by Impostress
Yet Sir Brock’s marriage to Wynnifrydd of Fenn was to take place this very afternoon.
Joseph didn’t like the feeling that teased at his brain. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Either Elyn was hurt, mayhap kidnapped and imprisoned, or she had escaped and was on her way back to Lawenydd without her horse, or—and this thought settled like lead in his gut—it could be that somehow she’d been killed.
By Brock?
Or Wynnifrydd?
Or someone else entirely?
It mattered not. If Elyn was dead at someone’s hand, then that person would pay. Joseph would personally see to it.
Chapter Nineteen
“I promise that I will do the best I can to make the marriage work.”
The vow to Kelan’s mother haunted her, chasing after Kiera as she explored the castle, and reminding her that she had to find her sister and end this pretense as quickly as possible. Had Joseph gone to Oak Crest to find Elyn and Brock? Was her father, Baron Llwyd, even now waiting for Kiera’s return? Was Penelope able to keep her secret?
As she made her way down a back staircase, smiling at a girl sweeping the stone steps and nearly tripping over a man carrying baskets of cold ashes from the great hall, Kiera felt like a cornered fox. There was nowhere to run, no one that her lies hadn’t touched.
She could ignore her oath to Lady Lenore and tell Kelan the truth, thus breaking the old woman’s heart, or she could wait until Kelan’s mother had passed on and then admit all her sins. That thought was bitter. Kiera didn’t want Lenore to die and hated the idea of basing her own freedom on her passing.
There had to be another way.
First thing she had to do was learn how Penbrooke was run. When the gates were open and when the portcullis was cranked down. She needed to know who the guards were, what their positions were, when they relieved each other … just in case she had to leave.
Outside, the day was cold as it neared sunset, the wind cutting as it blew against her face and toyed with the hem of her cloak. Kiera pulled her scarf tightly around her neck as she passed by the chapel, her gaze taking in every nook and cranny in the bailey. The priest was leaving the chapel, and Kiera looked quickly away and hurried down a well-trodden road. She’d prayed often for divine insight into her plight but heretofore had not been able to solve the dilemma. She’d considered visiting Father Barton but had not drawn up enough courage to confess her sins. Not yet.
Ducking around a corner near the kitchens, she came upon a fire pit where three girls were tittering and gossiping as they plucked feathers from half a dozen dead geese. At the approach of the lord’s wife, the girls became suddenly silent as stones and went back to their tasks of removing feathers from the carcasses and singeing off the hairs before gutting out the innards.
Kiera slowed long enough to say hello to the suddenly earnest feather pluckers, then met the stonecutter’s wife and her brood as they bustled toward the chapel. “Good evening, m’lady,” the woman said, and all of the girls and boys mimicked their mother with a chorus of greetings.
“And to you, Millie,” Kiera replied before starting toward the outer bailey. How easily she’d come to know the people of Penbrooke—servants, freemen, and soldiers—all pleasant, all seeming to be pleased that their lord had wed.
If they only knew that the entire marriage was a lie. A horrid, ugly lie. On her way to the outer bailey she passed by the mews, where the falconer was training a young bird. The falcon was hooded and leashed, perched upon the trainer’s gloved wrist. “M’lady,” the falconer said, tilting his head as she swept by.
“Oh, Malcolm, good day.”
“Same to ya.” She was rewarded with his gap-toothed smile. He, along with so many others who lived within the keep, was trying his best to make her feel welcome, to make her feel secure and at home. She, in turn, had learned many of their names.
“Have you seen my husband?” she asked.
“Aye, hours ago, at the stable.” He scratched his head and the falcon shifted upon his arm. “I think the baron went riding.”
“Thank you,” she said, and felt a jab of disappointment that Kelan hadn’t asked her to join him, though of course that was a silly notion, one she would have to shove aside. Just as she had to forget all her heated memories of making love to him. Absently she touched her abdomen and thought of the child that she could so easily have already conceived. And what then? She bit her lip and was surprised at how deeply she wanted a child, not just any babe, but Kelan’s son or daughter.
“M’lady, are you all right?” Malcolm asked, bringing her out of her painful musings.
“Oh. Yes … thank you.” She flashed him an embarrassed smile, and while the hooded bird let out a soft noise, Kiera walked briskly along the rutted path leading toward the stable. She met boys lugging buckets of water teeming with live eels and a fat woman hauling a basket of candles. Nodding to everyone she encountered, Kiera made her way to the stableyard, which, compared to the rest of the bustling activity of the keep, was surprisingly quiet.
The stable master was nowhere to be found, but the boy who assisted him was brushing the gleaming coat of a huge black destrier. “Excuse me, Francis, but have you seen my husband?” she asked.
“The lord? ‘E was ’ere earlier,” the lad said as he shook out the brush. Dust and horsehair fell from the soft bristles. “Rode off with the constable to check on some poachin’ in the woods.”
“Then he’ll be back soon?”
The boy lifted a shoulder. “I know not,” he admitted as the horse swung his great head around.
Kiera’s heart nearly stopped.
Obsidian!
Every hair on the back of her neck rose. This horse was the very steed she’d lost in the forest three years ago. She was certain of it. Her throat constricted as she stared, memorizing the steed’s features. His coat gleamed blue-black in the frail sunlight slanting through the heavy clouds, and his eyes were wide-spaced and bright with interest. His ears pricked forward at the sight of her, and his forelock fell over one of his eyes. Just as Obsidian’s had. How had Kelan ended up with this animal?
“This is a beautiful horse,” she said to the boy as she petted the stallion’s velvet-soft nose. There, on one cheek, was a tiny scar, a crescent-shaped nick from a sharp metal clasp of a bridle that had snapped when he was just a foal. The stallion snorted, then lifted his head, shook it, and neighed softly. She knew without a second’s doubt that this was her father’s horse. She clucked her tongue and his ears flickered again. She whistled, softly, and he nickered.
“Yep, he’s a good-lookin’ one, ‘e is,” the grooms-man said with pride. “Strong as an ox, but fleet … and a good breeder. Got ’imself nine foals already, good colts and fillies. Two more on the way.”
“Was he raised here as well?” Kiera asked, but knew the answer before the floppy-haired boy spoke.
“Nay. We’ve only ‘ad him a few years. The lord, well, he weren’t the lord then, mind you, but ’e brought ‘im back with ’im after the time ‘e was banished. Lord Alwyn ’ad ’imself a change of ’eart about the banishment, though methinks ‘twas more of Lady Lenore’s doin’. Anyway, Lord Kelan returned and ‘e brought this fella with ’im.” The boy patted the horse’s sleek shoulder.
Kiera’s head was pounding, horror pumping through her veins. Could it be? Was it possible that Kelan was the thug who attacked her in the forest? It was true Obsidian had been long gone when Kiera had awoken in the woods, but didn’t the mere presence of the horse indicate that Kelan could have been the attempted rapist? That thought was horrendous. Unbelievable. She had only to think of her coupling with Kelan to know that he was no attacker, no fierce outlaw who would force a woman … but you didn’t know him then, did you? When he was an outlaw, a highwayman, a horse thief banished from his home. What he was then may not be who he is today. She had trouble keeping her voice from trembling. “Did Lord Kelan say where he’d got the steed?”
“Nay. Not that I know. Some people thi
nk ‘e stole ’im. Others claim ‘e probably won ’im. Baron Kelan, ‘e never explained it.” Again the lift of a dismissive shoulder. “But Ares, ’ere, is a fine animal.”
“Ares?” she repeated, chilled to her bones at the thought that the man with whom she was sleeping might be the very beast who nearly raped and killed her three years before.
No! No! No! ’Tis impossible! Kelan would never … But she thought of the battle scars upon his back, the deep gash in one shoulder, which could easily be explained by a wound from an arrow—Elyn’s arrow.
Don’t even think it!
But the thug was never found; whoever had attacked her that night had gone missing, his body having disappeared. Kiera had assumed that he was alive somewhere … hopefully somewhere far away, and now … Nay, she could not believe that Kelan was the man who had loomed over her that night. Though she hadn’t seen his face, she’d smelled him, heard his gruff voice, felt his rough touch …
The Kelan she knew would never … no, ’twas unthinkable. A mistake. A stupid, idle notion. Just because no body was ever found in the woods, the horse lost … nay, it did not mean that Kelan was the thug.
Ignoring the doubts that continued to assail her, Kiera patted the horse and said, “Thank you, Francis.” As she walked toward the great hall, her thoughts were tangled between the night that she’d lost the prized stallion, when she’d vowed to repay her sister for saving her life, and her new promise to Kelan’s mother, that she would try to make the marriage—Elyn’s marriage—work. Oh, she was forever getting herself into trouble. Would she never, never learn?
“I don’t want to hear another word about it,” Wynnifrydd growled. “We are to be wed this evening and that is that. If you bring up that miserable woman one more time, I swear, Brock, I’ll cut out your tongue!” She was furious, her hands trembling as she tucked a stray strand of hair beneath her headdress.
Brock stood next to the fire, warming the back of his legs, appearing wan and miserable.
’Twas not the loving tryst one would have expected for a bride and groom upon the day they were to be married, Joseph thought with more than a little pleasure. He observed them from his hiding spot, a curtained alcove that he’d discovered when he’d taken over the job of carrying firewood to the upper floors. Everyone at Oak Crest—servants, peasants, guards, and even the lord himself—was busy with the dozens of tasks in preparation for the wedding. Already, a few guests and their servants had arrived, so no one noticed an unfamiliar man in his cowl and scarf as he carried bundles of oak to the fireplaces within the great hall.
Joseph had experienced little trouble finding Brock’s roomy chamber with its private entrance and alcove, the tiny closet in which he now hid, peering through a crack in the worn curtain.
Wynnifrydd was in a rage, her disgust evident in the features of her face. “You are never to speak of the whore again.”
“Elyn was not a whore.”
Joseph’s gut clenched. His fingers wrapped around the little dagger at his belt.
“It matters not. She’s dead and you have … immortalized her like some angel, and I’ll not have it, do you hear me?”
Dead? Elyn. Nay! Joseph’s knees threatened to buckle and he couldn’t draw a breath. Lady Elyn was not dead. She couldn’t be. And yet his ears rang and the voices seemed to come from a great distance, echoing as if they were traveling through a long tunnel.
“You forget yourself. I will soon be the lord; you are but my bride.”
“A wife who knows the truth about you, Brock, so be wary.”
“I cannot live this lie.”
“No? With as many as you’ve lived before?” she mocked, her eyebrows raising indignantly as firelight cast flickering golden shadows on the cracked walls. “Now I must return to my room lest anyone see us together before the wedding. ’Tis bad luck, they claim.”
“This has all been bad luck.”
She stiffened and advanced upon him. Though nearly a foot shorter than he, she glared up at him as if looking down her nose. “ ’Tis about to turn. For the better. You will be not only Lord of Oak Crest one day, but also lord of a fine castle, much grander than this, when my father dies and you become Baron of Fenn. Trust me, love, your secret will never surface and I will be your wife. Whatever has transpired before matters not. Together we will restore Oak Crest and rule Fenn, making them the strongest baronies in all of Wales. So do not fail me now, Brock; do not cower and whine. Be the strong man I know and love, the ruthless man I admire. Be my husband.” With that, she turned on her heel and stormed to the door. Once there, she was careful, slipping into the hallway and, Joseph assumed, skittering down to her own room to wait for the ceremony to begin.
There wasn’t much time. He would have to work fast. Sir Brock was a tall, strong man, but this evening some of the starch had left him, and Joseph was certain he could overtake him. Oh, how he longed to slit the bastard’s throat—the thought that Lady Elyn had died because of him was more than Joseph could stomach—but first, he had to find out the truth, and only the bastard knew what it was.
Joseph bided his time anxiously, careful to stay in his hiding spot. He had to remain cautious, could not make a mistake now, not when he’d learned the devastating news of Lady Elyn’s death. Revenge would have to be served, and who better to deliver it than he? He let go of the knife and withdrew a leather strap from his pocket, a fitting weapon as it was the tether that had been used to restrain Lady Elyn’s mare. Now it would choke the cur who had seduced and possibly killed her. A slow, determined smile curved his lips as he wrapped each end of the leather around his fists.
Muscles tense, a tic of anticipation starting near his eye, Joseph waited until Brock had tossed down a mazer of wine and was staring listlessly at the fire, his back to the alcove. The fire hissed, muted voices drifted through the thick panels of the door, and somewhere a mouse or rat scurried, its nails scratching on the stone floor beneath the rushes. Silently Joseph made a sign of the cross and sent up a small prayer, then slowly pushed back the curtain and crossed the room. Brock didn’t hear him. Didn’t turn. Was too caught up in his morbid thoughts and self-pity.
Joseph struck like a lone, hungry wolf. In one easy motion, he flipped the leather around Brock’s neck. The big man gasped and twisted, nearly bucking out of his chair as he frantically scrabbled at the noose with one panicked hand and reached for his knife with the other. Brock was strong and desperate, his weight turning and writhing, but Joseph only pulled tighter. “This is for Lady Elyn, you dirty bastard,” he growled, not so much as flinching when he felt Brock’s blade slam into his thigh.
Brock made gurgling sounds and fought like hell, pulling out his knife from Joseph’s leg, then hacking frantically, trying to wound his attacker again. ’Twas pathetic. The big man was losing strength now, flailing wildly, and Joseph easily sidestepped his blade as he twisted the tether more tightly. Brock’s knife clattered to the floor. He reached upward, trying to grip the leather strap with both hands, his fingers digging into the skin of his throat to no avail. Joseph, straining, his muscles bulging, only pulled the noose tighter, refusing to let up until he felt the miserable bastard shudder and collapse, his hands falling to his sides as he lost consciousness. Only then did Joseph release the tension.
For the moment, he had to keep the bastard alive. Much as he would like nothing better than to take his miserable, greedy life, he would let him live.
But only for the moment.
Chapter Twenty
“Kelan, something is amiss. I feel it in my bones,” Morwenna insisted as she met him at the stable door. He was tired, having ridden most of the day through the forest looking for poachers’ traps, listening as the constable droned on and on about the increase in crime, the thievery within the castle as well as without. A band of cutthroats had been hiding out in the forest and terrorizing travelers, getting bolder by the minute. Then there were the peasants who were cheating on their taxes and fees for the right to use the lord’s lan
d. He’d heard enough for one day and yet here was Morwenna, her pretty face a stone mask, trouble knitting her usually smooth brow.
“What is it?” he asked. Had something happened to Lenore? No, Morwenna seemed more vexed than sad.
“Lady Elyn.”
“Don’t tell me,” he said, sighing. His thoughts were already up the tower stairs to his wife and their marriage bed. At the image, he felt the comer of his mouth twitch upward. “I know. You don’t trust her. You think she’s … what? Not herself.” He scoffed at the idea but, seeing that his sister was sincerely worried, placed an arm around her shoulders and shepherded her toward the great hall. “She’s my wife, you know.”
“You’re in love with her.” Morwenna’s voice dripped ice.
“Would that be so bad?” They walked through the evening mist past huts where fires glowed through open windows. The night was closing in. A hint of moon shone above the clouds, muffled barks sounded from the kennel, the sails of the windmill moved slowly overhead, and somewhere far off a sheep bleated.
“Does she love you?” Morwenna asked, and some of the serenity of the evening cracked.
“We don’t speak of it.” He inclined his head toward his sister. “And what would it matter to you?”
“I just … I just don’t trust her.”
“Because you remember her as a girl.”
“Yes. I don’t believe that people change, not like that, not in their hearts. Elyn of Lawenydd was a stubborn woman only interested in herself. Well, and Brock of Oak Crest.”
“And what of you? Did you not once lose your heart?”
Morwenna stiffened. “That was a long time ago.”
“Aye, and now you feel differently about Carrick of Wybren.”
She didn’t answer, but he saw her blanch as they climbed the steps to the great hall. Inside, workers were already setting up the tables for the evening meal.