“Take me inside you. Now!”
“Patience. This is my game.” She pumped her finger in and out, enjoying tormenting him.
She loved having men in her power. They were so easy to manipulate and control. It had been almost too easy to escape the vile convent she’d been virtually imprisoned in by King Edward. The abbot had been long without the pleasures of the flesh. Lydia had employed her skills on the abbot with minimal effort, and in a short amount of time convinced him to let her escape.
She closed her eyes and licked her bottom lip in delicious memory of the enthusiastic…confessions she withdrew from the monk.
Another groan escaped Golan.
Lydia gazed down at him through her lashes, pouting. “You are a naughty boy, Golan. ’Tis time you atone for coveting your neighbor’s wife.”
“That bitch. Rosalyn was mine. She is going to pay for betraying me. I shall see to it.”
Aye, Lady Rosalyn was going to pay for her transgressions. Lydia was convinced she had gotten away with murder. Lydia had been at Ayleston the night Bertram fell down the stairs in a drunken stupor. They had been lovers for years, and as much as she could love anyone, she had loved Bertram. Not only was he the most beautiful-looking man she had ever met, he truly knew who and what she was; he understood her and loved her for it.
That Lady Rosalyn was Alex de Beaumont’s sister was an added benefit. No man had ever rejected Lydia until Alex had refused to break his betrothal and marry her. Alex had rejected her, just as Lydia’s father had rejected her when he found her fornicating with a lowly peasant in the same bed her father had first claimed her body.
All she knew was betrayal from men. Now she used men for her own devices. She was the one in control, wielding her carnal favors in order to get men to do her bidding. Golan was no different from any other man.
Aye. He was just another pawn in her scheme to avenge herself on Rose for murdering Bertram. The woman was going to suffer the loss of someone she loved so she’d experience the pain and misery that Lydia carried around with her every day.
She shifted slightly, giving Golan a coyly seductive smile. “Aye. She’ll get what she deserves. But for now, you are going to give me what I deserve. A reward, shall we say, for my help.” Lydia nodded at the dagger above his head. “Proof of my effectiveness as a spy within Ayleston Castle.”
“Where’d you get the dagger?”
“’Tis my dagger. I retrieved it from your squire’s belongings. I left it as a warning to Rosalyn.”
He chuckled with evil glee. “Sir Rand gave it to me before I left Ayleston. He thought ’twas mine. But you would not have gained access to Ayleston without me. I killed the merchant couple so you could be ‘rescued’ by Sir Rand’s party.”
“Aye, and you shall get your reward.”
His arms twisted in the bindings. “Then release me. Now!”
“Soon, lover, very soon.” She retrieved her glistening finger, and supporting herself on the headboard, she leaned over and swiped it across his lips. His tongue darted out and sucked her finger into his mouth.
She pulled it out, then crouched down over him. Her slick portal was inches from his lips. “Take me with your mouth.”
His mouth closed over her nether lips and sucked the bud at her apex. Rewarding him, she reached around and pumped her hand up and down his cock as he licked her moist folds like a greedy child.
Having made him wait long enough, she moved back and slid down his manhood in one smooth stroke. She rose up slowly, then drove back down. She drew out the torture, increasing her strokes. Faster. Harder. Then changing the rhythm in slow, exquisite plunges up and down. Slow then fast, fast then slow, she rode him.
His groans mounting, Golan swore, “You are a witch, Lyla. Be done with it. Now!”
The fool did not even know who she was. She’d used a false name to protect her identity.
Smiling in satisfaction, Lydia raked her fingernails down his muscle-bound chest, creating red runnels. Golan, with a final thrust of his hips, roared his climax.
Excited by the power she wielded over him, rather than from any physical satisfaction, Lydia quickly followed, her inner walls quivering with her release.
Shuddering, panting, Golan licked his lips as he tried to regain his breath.
Lydia climbed off the bed, retrieved her dagger, and slashed the bed ties binding Golan’s arms and legs.
Golan jumped off the bed, and in a sudden move, he jerked the dagger from her grip, shoved her onto the bed, and pressed the lethal blade to her neck. “What is to keep me from slitting your throat here and now?” His hot, fetid breath bathed her neck.
Pain shivered through her wrist. A clot of fear climbed up her throat, her heart and pulse pounding. Outwardly, Lydia gave him a seductive lift of her lips, all the while trailing her right hand down his arm and clutching his hand holding the dagger.
Lydia knew evil. She had seen and experienced it. But Sir Golan’s smile encapsulated and surpassed even the worst depravity she’d seen and done in this cruel world.
“You won’t kill me because the person you hate most in this world trusts me completely.”
“How can you be sure Rosalyn trusts you?”
“Because I saved her son’s life.”
“You fool! Why would you save his life?” He pressed the blade closer, pricking her skin. A bead of blood dripped down her neck. It was a mistake he would live to regret. He continued, “I want the woman to suffer for humiliating me. Killing her son is only the first of the torments I mean to inflict on that bitch.”
“By rescuing the boy from drowning, Lady Rosalyn now trusts me with the boy’s life. With the plan I have devised, using the boy as a pawn, you shall have your revenge on Sir Rand and his wife in one neat, tidy package.”
His eyes glittered with evil anticipation. “Tell me. What is this plan you have devised?”
“Give me the dagger,” she purred. “You want what only I can give you. Don’t you, Golan?” She eased the dagger from his loosened grip and ran the sharp blade down his chest.
The member between his legs hardened and surged against her stomach.
“Ummmm. That’s it.” She licked her lips as though in anticipation.
Lydia knew she had Golan exactly where she wanted him. And if her plan, God forfend, should fail, she could escape with none knowing of her involvement and leave Sir Golan to take the blame. And more importantly, suffer the consequences.
This time her machinations would prevail. Lady Rosalyn was going to regret murdering Bertram; and in particular, she was going to regret taking away the only person Lydia ever cared about and leaving her alone in the world.
As January advanced into February and then March, word trickled in to Ayleston that Edward’s three-pronged attack in the southern, central, and northern portions of Wales was succeeding. The Welsh rebels, supporters of Llewelyn ap Gruffydd, were pushed deeper into the prince’s northern mountainous holdings of Snowdonia. Tensions amplified as stories reached them of fierce deadly raids on nearby settlements.
Rand had increased the garrison, along with guard watches on the castle walls, in order to give advance warning should trouble arise. The ground was thawing and the first shoots of flowers and winter wheat were sprouting in the fields and meadows.
Training on the open ground in the outer bailey, Rand grunted as he fought fiercely with sword and shield against a nearly recovered Sir Justin. As he parried and thrust, he shouted instructions to the group of newly recruited men-at-arms who formed a circle around them. The sun shone down on him; sweat dripped itchingly down his back beneath his leather gambeson, a padded knee-length tunic, while the slight chill breeze cooled his exposed face and head.
At a sudden shout upon the castle walls, Rand whipped his head around. A guard on the battlements pointed to the northwest. Rand dashed to the stairs leading up to the castle wall walk and climbed up them two at a time. Once atop the parapet, he shielded his eyes against the late afternoon sun
and saw about twenty men, women, and children running for the protection of the castle walls. A band of Welsh rebels on horseback was behind them in fast pursuit.
An agonized cry rent the air; a boy stumbled to his knees, an arrow piercing through his thigh. His mother, holding his hand as she ran, was yanked to a stop. She grabbed the boy around the waist to carry him along.
“Archers to arms!” Rand shouted.
Arrows continued to rain down on the peasants. The woman dragging her son jerked as an arrow pierced her torso. She fell dead, another arrow slicing through the boy’s throat. They crumpled in a pile clutching each other.
When Rand saw a phalanx of crossbowmen emerge from the gatehouse onto the parapet, he ran back down to the outer bailey and ordered his knights and men-at-arms to mount up.
As all hands readied their mounts to ride, Rose emerged from the stillroom brushing the back of her hand across her forehead. “Rand, what is happening?”
“Rose, I don’t have time, rebels have—”
The whishing sound of longbow arrows hummed through the air. A shiver of fear raced down his back. “Get down, Rose!” he cried, then crouched down over her into a tight ball and braced his shield above their heads. An arrow thunked into the leather-covered wooden shield. Half a dozen arrows pierced the ground around them, fletching quivering. Beneath him he could feel Rose shuddering in fright.
Shouts and chaos reigned as servants rushed to seek cover.
Catching Justin’s eye, Rand shouted, “Raise the portcullis and lower the drawbridge! Then prepare to ride out! I’ll be back in a moment!”
He turned back to Rose. “Come, we head for the Keep.”
Under cover of a return volley of bolts from Ayleston’s crossbowmen, Rand pulled Rose up and propelled her backward using his shield for protection. “Where is Jason?”
Her eyes glazed with fright. “He’s supposed to be in the chapel with Brother Michael. But you know how he…Oh, God—”
“Easy, Rose. Do not make trouble where there is none.” He shifted and began heading in the direction of the chapel. “We’ll go—” She yanked out of his arms before he could complete his thought and raced unprotected toward the chapel. “Rose! Damnation,” he cursed in his fear and chased after her.
She pulled the arched chapel door open and scurried inside the hushed, darkened interior. Rand, on her heels, grabbed the open door and shut it behind him.
“Mama. Mama.” Jason shimmied out from behind a table next to the wall and raced to her with his arms outstretched. “I heard the fighting. Brother Michael would not let me go to you. He said it was too dangerous.”
“Brother Michael was correct,” she said, breathless, and knelt down wrapping her arms around Jason. “’Tis not safe for you to be outside right now.”
“But who is going to protect you from the bad people if I don’t?”
Rand clutched Jason’s shoulder. “Never fear, Jason. I shall always protect you and your mother from danger. Now, I need you to do something very important. Until the fighting is over, I want you to stay here with your mother where ’tis safe. Can you do that, for me?”
“Aye, Sir Rand. I shan’t fail you.”
“Good, son. You are a very brave boy.”
Rand turned and headed for the chapel exit.
“Rand, wait.”
Rand spun around and Rose, unable to stop her forward momentum, collided with him. He clutched her shoulders and looked down into her eyes. Concern shadowed her eyes to a dark blue.
“What is it, Rose?”
Drawing a deep breath, Rose shot up onto her toes and, clutching his waist, pressed her slightly parted lips to his. Desire and tenderness swirled deep in his gut.
Rose drew her head back—briefly, her soft breaths mingled with his deeper ones—then she dropped back down and took two steps backward. “Be careful, Rand.”
Rose left Jason’s chamber, and for the third time that night, she marched to her bedchamber window, threw open the shutters, and stared out into the night seeking any sign that Rand had returned. Cool night air rushed across her skin raising goose bumps on her arms. She pressed her fist against her stomach to quell the worry roiling inside her. The quiet crackling of the fire could not soothe the tension that strung her as taut as a bowstring, even as her emotions threatened to burst free from her tightly constrained control.
Fear for Rand’s safety paralyzed her. Somewhere out there he was pursuing the rebels who’d attacked Ayleston, exposing himself to the lethal accuracy of Welsh longbow arrows and ambush tactics.
“My lady?” said Edith, who emerged from Jason’s chamber. “The little lord is abed, sleeping. You missed supper. I know you are worried. But you should eat something. Shall I go to the kitchen and get you a small repast before you retire?”
“Aye, go ahead. And bring a flagon of wine, too.” Rose was not hungry, but she wished to be alone to sort out her thoughts.
Edith left, closing the chamber door.
After closing the shutters, Rose went into the other bedchamber and stared down at her sleeping son. He lay on his back, his right thumb in his mouth. Her heart turned over. Her precious son might never know his father should aught happen to Rand. A sob crawled up the back of her throat and escaped. Rose clutched her hand over her mouth to still her rising emotions. Nay. She would not come undone.
She bent down, smoothed Jason’s curls off his forehead, and kissed his soft, sweet-smelling skin. Someone from her chamber called out, “Rose, my dear.”
A chill raced down her spine. The voice sounded oddly like Bertram’s. She entered her bedchamber and glanced around. The room was empty. At a scratching sound on the chamber door, Rose spun toward it.
The male voice called out again. “Rose, dear, come to me.”
She rushed to the door and threw it open, then looked both ways down the hall. The voice came again from the spiral stairwell. “Rose, come to me.”
“Whoever is playing this silly game, I do not appreciate it.” As her heart pounded wildly, she lied, “Nor am I afraid, if that is what you seek.”
“Then come, my dear.”
The torch at the stair landing had been snuffed out. Rose hastened to the end of the darkened corridor, refusing to show her fear. When she reached the top of the spiral stairs, she hesitated. An eerie masculine voice echoed up the stairwell. “Why, Rose? Why did you kill me?”
Rose cried out, “I did not kill you!” then rushed down the spiral stairs to catch the culprit who had played such a cruel trick on her.
As she approached the bottom stair, she spotted a pool of blood on the worn stone stair, “murderer” written in blood on the wall beside it. She jerked to a halt, a strangled moan bursting from her lips.
Heart palpitating like a trapped animal’s, she spun around and ran up the stairs intending to lock herself in her chamber until Edith returned. But when she reached the landing, she noticed the door to the private chapel was ajar. Rose gaped, shocked. She was sure she’d locked the chamber the last time she was inside. No one else had the key.
Cautiously, a hand to her throat, Rose pushed open the door and took several steps inside. The chamber door thudded closed behind her. She whirled around, her heart racing triple time, and stared aghast. Piercing a piece of parchment was the extorter’s dagger, which was embedded in the thick wooden door. But this time, Jason’s stone necklace hung from the blade too.
Nay! The cry echoed inside her head. Rose snatched the dagger and retrieved the necklace and parchment. Hand shaking, she unfolded the message, angled it into the moonlight, and read the familiar slanted scrawl.
You murdered Bertram and so you must pay. If you ever wish to see your son again, deliver yourself to the lieutenant-justiciar of Chester and confess to Bertram’s murder. Tell no one or Jason dies.
After a moment of stunned denial, her scream shattered the silence.
She ran out of the chamber. A sharp pain exploded inside her skull. White light flared briefly. Then darkness descende
d.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“Rose? Can you hear me? Rose!” Rand’s voice penetrated the heavy blackness pressing down on Rose.
He softly patted her face and called her name again. She groaned, blinking, a nagging sense of alarm pricking her sluggish awareness. Pain reverberated inside her head, but she forced her eyes open. Gazing up, she saw her brocaded canopy. Beneath her, the soft mattress enveloped her body and her lavender-scented pillow supported her pounding head.
Rand sat beside her on the bed, his soft gray-green eyes shadowed with concern. “Praise the Lord. You are awake.”
“Water,” she managed to croak.
Rand fluffed the pillows behind her back and helped her to sit up. Someone handed him a chalice of water, and he supported her shoulders as he tipped the cup to her lips. She gulped several drinks, causing water to dribble down her chin. Rand gently wiped her chin with a linen cloth, which lay beside the basin on the table nearby.
“Thank you, Rand.”
She strained to remember what had happened, and winced with pain. She reached up and felt the painful lump on the back of her skull. “What’s wrong? What happened to me? Why am I in bed?”
Alarm glimmered in his green-gray gaze. “Do you not remember, Rose? Can you tell us what happened?” He nodded behind him. “Edith found you outside the private chapel. You were lying on the floor unconscious.”
Edith, wringing her hands, moved next to Rand in the lamplight, where Rose could see her. “Aye, milady. Don’t you remember? I went down to the kitchen to get you a late-night repast. When I left you, you were here in your bedchamber.”
Rose frowned. “Of course. I remember now. You left and I went to check on Jason in his cham—”
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