Temptress

by Lisa Jackson

  A chant.

  His lip curled in disgust.

  The old hag was at it again.

  Whispering her blasphemies to unholy gods and goddesses.

  He tied his horse to a tree and, following the path of the stream, stepped stealthily through the underbrush and leafless trees, moving silently and ever closer to the sound that murmured through the shadows.

  Finally he saw her.

  In a small clearing near the stream, she was huddled upon the cold, bare ground, her cape spread out behind her in a pool of black cloth as she busily dug in the soft soil near the creek. As she worked, she never gave up her litany, sending up prayer after prayer of worthless pleas for protection.

  Stupid sow.

  Worthy only of death.

  From the shadows of the forest, he let out a long breath and allowed himself the fantasy of killing her. In his mind’s eye, he saw his gloved hands circle her pathetic, scrawny neck. He imagined lifting her from the forest floor, holding her so that her legs would kick uselessly, her spindly arms flail in the air as he slowly and surely squeezed the breath from her.

  His hands itched to do the deed.

  His blood pumped in anticipation.

  Why wait?

  She stood suddenly.

  Whirling, she stared into the forest, her pale eyes searching the darkness. As if she sensed he was there.

  He froze.

  Held his breath.

  “You, Arawn,” she yelled, spitting out the name of the pagan god of the underworld. “Begone!” Her voice was loud and crackled through the still night. The fear he had hoped to see in her ancient visage was missing. In its place was steely determination.

  She took a step forward, her chin thrust out, her gray hair falling free around her wrinkled face. “I fear you not,” she swore and tossed a handful of dirt or herbs or dry leaves into the air. The tiny dark pieces seemed caught in a whirl-wind that swirled and danced in the moonlight. “Go back to the darkness where you were spawned and leave us be!” Her lips pulled into a hideous snarl.

  The Redeemer swallowed hard, wondering for a heart-stopping instant if she could, with those ice blue eyes, see through the dense blackness of the forest to the spot where he stood.

  “Die!” she called out. “Go back to the demon who sired you!”

  Fear grasped his heart for the merest of seconds, but soon it was chased away. She was bluffing. She had no power.

  Nonetheless, he knew that he had to kill her.

  Soon.

  Before she exposed him.

  When her back was turned.

  He found the latch.

  Etched deep in one of the stones near the corner, a tiny piece of metal protruded. He glanced back at the bed where Morwenna had bent over him and kissed his lips. Where he’d fallen into a deep deathlike slumber only to awaken refreshed. He knew not how long she’d been gone but feared he had precious little time before someone discovered him missing. There was a chance that once he opened this door and stepped through whatever portal opened, he would never see her again. He didn’t know what lay beyond the doorway, should it open, but whatever was behind this wall would lead to another room, or a hallway, or a chamber that would not, he believed, be guarded. It was his chance for escape. His only chance. And he had to take it. Before she sent him to face Graydynn.

  He worked the tiny piece of metal, shoving it with his fingertips, pulling at it, trying to make it budge, but nothing happened.

  This had to be it.

  Or was it locked?

  Did whoever had visited him have a key?

  Try again!

  Sweat beaded his brow and he pushed harder, placing his finger atop the damned piece of metal and pressing down with all his strength.

  He heard a soft, nearly indistinct click.

  Without a second’s hesitation he pushed on one of the stones near the floor and it along with several others moved, sliding silently outward. He smiled as he realized that this small door was invisible because it was uneven, the stones not cut squarely as a normal doorway would be but the opening created around the shape of the stones, the mortar that should have held them together cut.

  Knowing he had little time, he grabbed a torch from its iron cradle and slid carefully into the small opening. He found himself in a tight, musty passageway that was barely wide enough for his shoulders. It ran along the back wall of this room, and, he presumed, behind the next chamber if there was one. There were sconces upon the wall, places to mount lights, and the floor, as he examined it, showed many footprints in dust that had accumulated for what he guessed was decades.

  So who had used this corridor? Who was the person who had sneaked into his room, the dark presence that he’d felt staring down upon him?

  And where did this path lead?

  He considered that Morwenna herself might know of this dark passageway and then discarded the idea. Why not use it to visit him; why do battle with the guards? No, he guessed, she did not know it existed. Nor had he heard anyone speak of it, though, of course, he’d been conscious very little. Yet from the smell of the airless hallway, he suspected it was seldom used.

  But someone knows about it and that someone has visited you.

  Setting his jaw, he knew there was only one way to find out who. He decided he had some time to explore this hallway, for if he was discovered missing, the alarm would sound, alerting him to the fact that soldiers would be searching for him.

  Perhaps he could find a means of escape.

  And then what? his mind taunted.

  But he had the answer. He would seek out the truth, whatever that might be. Was he, indeed, Carrick of Wybren? If so, had he truly mercilessly slaughtered his entire family as they’d slept? A bad taste crawled up the back of his throat at the thought. Nay, that couldn’t be. And yet he had vague memories of Wybren, of life at the vast castle with its tall spires and thick battlements.

  He located the latch from the passageway side of the wall and he pulled the stones into their original position, sealing the doorway. If anyone was to look in on him now, they would find him gone and know not how he escaped.

  He thought of Morwenna and her harsh words about sending him to Wybren and Graydynn’s justice. ’Twould serve her right to discover him missing. A smile curved across his lips until he remembered her kiss and his foolish response.

  He could not want this woman.

  At least not until he found out who he was.

  After marking the closed door with black char from an old rushlight, he started down the narrow hallway. His torch offered a flickering, uneven light that reflected against the ancient, dusty stones and caused a skittering of rodents’ claws as rats or mice or whatever else scuttled out of his path.

  He swiped at cobwebs, and his thoughts turned toward the questions that had haunted him from the moment he’d awoken. If he wasn’t Carrick, then who was he? Why was he left beaten, near death, close to these castle walls? Had he been on his way to Calon and been ambushed? Or had he been dragged to the place after he’d been attacked and then left? Had whoever was behind the assault been scared off before he was able to finish his job, and who the devil was he? Or she? Did the attack upon him have anything to do with the mysterious visitor who had come to him using this passageway or was his ambush somehow connected to Morwenna?

  If only he could remember!

  He felt that if he learned just a little more, found one more piece to the puzzle that was his life, everything else would fall into place and his memory would return.

  Is that what you want? his voice nagged. What if, indeed, you are Carrick? What will you do then? Give yourself up? Face Morwenna? Return to Wybren?

  “God’s teeth,” he whispered, his lips cracked, his voice creaking. ’Twas of no use to wonder. He’d find out soon enough.

  Bare feet sliding over the cold stones, he moved silently along the hallway until he came to a fork in the tight corridor. Making another black mark on the wall to indicate which way he’d come
, he veered toward a set of steps and began climbing until he reached another hall. Perhaps this hidden corridor opened to a tower, and he imagined flinging open a door and feeling cold air, fresh with the scent of rain, upon his skin. It seemed decades since he’d been outside, smelled the forest, felt the dampness of fog upon his cheeks. He stepped carefully and soon came to a wider spot in the passageway. He stopped, felt a slight rush of air, and put his hand to the space between the stones. The slits were for ventilation, he decided, but placed his face to the opening and looked beyond to a wide chamber with vivid tapestries upon the walls, a crackling fire burning brightly in the grate, a large bed in the center of the room, and a woman . . .

  His heart stopped.

  He drew in a swift breath as he recognized her.

  Morwenna of Calon.

  The lady of the keep.

  Lying half-naked in the bedclothes.

  Sleeping and unaware . . .

  The back of his throat went dry as she sighed and turned over, the coverlet slipping low enough that he caught a glimpse of the dark circle of her nipple before she drew the sheeting to her chin.

  Carrick’s heart thundered. He bit down on his lip and studied the bed.

  The bedclothes were rumpled as if she’d been restless and had not been able to fall easily asleep. A speckled dog was curled into a ball upon the bed with her and didn’t so much as glance upward as Carrick watched.

  He looked again at her. God, she was beautiful. He felt a stirring deep in his blood and silently cursed himself for the desire that burned through him. What was it about this woman he found so intriguing, so maddening, so downright irresistible? And why now, when his very life depended upon her whim, did he fantasize about stealing into her chamber, sliding under the covers, and pressing his body against hers? He imagined the feel of her softer muscles yielding to the gentle pressure of his own. He could almost hear her moan of surrender, feel the trace of her fingers along his skin as she scaled his ribs . . .

  Stop it! Stop it right now! You have no time for this, no time!

  His gaze lingered for a second before he forced himself to step backward. He took a deep breath, clearing his mind of the forbidden images, cooling the fire that was crackling through his veins.

  Think, man, think! You need to concentrate and gather information. It’s imperative you form a plan. You cannot be distracted. Not by Morwenna. Not by any woman.

  Mentally chiding himself, he surveyed the small area where he now stood. Wider than the rest of the corridors, it had obviously been constructed so as to view the chamber below.

  Why?

  And for whom?

  Sentries? A jealous husband? Spies within the keep?

  Frowning, he noticed the disturbance in the dust on the floor. Recent footprints. So he was not the first to have stared down at the lady’s chamber. An eerie sensation brushed the back of his neck. He had little doubt that whoever had visited him the other night had also stood in this very spot and watched Morwenna as she’d slept, or dressed, or bathed. Whoever it was had heard her most intimate conversations, seen her when she thought she was entirely alone. Whoever it was, he sensed, was the enemy. Any lingering thoughts that she might know of these secret corridors were banished and he realized that not only he, but she as well, had enemies within the stone walls of Castle Calon.

  There was treachery afoot and somehow it involved him. Both he and she were being watched by someone, perhaps manipulated by that same dark enemy.

  Morwenna let out a long, soft sigh, and he couldn’t help himself but leaned close again to catch another glimpse of her as she slept so peacefully. Her dark hair tumbled around her face and down her back, her breathing was soft and steady, her eyes were closed, the sweep of her eyelashes resting upon her cheeks. Her mouth was slightly open and he remembered her kiss and her confession that she didn’t believe him to be a murderer.

  But someone is.

  Probably someone she trusts.

  He thought of all the voices he’d heard, the glimpses of men who had observed him. The steward, guards, priest, and physician had all been in attendance. And what of the old woman who seemed to hate him so?

  He had no answers.

  Yet.

  But he would find out who was behind this . . . set a trap for the bastard—that was it.

  His mind was rushing ahead. Somehow he had to flush the enemy out. The first step was to know his lair, and this was it.

  Using his torchlight for illumination, he leaned down and stared at the footprints. . . . Most were smudged and there was nothing distinctive about them; they were the size of an average man, one whose feet were close in size to Carrick’s own. And though the slits in the wall were not level and several were set at a lower height, it seemed that most of the prints were at the same one that was comfortable for a person of his own height. He saw nothing else that would help him unmask the voyeur, no bit of fabric from a robe, no careless dropping of a personal effect, no hairs caught on the sharp edges of the sconce . . . though this sconce was probably not used often for fear the light would shine through the slits in the wall, allowing whoever was below to know someone was watching.

  So who had been watching her?

  Without an answer, he walked along the narrow passageway. There were other wide spots between the stones, and he was able to view another woman, one with dark reddish hair splayed upon her pillow as she slept—the sister, he guessed. He moved farther on to what appeared to be the solar, which was now empty, and then to the empty room with the rumpled, empty bed, the chamber where he’d been held as a captive guest. He guessed this viewing area was directly above the hidden doorway that he’d used to enter the passageway. Were there portals from all the rooms—one from Morwenna’s?

  He searched for other hidden doors or latches along the flight of narrow stairs and at the floor level of the lady’s chambers, the same level on which his own room and secret doorway were located, but discovered none. He also checked the dust on the floor of the passageway for signs of disturbance. Though there were footprints leading everywhere, it seemed that most were concentrated in the viewing area over Morwenna’s room. Whoever used these secret hallways knew them well and used them to secretly observe the lady of the keep.

  Carrick felt a quiet rage steal through his blood, not unlike the emotions he experienced whenever he thought of Morwenna marrying Lord Ryden, a fact he’d learned from gossiping servants.

  Jealousy?

  His jaw tightened. He had no right to any kind of possessive feeling toward her. According to her, he’d thrown away her love, left her when she was with child.

  He slapped at a cobweb and frowned. What kind of a man had he been? One who would ruthlessly kill his family? One who would turn his back on his woman and child for a dalliance with his brother’s wife?

  No wonder someone had decided to beat the snot out of him.

  Moving stealthily, he came upon a small room no larger than a cupboard. As his torchlight illuminated the tiny chamber, he discovered how the person who walked these hallways was able to get in and out of the castle undetected. He was disguised in the clothing that he left here: a monk’s robe, a dark cowl and cloak, a soldier’s uniform, a farmer’s humble tunic and cap . . . disguises. And weapons. He found two knives, a sword, an ax, and several carpentry tools. Whoever used these hallways had plotted carefully.

  As would he. He slipped on the soldier’s tunic and tucked the breeches, belt, pouch, and boots that were a part of the uniform beneath his arm. Then, hardly believing his good fortune, he stole the smaller knife and slipped it into his sleeve.

  Afterward he explored for as long as he could and discovered several tunnels, one leading to the chapel, another to a dungeon’s cell that was empty, the rusted gate unlocked. He saw several other offshoots from the passageways, but he didn’t have time to search them. Time was passing and though he wanted to examine every inch of this hidden maze, his strength failed him and he was suddenly weary, his muscles aching afte
r so much sudden use.

  Fearing that he might be discovered missing, and in the search that ensued the passageway that he might need to use as a means of escape be found, he inched backward.

  Retracing his way to his chamber, he was careful to disturb little and his ears strained to hear even the slightest sound that was out of the ordinary, lest he, with only a small weapon, run into the person who walked these passageways with ease and knowledge.

  At each branch from this hallway, he cleaned off the charcoal markings so that whoever had been using the hidden corridors wouldn’t notice a change and instead scratched the stones near the floor. Making mental notes about the passageways that branched from what he sensed was a main arterial, he headed toward the room where he’d spent so many days and nights. He would explore again, if he had the opportunity. Surely there were more rooms one could slip in and out of, perhaps more tunnels leading to other buildings within the heart of the castle.

  There was much he could do.

  But first, he needed rest. Fatigue was setting in, his muscles protesting. He stripped near the door to his room and tucked his newfound clothes into a dark, musty passageway that appeared, with its lack of footprints and profusion of cobwebs, to be seldom used. Keeping the small knife that he would hide beneath his body, he headed toward his own chamber again.

  He would have to escape, he thought as he unlatched his door and stepped naked into the chamber where he’d lain for two weeks.

  And he would have to leave soon.

  Before Morwenna made good her threat to send him to Wybren.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Help me!” The words echoed through her mind, just as they had since last evening when she’d visited Carrick. She couldn’t shake the memory, nor ignore the desperation she’d heard when he’d finally spoken. His plea chased her even now as she hurried along the wet flagstones that cut through the garden and led to the chapel.

  Carrick had grabbed her arms, looked directly into her eyes, and begged her to help him only to fall back against his pillows. Had he known her or had it been part of his delirium? His words had been with her all night and into the day, and though she’d checked on him twice since, he hadn’t roused again. She’d mentioned that he’d appeared to awaken to the physician, but Nygyll had examined Carrick and only shaken his head.