Wolf shrugged. “Tadd has agreed, and he is the Baron of Prydd as Eaton died in battle against the Scots. It matters not what the lady wants.”
With more strength than anyone would have guessed possible, he lunged forward, grabbing the outlaw’s tunic. “How do you know this?”
“A spy, of course.”
“Who?”
Wolf’s eyes gleamed. “I’ll not say.”
Hagan cursed but knew he would not be able to beat the truth from the outlaw. “We must stop the wedding,” he ordered as the image of Darton marrying Sorcha burned through his brain. His fingers twisted into the dirty folds of Wolf’s black tunic. “You must help me.”
This time Wolf’s smile was wide. “Oh, I shall help you, Hagan of Erbyn, if you agree to my terms.”
Hagan’s fingers tightened and yanked on the tunic, pulling the outlaw close. “You want Erbyn?”
“Nay,” Wolf said, his eyes narrowing to slits that reflected the torch’s flame. In the flickering shadows of red, his features grew into a hard mask of hate, and he looked like the very soul of the devil. “I want only Tadd of Prydd.”
Sorcha’s world was black as the depths of hell. Her father was dead; she would never see him again, and tears of grief threatened her eyes.
She had heard the rumors all her life—that she was not her father’s daughter—and yet Eaton had been so close to her, loving her and teaching her, letting her learn the skills of the knights, not denying her just because she was a woman. And now he was gone.
Her soul writhed in agony.
Darton had locked her in her chamber, and other than the numbing news of her father’s death, she’d learned nothing. She’d had no word of Hagan, nor of Leah and Bjorn. The soldiers whom Darton had sent to find Hagan came back with neither the man nor his body, and Sorcha prayed that he was alive and safe. In her mind’s eye over and over again she heard the sickening thud of arrows piercing his muscles, saw him pitch over the horse and crawl into the forest. “Please, God, protect him and keep him safe,” she prayed so often that her desperate prayers became a litany.
She refused to eat, and each time Ona came in with food from the kitchen, Sorcha left the trencher on a stool, untouched. Ona returned later in the day, retrieved the uneaten portion, and clucked her tongue. “It serves no purpose, you not eatin’ Ada’s good brawn, m’lady,” she admonished as she picked up the stale bread platter and greasy meat thereon. “You need yer strength.” With a sly glance in Sorcha’s direction, she continued. “ ’Tis said you will soon be Darton’s bride—”
“Never!”
Ona shrugged as if she cared not what Sorcha did, then left the room. Sorcha barely noticed. The girl was a twit, and she would never, never marry Darton. She’d die first. Sorcha stared out the window and wondered how she could trick the girl so that she could escape. The only window, though it looked over the bailey, was far too high to jump from, and the oaken door with its thick timbers and iron bands was barred from the outside. The chimney was impossible to scale, though she’d attempted to climb its blackened tunnel and ended up coughing and covered with soot. She had no weapon to lay against Ona’s pale throat whenever she appeared with food, water, or a bucket in which Sorcha was supposed to relieve herself.
Sorcha’s only hope was to ask for a tub of hot water for her bath. More than one man would have to carry up the tub and take it down again. The door would be open longer than normal, and if she could cause some confusion … by spilling the scalding water on the two guards or … using her fire to ignite the rushes on the floor and create panic within the castle, she would have a chance to free herself. But she had to wait for the right moment. Patience had never been one of her qualities, but as she thought long and hard, she decided that the plan with the bath might just work. As long as she moped and said little and seemed to be wasting away, no one would expect her to try and escape. Looking grief-stricken would not pose her any trouble, for she thought of Hagan constantly and her heart was heavy.
However, she cautioned herself to watch her tongue and not be so forceful in her denials of marriage to Darton. She had to lull the guards and Ona and Darton into believing that she would actually take the holy vows of matrimony with the cur. Christ’s blood, it would take all of her strength to pretend that she would do the horrid deed.
Staring out the window, hoping for some sign of Hagan’s return, she chewed her lip and plotted a way to escape, but her hopes, so recently soaring, fell like dead birds to the earth when she heard the men’s shouts and the portcullis, with the low grind of metal gears, opening. “Oh, no,” she whispered as the soldiers—all men loyal to Darton—entered the bailey. A company of twelve men surrounded the captives, and Sorcha felt tears pool in her eyes as she recognized her sister and Bjorn.
She bit her knuckles so that she wouldn’t cry out.
Both prisoners looked haggard and drawn, and thick ropes surrounded their torsos, holding their arms to their sides. Leah’s mud-spattered face was white with fright, her eyes cast down to the ground, but Bjorn sat proudly upon his horse. His shoulders were stiff, his chin thrust forward at a mutinous angle, his eyes looking neither left nor right.
Near the stables, they were yanked to the ground, and Leah slipped, her feet sliding away from her. A guard pulled her roughly to her feet, and she screamed. To Sorcha’s horror, the guard slapped Leah soundly.
“No!” Sorcha screamed, pounding her fists futilely against the window ledge.
The sudden silence in the bailey was deafening.
The prisoners were shepherded into the great hall, and Sorcha was frantic to see her sister. Running to the door, she cried, “Guard! Guard!” and pounded upon the rough timbers. “Open up! Guard!” Her fists thudded, and pain jarred up her arms. “Open the door!”
Clunk! The bar was lifted out of its brackets. “By the gods, woman, you’re makin’ enough racket to wake the bloomin’ dead,” the guard, a portly man with a red-veined nose, said. His breath smelled of stale mead and he belched loudly.
“I want to see my sister,” Sorcha demanded.
“Yer what?”
“I just saw some soldiers return with Lady Leah, and I demand to see her.” She tossed her head imperiously.
“I’ll be havin’ to talk to Lord Darton—”
Sorcha didn’t wait. While the dullard was making his plans, she raced by, pushing him out of her way.
“Hey, wait! Bloody Christ!” The soldier gave chase, but Sorcha had already scurried along the corridor and to the stairs. Her feet were swift and sure on the steps. “Hey! One of the prisoners is escaping. Sir Brady! Elwin! For the love of Jesus! Stop, you fool woman!” Other footsteps pounded through the halls, and Sorcha was met at the bottom of the stairs by Sir Brady and Darton, the lord of Erbyn himself.
Brady grabbed at her, but Darton held up a hand. “What is it?” he asked.
“I want to see my sister.” From the corner of her eye she caught sight of Tadd, his face red from too much wine as he backed Lucy into a corner and grabbed at her breasts. Lucy giggled, had the decency to blush, and ducked out of his drunken embrace.
Sorcha’s stomach turned over, but she pulled her gaze back to Darton’s. “I saw Lady Leah being brought in. I need to talk to her.”
“In good time,” Darton said with eminent patience.
“Now!” Sorcha cried. “Tadd …” She turned to her brother, and he growled back at her. “Leah is here!”
Tadd’s eyes were glazed from too much wine, but he managed to lean against the wall, and his thin lips pulled into a smirk. “Just in time to marry her off.”
“You cannot!”
He stepped closer, swaying slightly. “I can do anything I damned well please, sister. I’m the ruler of Prydd now.”
“Then Prydd is dead.”
He reached up, intending to strike her, but Darton’s sword came fast from its sheath and settled at Tadd’s throat. “Remember that the lady will be my wife.”
“Then I pity you,”
Tadd said thickly. “She’s nothing but trouble and will be your curse for as long as you live.”
“I think not.” The blade pinched a little closer to Tadd’s Adam’s apple, and Sorcha thought she would be sick.
Small dots of sweat collected on Tadd’s upper lip. “My mistake,” he said carefully, and Darton quickly sheathed his weapon.
“As long as we understand each other. As for your request,” he said, turning to face Sorcha again, “Mayhap Lady Leah would like to bathe.”
Sorcha tried to remain calm, though inside she was screaming. “Then let me talk to Bjorn.”
“The stableboy who stole the horses?” Darton shook his head slowly. “He’s been thrown in the dungeon and will stay there until he’s hanged.”
“Hanged?” Sorcha whispered, her throat catching over the horrid word. Surely he was joking. “You would not …”
Darton’s leer was as cold as a snake’s skin. “He’s a traitor, m’lady, and here at Erbyn, we hang traitors.”
Sixteen
ave you lost your mind?” Anne called after her brother. Darton seemed to have gone daft, and she wouldn’t believe a word of his nonsense. He didn’t look around at her, just kept walking through the rain to the armorer’s hut. Blast the man. Frowning at the mud, she gathered her skirts in her fingers and followed him. Rain splattered the ground and peppered her shoulders, and the hood she wore was little protection as water began to soak through the heavy wool, but she was damned if she was going to let one of her bullheaded brothers destroy the other.
In the bailey, men shouted and hammers banged. Several carts, their wheels creaking and thick with mud, rolled into the yard.
“You can’t just say that Hagan’s dead,” she insisted, catching up to Darton as she sidestepped a puddle. Her strides were as long as her brother’s, but she was still hurrying to keep pace with him.
“Hagan’s dead or dying. Either way, he deserted us.”
Had he no conscience? The castle gossip rang in her ears. “Since you sent no one to find him or his body I think you were behind the attack so that you could steal his castle!” The mud was squishing over her boots, but she didn’t care. Her heart was heavy with fear and dread. Asides, she was furious. Darton had no right, none, to attack Hagan. ’Twas against everything in which she’d placed her faith.
Anne had always known her brothers didn’t get along and had long sensed Darton’s vexation at being born just a few minutes after Hagan, but she never thought he would do anything so vile, so wicked, so utterly blackhearted as to try and overthrow Hagan. “Don’t think I don’t hear things, Darton.”
He turned on her, his eyes burning bright, his scarlet mantle swirling around him like the very cape of the devil. “What have you heard?”
“That your soldiers chased down Sorcha and Hagan, that you intended to murder him.”
Darton’s skin tightened over his face. “Anything else?”
“Yes. You’ve detained his soldiers and have kept them prisoner, and you left your own twin in the forest to die like a wounded dog.” She was furious now because he didn’t deny anything, just stared at her with his hate-filled eyes. “He’s your brother. My brother. Our brother. How could you—”
With a smack that rang through the bailey, he struck her hard in the face. She gasped and stumbled back a step, and the pounding of the hammers ceased. Her hood fell away from her hair, letting the rain pour down her neck. Tears stung her eyes. Slowly she lifted her hand to her face, holding her cheek where a welt was forming, and watched in horror as he reined in his wrath so he wouldn’t strike her again. “So ’tis true,” she said, and wondered how his brotherly rivalry had festered into a hatred so intense that he would resort to murder. As children, she and Darton had been close, sharing secrets, playing together, and excluding Hagan, who had always been groomed to be heir. Often she’d seen Darton’s face tighten as he’d fought tears when their father had ignored him in favor of his firstborn son, but Anne had never believed that his torment would lead him to such murderous deeds.
“You cannot stay on this path, Darton.”
His nostrils flared and his lips curled in disgust. “You don’t understand, Anne. I can do as I wish. No one can stop me.”
“So you would murder your own brother, and kill a stableboy for helping a woman escape?”
“Bjorn’s a traitor.”
“No, Darton, you’re the traitor. You kidnapped a noble-woman, forced her to lie with you, and she tried to free herself by taking her life. There is no betrayal in that. But you … you’ve plotted against Hagan for years, turning his own soldiers against him, and now this … this murder. What’s happened to you?” She took a step forward, and he stopped her with the fearless hatred that etched every one of his features. He looked evil and hard. No light of remorse lighted his eyes.
“Leave it be, Anne.”
She couldn’t. Her own rage was so great that she had no control of her tongue. “ ’Tis rumored that you and Tadd of Prydd have some sort of agreement to marry off Leah to Sir Marshall.” She shuddered at the thought. “Have you no conscience?”
“Be careful, Anne. I have spoken to a messenger from the house of Derwen. Someone is asking for your hand.”
“No … there is no one at Derwen save Lord Spader …” She felt the color drain from her face.
“His last wife, poor thing, died in childbirth, and he’s looking for a new mate.”
Anne’s lips curled in disgust. “Lord Spader—by the gods, the man’s near eighty and can barely walk. Surely you are joking.” But the gravity in his eyes caused her blood to congeal.
“Spader only wants a young wife for his amusement. And he needs an heir; none of his five wives gave him a son. He has spoken to me of you.”
“No.”
Darton smiled without a trace of warmth. Rain dripped from his nose.
“You would not,” she whispered, but knew it to be true. Had he not tried to kill their brother? “All of Lord Spader’s wives are dead—either by their hands or his, I suspect—and if you think I’ll marry that old man, you’re wrong,” she said.
“You forget, sister, Hagan is no longer running the castle. If I make an arrangement for you to wed Lord Spader, you’ll damn well marry him.” Darton managed a sneer, and she felt her blood begin to boil. As Darton had always resented being treated as the second-born, she had resented both her brothers treating her with less respect because she was born a woman—as if her womanhood were her fault. Not that she wanted to be a man, but it galled her to think that just because she had not male parts dangling between her legs, she was considered less able to think for herself. As if the man’s sex and brain were connected. She dared not voice her feelings, however, for it seemed that most noblewomen were perfectly satisfied with their lot in life. They would not want to ride off to war, or worry about the thievery or quarrels in the fiefdom, or take part in jousts or have to answer to the king, but Anne felt differently. A part of her resented the fact that she was never asked her opinion. As if her thoughts didn’t matter. Neither Hagan nor Darton considered her ideas worth much, and she had spent years trying to keep the family name away from scandal, trying to fit the part of the baron’s sister.
No longer. Not if Darton could strike her and make her appear a fool to the peasants and then insult her by suggesting that he’d marry her off to a man who might be buried within the week. If Darton thought she would meekly accept his edict, he had better think again.
Darton was still glaring at her, and she had the urge to kick him between the legs and let him feel how important his member really was. “You can’t treat people this way,” she said, her body shaking with rage.
“Of course I can.” His voice was even and smooth, though hatred burned like hot embers in his eyes. “I’m the baron.”
“Not unless Hagan’s dead.”
“Believe me, sister, our brother will never return, and unless you obey me and recognize me as the new baron, I will have to consider you a tra
itor.” He glanced meaningfully toward a grassy knoll near the well where the carpenters were busy building a gallows.
“You cannot do this, Darton,” she said wretchedly, and swallowed over a sudden knot of fear. “You cannot hang Bjorn for helping Sorcha—”
“Just watch me, Anne. And be careful that you obey me as well. For if you cross me, I will see that your life is a living hell. Lord Spader is an impatient man.” He strode across the yard, and geese and hens flew out of his path.
Anne, her cheeks flaming in embarrassment, was left standing near the fishpond as work in the castle resumed. The carpenters were busy building their death trap, the tanner was scraping hides near the door of his hut, and the silversmith tooled a new platter, but even as they began working again, they cast curious glances in her direction, and she knew they had overheard some parts of her horrid conversation with her brother. Most of the men had stopped working at their tasks until Darton had slapped Anne, but now, as if embarrassed for her, they gladly resumed their labors.
Gathering the frayed strands of her dignity, she tossed her hood over her head and turned back to the great hall. She’d always been loyal to her brothers and felt that, above all else, she should show her allegiance to her castle and the man who ruled Erbyn. She’d believed in family honor and keeping personal squabbles hidden. Pride and honor and the preservation of Erbyn above all else.
But that was before Darton had become a murderer and declared himself baron.
Splashing through the puddles, she realized that all the stories she’d heard about him had been true. She had turned a blind eye and a deaf ear in his direction whenever there had been gossip. More often than not she’d chosen to ignore the rumors that had swarmed around him. There had always been gossip—about his taste in women and his sexual pleasures that had bordered on the perverse or his farsighted ambitions—but she’d been stalwart in her belief that the treacherous stories had been grossly exaggerated, that this was her brother, for God’s sake, and he would never, never do anything so ruthless and wicked as plot the murder of Hagan.
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