by Lisa Jackson
Yet.
“Stop it,” she muttered, angry at her nagging conscience. She leaned over the creek to wash her face and hands. Sitting back, she saw her reflection in the eddies.
“Do not be downhearted.” Isa’s voice was clear as a clarion’s call echoing through her mind. “Continue onward, to the spot where Kambria rests. You will find two items that will aid in your quest.”
“I want nothing more to do with this bloody quest,” she said aloud.
At that moment she glimpsed Isa’s face in the swirling waters. Skin gray and distorted, eyes full of woe.
And just as suddenly the face disintegrated, foaming over the stones with the gentle current.
“But the child . . . ,” Isa’s voice protested.
“Oh, gods and gadflies, what child, Isa? Who is this child you keep speaking of?”
And then she saw him. A smiling toddler with bright eyes and plump cheeks and curling red-blond hair that caught in the wind. He giggled, revealing tiny teeth.
Bryanna gasped and he was gone, his image washing downstream with the tumbling water.
She scrambled away from the creek. ’Twas a trick of the light, a prank within her fertile mind. She saw no real boy child, no innocent babe!
“Nay?” Isa’s voice mocked.
“Oh, sweet Jesus.” She swallowed back the fear that rose as her mind raced to consider what it all could mean. Was that boy’s future dependent upon her? Surely not. Oh, dear God.
“Go, Bryanna. Ride on. Find Kambria’s grave. . . .”
Unwilling to believe what she’d seen in the water, Bryanna climbed astride Alabaster and patted the mare’s neck, as much to touch something warm and living as to calm the horse. Then, with a determination that belied the shaky feeling inside, she gathered up the reins again and rode steadily toward a cleft in the hills, the point she’d seen upon the map.
She traveled the entire day, passing a few farms and several fields of stubble. Around nightfall, she reached a spot where the trail cut between the two hills. The sun was rapidly dipping toward the horizon, the moon rising in a purple twilight sky. Spying a rocky outcrop at the edge of the forest, she rode onward to a spot where the ground was loamy again, moss mingling with weeds and grass.
If Gleda remembered correctly, ’twas here that her mother had been laid to rest. There were no wooden crosses to show the burial plots, no tombs, no pile of stones.
Just the body of a dead woman below the crust of dirt and grass. “Oh, Morrigu, help me,” Bryanna whispered as night descended and she heard the whir of bats’ wings and the soft hoot of an owl.
The isolation of the desolate woods pressed in around her, and the thought of digging up sixteen-year-old bones made her skin crawl. She cursed her quest, the mysterious mission that had her poised to dig up a woman’s bones under cover of darkness. A lonely quest. She thought of Gavyn and the apparition of the night before. Where had he gone? Had he even been with her?
She found enough sticks in the surrounding woods to build a small fire, but as the flames crackled and snapped, she felt no warmth. Her thoughts turned to the nights she’d spent in the forest with Gavyn, staring at the coals, watching meat roast upon a spit. How she’d wanted to trust the man who moaned in pain by night and made her laugh by day.
“Snake dung,” she muttered, breaking a few more twigs and tossing them into the fire.
Feeling more alone than she’d ever felt in her life, she gazed up at the stars and drew in several calming breaths. As serenity surrounded her she began to chant, her voice soft and low but full of passion. She spoke to the night and its creatures, to the dark wind and midnight hour, to the deep forest and damp earth, the words tumbling off her lips easily.
Her chant gave way to the sounds of the forest as she waited for the moon to rise. She felt the movement of the wide luminescent disk as it swam above the trees, offering a silvery ethereal light. Under the glow she found one large flat stone that peeked out of the grass—a stone she’d seen on the map. Using the stars as guidance, she walked ten paces north. Then, murmuring a prayer under her breath, she drove Liam’s shovel into the soft wet earth.
“Isa,” she said aloud as she dug, tossing shovelfuls of earth to one side, “I hope to Morrigu that you have not misled me.”
She half expected the dead woman to respond in this chilly night.
But of course Isa’s voice was still.
Instead she heard a deep male voice reverberate through the surrounding hills. “For the love of God, Bryanna! What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Startled, Bryanna jerked the shovel closer.
She was alone in this desolate clearing.
She glanced sharply in the direction from whence the voice had come.
Gavyn?
Or her imagination?
Oh, please! Please!
Never in her life had she missed someone more.
And yet, what were the chances?
Most likely it was the voice of a robber or . . . but he knew her name.
She swung her shovel over her shoulder as if she intended to use it as a weapon and stared through the mottled moonlight. “Show yourself!” Her heart was in her throat, her nerves stretched, her breath fogging in the cold night air.
He emerged from the umbra, a dark figure upon his black horse, like a soldier returning home.
Gleda’s warning raced across her mind: Be wary of the dark warrior.
“Gavyn?” Her shovel was still poised, as if she intended to whack the rider from his steed.
“Christ Jesus, Bryanna,” he said, “what have you got against old Rhi, here? You look as if you’re ready to bash his head.”
“The horse? Nay, I would never hurt Rhi!” Relief washed over her and tears threatened her eyes again, but she willed them back. What was wrong with her? She’d never, never been one of those teary-eyed women.
“Oh, so it’s me you’re planning to knock senseless.” He rode closer to the fire and her eyes glided gratefully over his figure upon the black horse with its white stockings.
Gavyn.
Her silly heart squeezed at the sight of him. Thank God! She didn’t care about Gleda’s warnings or even Isa’s. She dropped her shovel and threw herself at him as he dismounted. Never in her life had she been so glad to see a person. His arms surrounded her and it was all she could do not to break down and sob against his chest. She’d been so alone on this quest . . . and now, if only for a few moments, she was with someone she trusted.
“Miss me?” He chuckled.
“Never!” she lied, laughing as he kissed the crook of her neck. Then, holding her face in his callused hands, he kissed her lips. He tasted of the night, of cool wind and wood smoke and moonlight. Her blood heated instantly as a wave of memories seared through her, memories of the night before and the lovemaking that had taken them deep into the night. Hot. Thick with wanting. His body pressed so intimately to hers. . . .
“Wait!” She pushed back, feeling an immediate chill of separation. “Just wait.” Shoving her hair from her face, she took a step backward and drew in a long, calming breath. She tried not to notice that she was trembling inside. Relief? Desire? Probably a mixture of both. “You . . . you left me,” she accused.
“You left me.” He shook his head and walked to the fire. “Don’t try and turn this around. I was sleeping in the forest, remember? Recovering? And you snuck away in the middle of the night, without a word.” He squatted, warming his hands beside her small fire.
She couldn’t deny it, though she desperately wanted to explain.
“You know, had it not been for the wolf, I think you would have taken my horse as well.”
“Nay! And where . . . where is that wild animal? The wolf?”
“Bane?”
“Bane? As in wolfsbane?” The herb was used by farmers to kill animals. She’d heard of covering a piece of meat with the deadly herb, hoping that marauding wolves would eat the poisoned meat and die before they attacked the farmer�
��s livestock.
“She needed a name. I couldn’t just call her Wolf.”
“For the love of God, why not? I can’t believe you actually named her.” A blast of icy wind keened over the hill. The gust tugged at her hair, pressed her mantle tight to her body and caused the fire to bend and shiver, flames flickering madly. “You named the wild beast as you would a pet. Isn’t that just a little bit daft?”
“Not half as crazy as talking to people who aren’t there, Bryanna.”
Grudgingly, she thought he’d made a good point. Didn’t she doubt herself and what she’d heard? Well, the proof would be found out tonight, would it not? If there was indeed the body of a woman buried in these hills, in an unmarked grave, found only because of a map torn into pieces, then she could quiet her own doubts.
Still considering the wolf, she pulled her mantle tighter around her and cast a quick glance to the surrounding area, just out of the fire’s light. She searched the undergrowth for a familiar pair of gold eyes.
“She’ll show up.” Gavyn stood up and closed the distance between them.
“You’ve seen her?”
Gavyn laughed with amused affection. “That lazy cur knows that I’ve always got an easy meal for her.”
“She could attack the horses.”
“Not alone. Nay.” Offering up one of his irreverent and much too sexy grins, he looked around her camp, his gaze landing on the dozing Harry, who was tethered to the same branch as Alabaster. “So you do have another horse. One not as fine as Rhi, but good enough for a pack animal. I guess you had to settle for someone else’s when you couldn’t steal mine.”
“I didn’t steal . . .” She let that thought drift away. “Listen, Gavyn, I would not have taken your horse and ridden away that night in the forest. I would never have left you stranded.” Blood surged through her veins as he held her gaze. His eyes were healing well, the red almost completely gone, and the bruises on his face were faded to dull shadows.
“But last night,” she whispered, afraid that he might deny it. “You were with me and . . . then you left.”
“I could not take the chance that I would be caught. There is still a price upon my head.”
“But why . . .” She didn’t finish the question. Her memory was fuzzy. Mixed with flashes of pleasure, pain, fear, and desire all jumbled together in a nonsensical twist.
But now she knew her time with Gavyn was true, not a dream. Parts of it cut through her brain and she remembered the brutal way he first took her, how angry he’d been. “Why, Gavyn, were you so vicious with me?”
“Vicious? But I wasn’t—”
“I was a virgin, Gavyn. ’Twas my first time.”
He was staring at her as if she were mad.
“Could you not tell?”
“Christ Jesus, Bryanna, I . . .” He seemed ultimately vexed. “I had no intention of . . . of making love with you last night. I sneaked into the great hall to make certain that you were alive and safe and—” He lifted his hands to the sky as if in disbelief. “I . . . ah, well, ’tis over now. If . . . if I hurt you or was rough with you or offended you, then . . . I am sorry.”
Her heart cracked as he seemed so sincere, so disbelieving, so inwardly disgusted with himself. He shoved his hair from his eyes and muttered a curse under his breath before adding, “I thought . . . I mean, it seemed as if you were enjoying it, too.”
Again she felt her cheeks grow warm and silently prayed that the darkness would mask her embarrassment.
“Were you not?” he asked, glancing up at her. “Enjoying yourself?”
Oh, God, yes. “In the end, yes . . . mayhap it was my mistake. I just didn’t understand how it would feel, what it was between a man and a woman. . . .” But the woozy memories flashed behind her eyes and she sensed something was very wrong.
And what of the image she’d seen in the mirror? A trick of her mind? The voice claiming she was “forever bound.” Not Gavyn’s voice, but one she couldn’t explain.
“ ’Tis no use,” she said as the wind began howling again. “No way to explain. . . .” She was so sick of thinking about it, studying it, dissecting what had happened. “Enough has been said of it.”
He scratched at his beard, his dark silver eyes full of questions.
“I mean it, Gavyn. Let’s not speak of it again. Why don’t you tell me how you found me.”
“ ’Twas simple. I followed you.”
“But I was careful, watching over my shoulder to the empty road. No one was behind me.”
“You stole a lame gelding, Bryanna. I’ve worked with horses all my life and I’m a hunter. ’Twas simple enough in the mud to follow an animal’s track, especially one favoring a leg. And, as you said, there were not many travelers on the road. Which only made tracking that much easier.”
He crossed the distance between them, his boots sinking into the wet grass as he motioned toward the shovel she still held in one hand.
“So why don’t you tell me, Bryanna, what are you doing here in the middle of the night, digging into the ground? And what is it you plan to bury?”
Cael was trying to think of ways to bilk a few more coins from Lord Hallyd, when he spied the soldiers riding through the small village. Their uniforms were dirty and mud-spattered, their horses appearing weary, but they wore the colors of Agendor. Scarlet and gold, dirty but true.
Could his luck have turned on this night lit by the full moon?
He’d been in the saddle for days. His rump was sore, his leg aching from the bloody wolf’s attack. Though he was loath to admit it, he might just have to track down a physician. The wound, though healing, was ugly and hot to the touch.
He’d just stopped for a pint and was tying up his horse when the soldiers arrived and filed inside the inn.
He followed a little distance behind, scaring a beady-eyed rat that was lurking in the shadows but quickly scurried away, his long tail following his body into a hole on the porch. Cael walked into the raucous establishment and slid onto a stool in the corner. The small room was crowded and warm, smelling of body odor, sour ale, and mayhap even vomit. He ordered his mead and watched as the men settled onto benches and stools. They paid for pints and flirted with the serving girl as she brought them leather cups filled with ale.
Good girl, Cael thought, and though he was thirsty and would like nothing more than to bury his own nose in his cup, drink it down and have another, he contented himself with sipping the strong beer slowly and watching.
It didn’t take long for their collective bad mood to lift, and there were jokes and jabs among the men, their voices rising. Altogether there were five soldiers, a small but effective hunting party, Cael guessed. After talk of battles and hunts and bedding the most willing women in the barony, one of the men said, “But we dinna find the bastard, now, did we? Nary a sign.”
Cael smiled and held his cup to his lips, his ears straining to hear the conversation above the loud wagers, exclamations, and rattling of the bettors’ dice cup at a table near the fire.
“We’ll find ’im, we will.”
“And how’ll we do that, now, Seamus? His trail has gone cold as a dead man’s cock.”
Several of the other soldiers laughed and grunted their approval while the dice rattled noisily.
“Someone will see him. Recognize him. Or catch sight of the horse.” Seamus wasn’t about to be the butt of a joke. “We ’ave to find him, Aaron. We must to avenge Craddock.”
“Craddock was a dung sucker,” the big one, Aaron, said, turning to look at the serving girl. As he did, Cael saw that the big soldier was missing part of one ear. “He deserved to die.”
“So now ye’re defendin’ the murderin’ bastard,” Seamus charged. He looked ready for a fight, his face turning as red as the color of Agendor’s crest. Seamus’s muscles bunched, as if he wanted to throw a punch or go for his sword. ’Twas obvious to Cael he wasn’t as smart as the others. Indeed, he’d often been the butt of a joke and was itching for a fight.
A roar went up at the dice table next to the spy. Men laughed and cursed.
Cael strained to hear more of the conversation, but the soldiers shifted, huddled over their drinks, and lowered their voices.
It mattered not.
He’d learned what he needed to know.
He considered approaching the soldiers himself, but then thought better of it. Let them return to Agendor. Let them admit that they couldn’t find the murdering horse thief. Let them incur Deverill’s wrath.
Only then would Cael demand an audience with the baron. Only then would he barter for the information he had. For surely the price upon the bastard’s head would increase.
He smiled into his cup.
Indeed, his luck had changed.
Bryanna leaned against her shovel in the silvery moonlight. “Nay, Gavyn,” she assured him. “I’m not burying anything tonight.”
He looked at the hole in the earth. “Then—?”
“I’m digging up something already buried.” Before he could ask what, she added, “Supposedly this is the burial place of Kambria of Tarth, and if Gleda, rest her soul, is to be believed, not only is Kambria buried here, she was also a witch. And, as it turns out, me old dear mum.”
“What? Wait . . . your mother? I thought Lenore of Penbrooke was your mother. I saw you with her when I worked in the stables. I was there.”
“Aye, I know. But according to Gleda, the story of my birth was a lie. She insisted that I was born to Kambria and was switched with Lenore’s sickly babe. My father knew of it.”
“Your father?”
“Yes, Lord Alwynn,” she said, snorting her disgust. “Another man who apparently could not keep his breeches laced.”
“He had a child with Kambria about the same time as he had one with Lenore?”