“I think not. But I will give you my promise that no harm will befall them in exchange for your signed confession stating that you did indeed conspire with Aldane against Tyrell.”
Jarrett frowned. “To what end?”
“Can you not guess?”
Jarrett nodded. “I would have thought you’d be content to take my life, Rorke. Would you have my honor, as well?”
“Exactly so.”
Jarrett kept his expression impassive, refusing to let Rorke have the satisfaction of seeing how deeply the idea of being thought a traitor disturbed him, and then he shrugged. What difference would a signed confession make? Those who knew him would know it for the lie it was. He didn’t care what others thought.
“How soon?”
“On the morrow, I think, just after dawn. There is a deep pool behind the mews that should serve our purpose.”
A gasp escaped Leyla’s lips as the meaning of Rorke’s words washed over her, and then she slid to the floor, her face as white as wool.
Jarrett dropped to his knees beside her and gathered her into his arms. “Leyla. Leyla!”
Her eyelids fluttered open. Upon seeing Jarrett, she threw her arms around his neck and held him close. He spoke so calmly of dying. Didn’t he know she could not live without him?
Jarrett rose to his feet, cradling Leyla to his chest. “I need a room for my wife.”
“Taark will see to her. You and I still have much to discuss.”
“I will take her to her room and make sure she is comfortable, and then I will return.”
Rorke’s fingers caressed the polished arm of the throne for several seconds, then he nodded.
“Very well. Do not be long. Take the first chamber at the top of the stairs.”
With a curt nod, Jarrett left the hall. Refusing to think of anything but Leyla’s safety and comfort, he carried her up the stairs and into the room Rorke had indicated.
After closing the door, Jarrett stood Leyla on her feet and began to undress her.
She placed her hand over his, forcing him to stop. “Jarrett, what are we going to do?”
“You’re going to get into bed, and then I’m going down to talk with Rorke.”
“He means to have Greyebridge and the throne.”
“Aye.” He took her hand from his and continued undressing her until she stood before him in only her shift. His eyes caressed her and then he bent and placed a kiss on her breast, just over her heart.
“Jarrett…”
“There is nothing to be said, Leyla.” Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and drew the covers up to her chin. “Rest now.”
“Thee expects me to rest when thy life is in danger?”
“I am safe enough, for now. Please, Leyla, think of the child.” The child I will never live to see.
“Jarrett, I’m afraid.”
“I know.”
Her throat tightened with unshed tears as he kissed her, his lips achingly sweet. He placed his hand on her swollen abdomen, gave her a smile that made her heart melt, and left the room.
Four guards waited outside the door. Three had their swords drawn.
Jarrett thought briefly of putting up a fight, but even if he killed all four guards, he would never get out of the castle alive. As long as he lived, there was still hope, and with that thought in mind, he offered no resistance as the guard stripped him of his weapons, then quickly tied his hands behind his back.
Giving him a shove, the guard said, “Lord Rorke’s waiting.”
Followed by the four men, Jarrett returned to the West Hall.
Rorke had been pacing the floor. At Jarrett’s entrance, he resumed his place on the throne.
“You cannot win, Jarrett,” he said, waving the guards aside. “You will do as I say, or your mother and your wife will suffer for it.”
Jarrett choked back the angry words that rose in his throat, knowing that Rorke was right. There was nothing he could do, not now. “Where is my mother?”
“In one of the rooms belowstairs.”
“Your promise, Rorke, I want your promise, sworn on your mother’s life, that no harm will come to my mother or Leyla. Or to my child.”
Rorke let out a sigh. “Very well.”
Jarrett drew a deep breath. “What are your plans for me?”
“Can you not guess?”
Hands tightly clenched, Jarrett nodded once, slowly. Thanks to Tor’s mental powers, Rorke knew of Jarrett’s deep-seated fear of the pool. “Until then?”
“The dungeons, of course. I cannot take a chance of your escaping again.”
“I want to stay with Leyla until the baby comes.”
“No. You will die in the pool tomorrow, as I said. Slowly. Painfully.”
Jarrett fought down a rising tide of panic. “I will sign nothing until after the child is born.”
It was a weak threat, a last endeavor to buy a little more time. His only hope was that Rorke wanted his confession of guilt badly enough to postpone his death.
Rorke stood up, his hands clenched, his face mottled with rage.
“I would remind you that you are in no position to dictate terms, my Lord Jarrett. You will do as I say, or I will have your mother beheaded before your eyes, and the child cut from your wife’s body!”
“Then do it!”
Rorke took a step back, his eyes mirroring his astonishment. “You doubt me?”
“No.”
Dropping to his knees, Jarrett gazed up at Rorke, his eyes blazing with impotent fury, his face burning with humiliation.
“You will soon have everything you desire, everything that I have ever loved. I am begging you to send my mother home, to let me spend my last days with my woman, to see my child. It will cost you nothing. I give you my word as a warrior that I will not try to escape. I will sign whatever papers you wish once the child is born, only let me see my son before I die.”
Rorke stared at the man kneeling before him. Never, in all his life, had he expected to find Jarrett of Gweneth groveling at his feet. It was a good feeling. Perhaps he was being overzealous in his eagerness to see the man dead. It would do no harm to let him live another few months. Indeed, the anticipation of the actual event would only make Jarrett’s death that much sweeter.
Rorke grinned. And Jarrett’s death would be that much more bitter, much harder to accept, once Jarrett had seen his child, held it in his arms. Ah, how much more painful to go to his grave knowing he would never see the child again.
“Very well,” Rorke agreed, “but I warn you now that should you make any attempt to escape, should you disobey me once, your mother will pay the ultimate price. I will keep her here to ensure your obedience.”
“I believe you.”
“I hope so. I will allow you four hours a day with your woman. You will be confined to the dungeon the rest of the time.”
“You are most generous, my lord.”
Rorke summoned Taark with a wave of his hand. “Take my Lord Jarrett to the dungeon. He is to have no visitors. You will see that he is taken to his wife’s room for no more than four hours each day. His mother will be given suitable quarters, and she is to be given anything she requires for her comfort. Tomorrow you will ride to the village and find a midwife.”
Rorke sat down, his hands gripping the arms of the throne. Soon, he thought, soon everything he had ever wanted would be his.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jarrett flinched as the heavy iron door closed behind him. He stood there for a long time, absorbing the darkness, inhaling the musty scent of decaying straw, the lingering stink of old sweat and vomit.
He quietly cursed the length of chain that tethered him to the wall, connected to his right ankle by a thick iron cuff. There was no need to chain him, he thought bitterly. He wasn’t going anywhere.
His steps measured the length and breadth of his prison, the infernal chain clanking with every movement. His hands slid over the cold stone walls, acquainted themselves with the straw-f
illed pallet, the slop jar that reeked of old excrement, the small barred panel set into the door that was the cell’s only opening.
Standing on tiptoe, he stared into the hallway. It was empty of life, of light. No guards were needed to keep watch within the dungeon, though he had no doubt that there were two stationed outside the entrance.
Four months. He could go quietly mad in less time than that.
Sherriza took Leyla’s hand as they made their way toward the dining hall where they were to take the evening meal with Rorke and the captain of the guard.
“Be strong, child,” Sherriza urged. “Do not let Rorke frighten you. He will do nothing until he has what he wants.”
“And he will have it,” Leyla said in despair. “Greyebridge. The throne. There’s no way to stop him.”
Sherriza’s hand tightened on Leyla’s. “That’s not all he wants, child. He wants you to share the throne with him.”
“What?” Leyla stared at her mother-in-law. “Who has told you such a thing?”
“I had it from Rorke’s own lips only this morning. He has always been jealous of Jeri, and he will not be content until he has all that Jeri possesses.”
“But…but Rorke has a wife,” Leyla exclaimed. “The King’s sister!”
“Men have killed to obtain thrones before. Mothers, fathers, siblings, all have been slain by ambitious men.”
“No.” Leyla shook her head. “No.”
“Listen to me, child. You must do nothing, nothing, to make Rorke angry. Do you understand? Jeri’s life hangs in the balance.”
“What difference does it make if Rorke is angry? He is planning to send thee back to Heth, to kill my husband, and thee worries that I might make him angry!”
“We have time, Leyla. We have the time until your child is born to find a way to thwart Rorke’s plans. You must be strong, stronger than you’ve ever been before.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Rorke has agreed to let Jarrett live until your child is born.”
“Truly?”
“Truly. If you are agreeable, if you flatter Rorke, we might persuade him to make Jarrett’s stay in the dungeon more comfortable.” Sherriza drew Leyla closer. “All is not lost. There are some within the castle who have sworn allegiance to Rorke, but who are still loyal to Jeri because he is Morrad’s nephew,” she whispered. “If we are patient, a way may be found to send word to Tyrell.”
“I understand. I will do whatever thee thinks best.”
“Good.”
Hand in hand the two women entered the dining hall, both determined to do whatever was necessary to help Jarrett.
Leyla looked up in surprise as Jarrett entered her chamber. “My Lord…”
He crossed the room swiftly and drew her into his arms. Closing his eyes, he held her close, inhaling the warm, sweet fragrance of her hair and skin. His lips drifted over her bared shoulder, savoring her soft flesh.
“Leyla.” His hands slid over her arms, caressed her breasts, then rested on her expanded girth. He smiled as he felt his child’s kick. “Are you well?”
“Yes. And thee?”
“Fine, now.”
He drew her down on the bed and buried his face in the hollow of her neck. Her hair was like finely spun silk in his hands. With a low groan, he covered her mouth with his, taking nourishment from her lips as though he were a man starved for food and she were a banquet meant only for him.
He murmured her name again and again as he held her and caressed her. Her nearness banished his fears, the sound of her voice overshadowed the memory of the long night he’d spent in the dungeon.
Leyla cradled him in her arms, assuring him that she loved him, that all was well with the child, that somehow they would find their way back to Greyebridge. Knowing that he needed to be a part of her, she slowly undressed him, raining kisses on his chest and belly, watching as his eyes grew cloudy with passion.
Rising from the bed, she slipped out of her gown and let it fall to the floor at her feet.
His breath caught in his throat as he gazed at her bared flesh. Her skin was the color of fresh cream. Her breasts were full, her belly distended with his child. She had never looked more beautiful. Or more desirable.
She stood there a moment, basking in the love that was reflected in the depths of his eyes and then, opening her arms to him, she joined him on the bed.
When he would have pressed her to the mattress, she shook her head and then, slowly and tenderly, she began to caress him, telling him with each kiss, each touch, that she loved him beyond words. She took satisfaction in knowing that she could arouse him, and as she fanned the embers of his passion, her own desire blossomed, until she was trembling with need.
“Now, my lord Jarrett,” she urged, lifting her hips to receive him.
And in the warmth of her arms he found the strength he was looking for.
Their days fell into a routine as the weeks went by. Sherriza and Leyla were given the run of the castle. They took their meals with Rorke, sat with him in the evening. Neither woman made any pretense of liking his company, yet they did not defy him in any way. If asked to sing, Sherriza complied with good grace. If Rorke was in the mood to talk, they talked. If he wished for silence, they acquiesced. When Sherriza remarked that Leyla needed exercise, he agreed to let them walk within the bailey each evening.
Occasionally Rorke demanded to be alone with Leyla. At such times, he spoke to her as if they were old friends, telling her of his childhood, of his sons.
He made no attempt to hide his desire for Leyla, or to deny that he intended to seduce her when her child was born. He dressed her in fine gowns of softsilk and velvet, offered her the jewels from Morrad’s treasury, adorning her in a sparkling array of precious gemstones set in gold and silver. Though he did not attempt to bed her, he often caressed her with his eyes, the bright heat of his barely controlled passion evident in the depths of his gaze. His hands ofttimes stroked her arms, her shoulders, and each touch was a promise of what was to come.
Leyla found his touch repulsive, but she dared not show it for fear of making Rorke angry. She knew what he was capable of, knew that he would not hesitate to punish her by mistreating Jarrett.
Often she looked at Rorke and wondered what had twisted him into the man he was now. He should have been well satisfied with his life. He had three daughters and two fine sons, a lovely wife who was sister to the King. He was the second most powerful man in the realm, he had lands and wealth, the King’s trust. Yet it was not enough.
The time passed with painful tedium for Jarrett. Confined to his cell, there was little to do but pace or sleep or stare into the darkness, contemplating his fate. His nightmares returned to haunt him and he often woke shivering in the middle of the night, the sound of his own cries echoing off the stone walls. He lived only for the time he was allowed to spend with Leyla. For those few short hours, he forced all thought of the future aside, wanting nothing to mar their time together.
Like Jarrett, Leyla lived only for those hours when Jarrett was with her. He refused to speak of the past or the future, which troubled her a great deal. When she let herself probe his mind, she encountered only despair and she feared he had given up all hope.
Once, when she remarked on this, he told her he had given Rorke his word that he would not escape if he were allowed to live until the child was born, and she knew then that he had made such a bargain because of her, to ensure that no harm would befall her during the last months of her pregnancy. He was sacrificing himself for her and for their babe.
“But surely you need not hold to such a promise,” Leyla argued. “Rorke has no honor. He has betrayed you in the past. He would do it again.”
“My honor as a warrior is all I have left,” Jarrett replied quietly. “I gave Rorke my word that I would not try to escape, and I will keep it. All that matters now is our child.”
“And what of me? What am I to do without thee?”
“Raise my son.”
/> She wept then, tears flooding her eyes and washing down her cheeks while he held her close.
Jarrett came awake slowly, his nerves taut, his heart pounding as he realized that someone was staring at him through the narrow slit in the door.
“My Lord? My Lord, it is Mettric. I was your uncle’s steward.”
Jarrett nodded at the man. Mettric was tall and extremely thin, with lank brown hair and pale skin. Only his eyes seemed alive, their gray depths filled with a vibrant glow. “Aye, Mettric, I remember you.”
“You are not alone, my Lord. There are those of your uncle’s men who await only the chance to take Rorke unaware.”
“How many?”
“I am not certain, my Lord, as we dare not meet together often for fear of arousing suspicion. Some of us chose to swear allegiance to Rorke rather than face death. Some of us feel that an allegiance sworn under such circumstances is not binding.”
Jarrett grunted softly. Were it not for the fact that Rorke had threatened his mother’s life, he would feel the same.
“It is your mother’s intention to go to Heth and plead your cause to the King.”
Rising to his feet, Jarrett approached the door. “It’s madness to try such a thing. If she’s caught…”
“Indeed, my Lord, but she has left this night. She forbade me to tell you of her plans until they were accomplished.” Mettric glanced up and down the dark corridor. “Take heart, my Lord. We may yet see the better side of this.”
“My thanks, Mettric. If all goes well, I will see that you are amply rewarded.”
“Good sleep, my Lord Jarrett,” Mettric said, and then he was gone, blending into the darkness.
Good sleep, Jarrett mused ruefully as he paced the floor. How could he be expected to sleep now? If his mother was caught outside the castle, she’d be killed. If she managed to reach Heth, if she could convince the King that Jarrett was innocent of treason, there might be a chance that all was not lost. And yet…
Jarrett swore under his breath, wondering if his mother had stopped to consider that Rorke might put everyone in the castle under the knife and make a run for it if he thought his own life was in danger.
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