Windswept

by Sabrina Jeffries

  Withdrawing the knife, he held the flat side of the blade against her cheek, then stroked it along her jawbone and down her neck. “Things can be . . . pleasant between us, Catrin, or painful. I’d prefer pleasant. Wouldn’t you?”

  Heavens, that was why he’d confessed his crimes to her. He wanted her to know exactly what he was capable of, so she wouldn’t waste his time with attempts to avoid what he considered inevitable.

  That knowledge horrified her most. She’d never met a man with no conscience, for whom reciting his crimes was merely a means to an end. A man like that might do anything.

  “We shall make a potent child together, you and I,” he said.

  “What if I’m already bearing Evan Newcome’s child?”

  His face darkened. “Considering that you only met him a week ago, I’d find that hard to believe.” He hesitated, searching her face. “I know you, Catrin. You aren’t the sort of woman to leap into a man’s bed without benefit of marriage. If you’d wanted to take a lover, you would have done so before now.”

  “And if I had?” she persisted, hoping it would make him release her.

  “If I thought for one moment that you were no longer a virgin, I would kill you. I need a virgin for the sacrifice.” The words hung between them, stark, cold, and sure. “But I know you are one, so this ploy of yours won’t work.”

  Oh Lord, and she’d almost told him the truth. Not that lying to him had gained her much. If he ever did bed her, he’d find out she wasn’t a virgin anyway.

  He brought the knife down to her breasts and amused himself by running the tip over each swell, smiling to see how her breath quickened in fear, making her breasts shake beneath the blade. She leaned back to put some distance between her and the knife, but the movement nearly overset her.

  As her bound hands scrabbled for purchase on the desktop, she felt something cold and metal. David’s silver letter opener. She remembered seeing it on his desk. Closing her fingers around it, she wedged it up between her bonds, hoping to keep it hidden long enough to have the chance to use it.

  Sir Reynald brought the tip of his knife down between her breasts and ran it along the hollow in a horrific caress. “It does no good to fight me. I always win. So any attempt to escape is foolish. In fact, now that you see what’s planned for you, my dear, you should feel honored to be given the chance to bear a new race.”

  “You won’t get away with this. Evan will come in search of me.”

  “I doubt it. And even if he does, he won’t make it here before we’re married. By then, I’ll have you locked up tight and cozy at my estate.” With a chilling smile, he brought the tip of the knife up her throat. “And we will already have begun the business of creating my heir.”

  Slipping the knife inside his waistcoat, he withdrew a handkerchief, which he used to gag her. “But for now, my dear, I’ll content myself with dreaming of our wedding night. I still have to search Morys’s office, then remove you from this too-public place so I can make preparations for the morn.”

  He left her side to rifle through David’s desk, and she thought about sawing at her bonds with the letter opener. But he was at her back, where he’d notice any movement, and she dared not risk having her puny weapon taken away.

  Panic seized her. She could only hope Evan found her, and that was a slim hope indeed. Even the letter opener would help her only a little; it wasn’t exactly sharp.

  The desk shuddered beneath her as Sir Reynald slammed drawer after drawer. Then he stopped. “That’s done. Time to leave.” There was an ominous silence before he added, “But I don’t want to deal with your struggles in the meantime. Sorry, my dear, I’m afraid this will hurt.”

  Hurt?

  Then something hit the back of her head and she fell into darkness.

  22

  Evan felt as if someone was clawing his heart out with a hook bit by bit. Catrin had disappeared, and no one knew where.

  He and Rhys had ridden into Llanddeusant near midnight. They’d gone to Morys’s house and the school, but no Catrin. And now they were at Plas Niwl and Bos was telling them he hadn’t seen his mistress since she’d left for London with Evan.

  Barely restraining the urge to grab the butler by the throat, Evan growled, “We know she’s here somewhere. She left only a few hours before us. Surely you have an idea where she might be.”

  Bos pursed his lips. “Begging your pardon, sir, but if she left you, then perhaps she doesn’t want to be found.”

  Only Rhys’s hand on his shoulder prevented Evan from launching himself at the old man. “Damn it, she may be in danger! That chalice she went to London to buy was taken from her—from us—by David Morys, and his murdered body turned up outside Carmarthen yesterday.”

  As Bos paled, Rhys added, “We think Mr. Morys was killed for the chalice. Unfortunately, Mrs. Price doesn’t know of his murder and came here to get it back from Morys.”

  Evan thrust out the note she’d left him. As Bos scanned it, he swallowed convulsively. “Truly, gentlemen, I have not seen my mistress. But I am happy to join you in a search for her.”

  “We don’t know where to search!” Evan cried. “She’s not at Morys’s and she’s not here, so where on God’s green earth is she?”

  Rhys frowned. “What if we try her father-in-law? You said he had cause to want to hurt her.”

  “That is an excellent suggestion,” Bos put in. “Sir Huw has never hidden his unwarranted dislike for my mistress.”

  Evan nodded. “We’ll go there next. It’s the only possibility we haven’t explored.” As Rhys and Bos headed for the entrance, Evan said, “Bos, do you know where Catrin kept the diary that describes the curse?”

  The butler nodded. “It is still in the safe where she kept the chalice. She left that open when you and she departed on your trip to Carmarthen.”

  “Good. I know it’s unlikely, but perhaps something in it can give us an idea of why someone would kill for that chalice . . . or where Catrin might have gone to look for it.”

  “I shall fetch it.” Bos strode off and returned moments later with an ancient-looking book. Evan took it and, after a cursory glance, stuffed it in his waistcoat.

  “Shall you not peruse its contents?” Bos asked.

  “Later. First we must get to Sir Huw’s.”

  The next hour tried Evan sorely. It took them much too long to reach Sir Huw’s estate, for although the moon was still full enough to give them ample light, the roads were bad. As they struggled along the last mile, Evan tried not to think about what danger Catrin might be in.

  But he kept seeing Justin lying in a pool of blood. If that were Catrin—

  He squelched the thought. He wouldn’t let her be hurt. Somehow he’d find her . . . and the chalice, too, if that was what was needed to win her.

  Once they reached Sir Huw’s estate, it took several minutes to rouse anyone and several more to convince the servants to awaken their master. But when the baronet strode down the stairs still wearing his nightcap and belting a robe about his waist, Evan felt alarm set in. If Sir Huw had taken Catrin, he certainly hadn’t let her presence deter him from sleep, had he?

  “What is the meaning of this!” Sir Huw growled as he reached the bottom of the stairs. “To wrench a man from his bed at this hour is an outrage. I want you all out of my house. Now!”

  To everyone’s surprise, it was Bos who answered. “Begging your pardon, Sir Huw, but we are looking for Mrs. Price. It is a matter of some importance.”

  “Why the bloody hell would she be here?” He peered at Evan, then scowled when he recognized him. “Besides, I heard she’d run off to London with you, Mr. Newcome.”

  With an effort, Evan tamped down his dislike of the man. “I’m afraid Catrin is in trouble, sir, and we thought you might be able to shed light on where she might be.” In a few words, he told Sir Huw of the curse and what had happened with the chalice. He finished by asking if Sir Huw knew anything about the chalice or Catrin’s whereabouts.

&nb
sp; Sir Huw looked as if someone had just hit him over the head with a shovel. “Come into my study, all of you,” he said hoarsely. “I want to hear more of this.”

  Impatient to be on with the search, Evan nearly refused, but Rhys’s hand on his arm cautioned patience. So he followed the others into the study.

  As soon as they were inside, Evan snapped, “Well? Do you know where she is? Or who might want the chalice?”

  Sir Huw shook his head. “I assume you think I might have . . . done this thing. But I am innocent. Mr. Bos, you know I wouldn’t steal or . . . or murder anyone.”

  Bos leveled him with a cold stare. “You must admit, sir, that you are not fond of my mistress. You have maligned her publicly.”

  “Only because I truly believed she caused my son’s death.”

  “How?” Evan exploded. “By witchery? Spells and enchantments? What kind of man uses superstition to punish a woman for a tragedy that harmed her, too?”

  Sir Huw’s face crumbled. “ ’Tis not so strange to believe, is it? There was a curse upon my Willie, though I didn’t understand until this night the nature of it.”

  “I don’t believe in your bloody curse!” Evan cried. “But Catrin does. Have you any idea of the guilt she has lived with? She blames herself for your son’s death because she didn’t know about the curse. And she’s in this mess because although she wants a life and a future, she’s determined to make sure no one else dies!”

  “Like Willie, you mean,” Sir Huw persisted.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Evan growled. “This is getting us nowhere.” Clearly Sir Huw had known nothing of the curse and the chalice, which meant it was unlikely he’d had anything to do with Catrin’s disappearance. “Come, Rhys, let’s see if we can find another who might know where she is.”

  “Wait!” the baronet said. “I admit I was wrong to blame her. And I know that she has suffered for it.”

  “Your remorse is touching, Sir Huw,” Evan bit out, “but it doesn’t help us find her.”

  “Perhaps it is time to look at the diary, sir,” Bos prodded. “Although I cannot imagine how it would be of any help, one never knows.”

  Evan nodded. He couldn’t think of what else to do. Opening the leather-bound book, he scanned its fragile pages. Then he noticed that the book fell naturally open at one spot. “This is the part about the curse.”

  He read it aloud, but nothing in it was informative. A basic rendering of a typical myth, it nonetheless gave him shivers. The powerful words automatically invoked fear in the reader. No wonder Catrin had believed it. When he coupled it with what he knew of her family history, he could almost believe it himself.

  “The chalice sounds ancient,” Rhys said. “Perhaps it has intrinsic value.”

  “I don’t think so,” Evan said. “Believe me, if it had, Lady Mansfield would have sold it herself. Besides, I’ve seen the thing. It’s ugly, and though it does have some sort of symbols on it . . . druidic, I think . . . it—”

  Something nagged at his memory. He read the tale of the curse again. “ ‘Ancient ways.’ From the use of the word ‘Saxon,’ I’d guess this chronicles a medieval event. But ‘ancient ways’ might refer to the druids, mightn’t it? I suppose there could still have been a few during the Middle Ages.”

  “There’s a dolmen on Catrin’s land,” Sir Huw said.

  “Yes, I know.” Evan’s heart pounded. “And there are practicing druids hereabouts. I learned that when I came upon Sir Reynald and Catrin’s gamekeeper discussing how to deal with men who’d trespassed on Catrin’s land to perform sacrifices at the dolmen.”

  “Sir Reynald?” Sir Huw scowled. “Now there’s a man who’s been wanting Catrin’s land. It adjoins his. He’s made her offer after offer, but she won’t sell.”

  “I don’t see how gaining the chalice would help him with that,” Rhys said. “If she remarries, she’d be more likely to sell it to him than less, for she needs the property as long as she’s unmarried.”

  Evan shook his head. “We’re missing the point. Sir Reynald didn’t take the chalice because he wants her land. He took it for the same reason he wants the land: because it’s druidic . . . just as the dolmen on her land is druidic.”

  He clutched the diary. “That day when I saw them at the altar, they said it was Sir Reynald’s bull that had been sacrificed. It was the second one.” He shuddered, remembering the bull’s mangled body. “Don’t you find that odd? If someone were going to steal cattle to use for dastardly purposes, don’t you think they’d steal from different people? Sir Reynald was furious, but I’ll wager it was because his companions hadn’t cleaned up the mess left from the previous night’s ritual.”

  “Isn’t that jumping to conclusions?” Rhys said.

  “Perhaps. But I find it suspicious that it was Sir Reynald’s bull butchered and it’s Sir Reynald who wants the land with the altar on it.”

  “I hate to interrupt this intriguing discussion,” said Bos, “but all this talk of druids has reminded me of something. Today is June twenty-first.”

  “The summer solstice,” Evan whispered. “Oh God, we must get to that altar. I’ll wager that’s where we’ll find both Catrin and the chalice.”

  Sir Huw rose as they headed for the door. “I’m coming with you. It sounds as if there may be more than one of these druid fellows, and you’ll need help.”

  “Why do you care?” Evan ground out. “I thought you hated Catrin.”

  “If that chalice caused my son’s death, then I wish to make sure it causes no one else’s. It’s the least I can do when my daughter-in-law has risked her life to do the same. Besides, you’ll need weapons. And I can provide them.”

  In truth, Evan was glad to have another man on this mission, as well as the weapons. He had no idea what they’d be facing . . . a single madman or several. And given what he knew of druids and their bloody practices . . .

  As Sir Huw hurried to gather his hunting weapons, Evan shuddered, trying not to think of Catrin lying atop that pagan altar. If anything happened to her, what would he do? How would he live the rest of his life without her, burdened by the knowledge that he had failed her . . . that he had come too late?

  Sir Huw brought out an impressive array of flintlock rifles and hunting knives. As Evan stared at them, he made a decision. He drew off his shirt and coat, then unwrapped his sling.

  “What are you doing?” Rhys hissed. “You need that.”

  “I need the arm more right now,” Evan retorted. “I can’t fight with my arm in a sling.” He flexed the muscle, wincing when he felt it pull on his shoulder. But he wouldn’t be much good to them otherwise.

  Ignoring Rhys’s scowl, he donned his shirt and coat, then chose two rifles and a sword. Fortunately, he’d dealt with plenty of physical pain in his life, thanks to his father. He could endure this, too. If he had to, he could endure the fires of hell to save her.

  Because he could never endure losing Catrin.

  When Catrin came to, she was still bound and gagged. She was sitting outdoors, propped against something cold. It was dark yet, but she could sense the changes that came before dawn . . . a far-off rooster crowing . . . birds chirping . . . the dimming of the stars.

  There was a fire, but it gave only the faintest light. For a second she wondered where she was and why she was bound. Then Sir Reynald stepped in front of her, and everything came back to her.

  “I see that my druid princess is awake.” He’d changed his clothing and now wore a belted white robe with ancient symbols embroidered on its hem. A crown of greenery, probably mistletoe, ringed his balding head, making him look like a ludicrous impersonator of Caesar.

  But there was nothing ludicrous about the knife tucked into his woven belt, nor the evil smile that crossed his face. “You know where you are, don’t you, my dear? You should. It’s on your land.”

  The dolmen. She peered around the dimly lit clearing and was just able to make out the towering shapes of trees.

  Damp, cold air d
rove a chill into her bones. She flexed her fingers behind her, and that was when she felt the metal shaft wedged between her bound hands.

  The letter opener. Thank heaven. She tried moving the shaft up and down against her bonds. Although the letter opener was dull, at least it had an edge. Maybe if she sawed at the cravat long enough, she could free herself.

  Sir Reynald clapped his hands and she jumped, fearing he’d realized what she was doing. Then he called out, “Ifor! Where are you?”

  A man materialized out of the darkness, dressed much as Sir Reynald was, without the circlet of mistletoe. She’d seen him before. He was a laborer on Sir Reynald’s land.

  “Have you posted a man at the road?” Sir Reynald asked.

  “Yes. And we’ve got someone at each corner.”

  “Good.” Sir Reynald scanned the clearing. “I don’t expect encroachers, but we mustn’t take chances. The others will arrive any minute.” He paused. “I don’t see the bull for the sacrifice.”

  “Dafydd is bringing it. ’Tis difficult since he can’t follow the road.”

  “I don’t care how difficult it is,” Sir Reynald spat. “The bull must be here in time for the ceremony.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Ifor scowled. “There’s a storm brewing. ’Tis a bad omen to have a storm on the morning of the solstice. Perhaps we should wait.”

  “No!” With a glance at Catrin, Sir Reynald added, “The Fates have already given her to me, which is a good omen. Besides, the storm is a symbol of power. I welcome the thunder and lightning: Someday my descendants will rule both.”

  She shivered at the thought of a race of Sir Reynalds. She’d kill herself before she let him make her part of that.

  But she didn’t intend to die yet. Feverishly, she worked the letter opener up and down in the same spot. It didn’t seem to be doing much, but she couldn’t sit here and do nothing.