook her head. “Now there are stolen horses.”
“Borrowed horses,” Kiera corrected, turning to Hildy. “You have sway with Father. Do whatever you have to do to convince him to let Joseph search for the missing horse, and then see that Joseph contacts Brock.”
“What if he finds Elyn?”
“He must give her a message from me, that she must come at once to Penbrooke.”
“And if she refuses?” Penelope asked.
Kiera’s jaw hardened. “Then I will speak with her.”
“From Penbrooke?”
“I will find a way, worry not!”
Footsteps shuffled outside the door and Kiera knew her time was limited. “I have to go soon,” she said. “Joseph is clever, he will come up with a way. Now you, too, must do your part,” Kiera warned.
“I know and I ... I will try to keep your secret, but we can only do it for so long,” Penelope vowed. “A few days, mayhap a week, but then, if you or Elyn have not returned, we will have to explain to Father.”
“I will be back. As soon as I can. I promise. With or without Elyn.” Kiera tightened the leather strings of her bag. Forcing a smile she didn’t feel, she threw one arm around her younger sister’s shoulder. She’d already begun to miss Penelope. “Have faith. Now, if only the fates will be kind.”
Hildy’s eyes darkened. “ ’Tis not what I see,” she admitted, shaking her head.
“You have been wrong before.” Releasing her sister, Kiera opened the door. “Pray that you are this time as well.”
As she said her good-byes to Hildy and Penelope, Kiera was suddenly seized by an icy chill. She hurried down the stairs of the keep, and all the while she felt as if she were drowning, drowning in her own cold lies.
Chapter Thirteen
Elyn felt queasy.
As she always did these days.
But tonight, after too brief a day spent making passionate love at the Gamekeeper’s Inn, she and Brock rode to Oak Crest. Her discomfort was more than a bit of upset stomach. Since she’d met up with Brock the night before, on what should have been her wedding night to Kelan of Penbrooke, she’d sensed that there was something he was hiding, a secret yawning between them. He seemed quieter, tense, his demeanor shrouded in a darkness she couldn’t understand, his lovemaking more desperate than ever before.
Aye, something was amiss and it worried her.
Holding tight to the reins of her headstrong little mare, Elyn wondered if she’d made a horrible, irreversible mistake. The road was deserted, light from a pale moon barely illuminating the muddy ruts. Brock was silent and brooding, his horse a few paces ahead of Elyn’s temperamental jennet.
From deep within the surrounding forest an owl hooted mournfully and Elyn swore she heard the whir of bats’ wings, though it was improbable. Her guilt-sodden mind was playing tricks upon her. That was all.
She kneed her mare, and the animal, always fighting the bit, broke into a hasty trot to catch up with Brock’s destrier. “Something’s troubling you,” she said, deciding that if Brock wasn’t going to bring up whatever was wrong, she would. She’d mentioned his quietude twice before, but he’d suggested she was imagining things.
“I’m fine.”
“I know you better.”
He didn’t answer, just slid a glance her way.
“What is it?”
“I already told you. Nothing.”
Her stomach tightened and its meager contents roiled. “You’re lying.”
Astride his taller horse, he sent her a scathing look. “You risked your neck, your reputation, your very life, to be with me and now you call me a liar?”
“I think you’re hiding something. Mayhap to protect me.”
He snorted as if she were silly. “You are a romantic, Elyn,” he said with more than a touch of sarcasm. “You always have been. You ... you make more of any situation than there is.”
“Brock.” She reached across the small space between the horses and grabbed his destrier’s bridle.
“Hey! Watch out!”
Her own mount tried to shy away, but Elyn held on to the reins with a firm hand. “Tell me.”
The stallion tossed his head, but she clung on desperately and both animals pulled up short. “Before we go another step, I want you to tell me what’s on your mind, what’s been bothering you.”
In the dim moonglow she noticed his handsome face tense, his lips pinch. He avoided her eyes. A cold chill settled in her heart.
“Now!”
He was wrestling with a decision; she saw it in the moonlight. Before he made the damning admission, Elyn felt it, like a snake uncoiling in her gut. “It’s Wynnifrydd,” he admitted.
The snake struck. Bit hard. “What of her?” Elyn demanded, an image of Brock’s scrawny, shrewish intended coming to mind. By the gods, she hated that wretched woman.
Again, Brock hesitated. Looked at the moon, then centered his eyes on her again, and in that instant she knew. Oh, God, she knew. She closed her eyes, wished she’d never asked the question, tried to block out the sound of his admission, but over the moan of the wind and the horses breathing, his voice rang clear as church bells. “She’s pregnant, Elyn.”
Her heart squeezed and she nearly passed out. In a voice she didn’t recognize as her own, she asked, “The baby. Is it yours?”
Another damning silence.
“Nay,” she whispered, shaking her head. He couldn’t have betrayed her. Not again.
But he nodded curtly. “ ’Tis mine.”
“Why do you lie to me?” she gasped, refusing to believe him. This had to be some twisted, painful joke.
“I’m sorry, Elyn.” Regret was heavy in his words.
“You’re sorry? That’s all you can say?” Her horse pranced nervously. Angrily, Elyn jerked on the reins. “No! You’re lying! Or ... or she’s lying.”
“Elyn—” His voice caught with reproach, and the icy wind wrapped around Elyn’s heart.
“This can’t be! It can‘t!” A dozen knives ripped through Elyn’s soul. Thunderous denial roared through her brain. “You and me. ’Tis what we planned. ’Tis how it’s supposed to be.”
“I’m sorry,” he said again and sounded miserable, but she didn’t care. Pathetic, hideous cur! His betrayal burned through her. Just like before!
Elyn’s jealousy, always easy to arouse, now threatened to overtake her. “That’s not good enough,” she hissed. “What were you thinking? Why ... why were you with her?”
“It ... ’twas a mistake. It just happened.”
“Just happened? Breeches just happen to become unlaced—is that what you’re trying to tell me? Tunics just happen to fall to the floor? You just happen to bed another woman?”
His silence condemned him.
“You’re—you’re certain that she’s with child? That this is not some scheme of hers?” Elyn asked, sounding bitter even to her own ears. But her heart was breaking into a million pieces, shattered on the ominous stones of weakness and betrayal. Oh, Lord, the pain. Brock ... how could he do this? How could he do it to her, the woman he’d vowed to love, when she’d given up so much for him?
“The baby will be here by summer.”
“But—”
“ ’Twas a mistake,” he admitted, his throat working.
“You should have told me,” she said, and the words seemed empty. Hollow. Spoken from someone else’s mouth. The urge to vomit was overwhelming. Bile climbed up her throat.
“I only found out this week p
ast,” he said, but she barely heard it over the echo in her mind. She felt as if she were in a dark cavern, one with no escape. She couldn’t breathe. Her stomach roiled. With all her might, she tamped down the urge to lose its contents. She had to get away. Now. She couldn’t face him, couldn’t let him see her tears, couldn’t stand to hear any more.
Releasing the stallion’s bridle, she dug her heels into her mare’s sides. With a firm yank on the jennet’s reins, she twisted the mare’s head around. The high-strung horse responded, springing into a wild gallop.
Where to go? What to do? The mare stretched out, racing faster, night-dark trees rushing by in a blur.
“Elyn!” Brock called after her, but she couldn’t face him. Wind stung her eyes, bringing fresh tears. The hood of her cloak fell off, her hair tumbling free as the jennet’s strides lengthened further, flinging mud, iron-shod hooves pounding the wet ground.
Elyn’s heart was leaden, her soul destroyed. She’d given up everything for him. Everything. Her life. Her home. Her heart. Her virginity. And he’d abused her trust so carelessly. With Wynnifrydd.
The road forked and she edged her mare toward the left, away from Lawenydd. She couldn’t return and face her father, nor her sister ... Poor Kiera had married the bastard from Penbrooke.
No, you did. He’s your husband. Kiera just said the words in your stead. You, by right and intention, are the Lady of Penbrooke.... It had been only two days since she had left Lawenydd and left Kiera to marry and deal with Penbrooke ... could she return? Could her sorry excuse of a plan actually work?
But it mattered not. Not after Brock’s betrayal. How could he have slept with Wynnifrydd? After all the times they had laughed at the skinny woman’s expense.
Mayhap Brock and Wynnifrydd had laughed at your expense. What makes you think you were so special to him? Why would they not, after a night of passionate, heart-pounding lovemaking, have found humor in your pathetic love for a man betrothed to another?
The pain in her chest pounded. She rode blindly. Somewhere behind her she heard the sound of hoofbeats, loud and clamoring, faster and faster. So he was chasing her. That mattered little. She didn’t want to face Brock now ... couldn’t look into his Judas eyes. Nor could she see anyone. Her stomach ached, her head thundered, and she knew firsthand how easily love and hate could be confused.
At the next bend in the road, she forced the mare to veer right toward the river that cut deep through this section of the woods. A few swift strides and they were crossing a narrow bridge, the jennet’s hooves clattering noisily on the boards. Beneath the bridge, the river, black as night, roared and rushed as it flowed to the sea.
An escape, she thought wildly, though the hoofbeats sounded closer.
On the far end of the bridge, she pulled her horse up and, while the mare breathed heavily, guided the animal down the steep bank toward the sound of the icy water tumbling over stones and boulders. Yes, the river. She could hide there, then follow the waterway along its banks.
But the sweating, nervous mare fought the bit. Rolled her eyes, tossed her head, and stumbled. Elyn pitched forward, scrabbling for the pommel as the mare caught her footing.
Heart racing, Elyn righted herself in the saddle, then reined the horse to a quick halt, hiding on the steep bank beneath the span of the bridge. Surely Brock would think she’d ridden onward. Certainly he wouldn’t suspect that she’d stopped here.
Breathing hard, ears straining, she listened for her pursuer.
Hoofbeats reverberated through the forest. Elyn bit her lower lip. Tears rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t bother brushing them away. Her mare stiffened as the stallion’s racing hooves hit the bridge, iron-hardened hooves ringing frantically over the old boards. Elyn didn’t dare breathe as Brock passed overhead. Traitor, she thought, lying bastard! How could you? Misery filled her soul.
His steed’s hoofbeats faded as he rode deeper into the woods, farther into the distance. She listened hard until she could no longer hear any sound of his retreat over the rush of the river’s current and the whistle of the winter wind.
’Twas over.
All her dreams turned to dust.
All her plans for naught.
She’d been a fool. A pathetic, love-sotted fool. Kiera had been right, she realized belatedly. There was no such thing as true love.
She climbed down from the horse, clambered over some rocks, and bent over. Her stomach contracted as she vomited. Over and over again until, weakened, she fell to her knees in the mud and stones.
She’d not even told him that she was carrying his babe, that though Wynnifrydd might indeed be pregnant with his child, so was she.
Brock and Wynnifrydd. Brock and Wynnifrydd. Brock and ... oh, Mother of God, she couldn’t believe it. How could he do this to her? Had she not stood beside him, loved him with all of her heart, forgiven him when once before he’d lied and betrayed her? Her fingers curled in the wet grass and mud. Pain blistered through her heart. Fool, fool, fool. He and that... that skinny, smug worm of a woman.
“Bastard!” she cried, scooping up dirt to shake in one fist. “Bastard, bastard, bastard!”
’Twas too much to take all in one night. And the Judas hadn’t told her on the first night at the Game-keeper’s Inn, oh, no. He’d waited. Bedding her at will for a full day. Waiting until she’d dragged the words from his cowardly lips.
He was worthless.
He always had been.
By the saints, she couldn’t think of it, not now.
He deserved cold, hard Wynnifrydd with her icy eyes.
But he’s the father of your child.
Fresh bile rose in her throat. Gritting her teeth and determined that no man would destroy her or her unborn babe, she pulled herself upright. Her mouth tasted foul. Her spirit was blackened, she was certain, beyond repair. The smell of the river filled her nostrils, the cool air of winter night pressing against her skin. Small sobs tore from her throat. Her life was ruined. She’d never been one to cry, but alone in this dark, cold night, she let loose all the pain and wailed, pounding her fist against her leg. Ogre! Unfaithful, lying ogre!
Images of her time with him burned through her mind. Their secret trysts where they seemed the only two people in the world, their passionate lovemaking, stolen hours wrapped up in each other, their plans of defying their parents and rebelling against tradition ... all a lie. Because of Wynnifrydd. Skinny, pallid, whiny Wynnifrydd, who could not hunt, nor ride, nor even smile. Barely seventeen, she seemed already a shriveled prune. To think that Brock had taken her to his bed ... Elyn shuddered in the wintry forest, but vengeance burned bright in her heart.
Brock would rue the night he had seduced Wynnifrydd. They would both suffer. With the moon as her witness, Elyn vowed to make Wynnifrydd’s life pure hell.
Holding on to the reins, she edged farther down the steep bank to the sandy loam by the river. There, between two rocks, she scratched a rune in the sand, a crude drawing she’d observed once while watching Hildy. It was the rune of separation, a sticklike image, an X with opposing straight lines.
In her mind she conjured up an image of Brock holding Wynnifrydd, kissing her, undressing her ... no! Not after what Elyn had gone through, what she’d sacrificed for her one true love. Angrily, she spit upon the rune and swore. “May you both bloody rot in hell,” she muttered, and turned her back on her handiwork. She scrambled up the bank and started to swing into the saddle again just as she heard the sound of a horse approaching. From the direction in which Brock had disappeared. Damn!
Her mare snorted and pricked her ears.
“Shh.” Elyn touched the animal’s velvet-soft nose, but the anxious mare sidestepped and minced.
The hoofbeats grew louder. Horse and rider were fast approaching.
Elyn would have to hide under the span again. She pulled on the reins just as an owl hooted and flapped its great wings overhead.
The mare started.
“Whoa—” Too late, the frightened animal r
eared.
Elyn’s arm jerked upward. Hard. One sharp hoof hit her chin with a hard crack. “Ow!” Pain splintered in her jaw. The reins slipped from her fingers. Her boots slid on the muddy ground. Elyn fell backward, tumbling down the steep bank toward the inky black water. Desperately, scrabbling with her fingers, she tried to gain purchase.
“Elyn!” Brock’s voice cut through the night.
The mare neighed shrilly.
She caught hold of a root. Held fast.
“Elyn!”
Oh, Brock, you miserable cur of a man. Her throat was thick, her arm aching as she tried hard to regain her footing. But her boots slipped in the slick mud. She tried to clutch harder, to hoist herself upward. But the root snapped and she tumbled backward, rolling upon the hard rocks, unable to stop herself, scraping and banging against stone and earth and roots. She scrabbled for a handhold, slid ever faster downward until she splashed into the icy, swift river.
Water as cold as demon’s piss dragged her down, pulling at her clothes, carrying her into the swift current. Shivering and gasping, screaming, she fought and flailed, stared back at the bridge as she bobbed in the frigid torrent of a river. Through a swirling, raging blur, she saw him. The lone rider holding fast to the reins of his mount. Moonlight played upon his features and she recognized Brock, the traitor who had seduced her and turned against her.
I loved you. You pathetic bastard, I loved you!
Then she was pulled under.
Chapter Fourteen
Where the devil was Brock? Wynnifrydd tried to make conversation with Brock’s father, but Nevyll of Oak Crest was half dead, a lord who should have long ago stepped down and let his son rule. She walked with the old man around the sorry excuse of a keep with its crumbling walls and overgrown gardens and pathetic workers. Oh, they were a miserable lot, and when she became Lady of Oak Crest, she intended to change things.
The first thing she planned was to find new servants who knew how to behave, who showed proper respect, who bowed and curtsied and hurried to do the tasks she commanded, instead of these lazy creatures who barely acknowledged her. Take that slovenly woman who tended to her while she was visiting. Daisy. A wretched beast with crooked teeth, ferretlike eyes, and a nose that twitched as if she could sense her own bad smell.