Temptress (20 page)

He thought she might leave, sensed that she’d turned toward the door again, and then she abruptly wheeled and faced him. “So, damn you, if you awaken, it would be best for you if you called for me. . . .” Her voice broke and she took in a long, shuddering breath. “I should hate you and I’ve sworn that I do . . . but . . . ’tis a lie. I do not. I . . . I wish there was another choice. I wish that . . . Oh, we both know that wishes are for ninnies! Just . . . just please believe that I do what I do with a heavy heart.”

It was all he could do to lie motionless. Yet he did. And when she approached again and her lips brushed against his temple, he thought he might groan in the sweet agony of it or, worse yet, be unable to keep his arms pinned to his sides rather than pulling her down upon him.

With all his strength, he managed to remain unmoving and was able to breathe as if he were asleep. He didn’t so much as flutter an eyelid and waited, seconds ticking by, his entire body seeming to center on that tiny spot near his hairline where her warm, pliant lips touched his skin.

His pulse pounded wildly, his blood ran hot, his heart thundered in his chest. Could she not hear the pounding, nor see the jump of his vein in his throat, nor notice the beads of sweat erupting upon his skin?

He strained to appear deep in slumber, his breath coming through his lips in soft little puffs, his muscles slack, his eyes closed.

“Carrick! Can you not hear me? Please, please, awaken!” she whispered desperately against the shell of his ear.

“I need to talk to you. . . . By all that is holy, Carrick, wake up,” she ordered.

When he didn’t respond, she let out an angry sigh. “I hope you rot in hell!” she vowed.

He thought she would leave then, prayed she would end this sweet torment, but instead she lingered, moving closer again, her breath racing across his skin as, once again, she leaned over him. His guts twisted. He nearly groaned. She placed her lips upon him and then slid a kiss across his bearded cheek to his mouth.

He tensed.

Felt her breath mingle with his.

Her smooth, supple mouth touched his.

How could he ignore this? The warmth that invaded his blood, the tingles that ran through his entire body, the raw pulse of need that rushed through his veins? Desperately he fought the urge to surround her in his arms, to crush his mouth against hers, to taste the salt upon her skin. . . . His groin tightened and he became so stiff he ached. Heat radiated from the innermost part of him. He refused to let his mouth respond.

As if to test him, she rimmed his still swollen lips with the tip of her tongue, and he nearly moaned aloud before she straightened, leaving his mouth tingling, his body desperate for release.

“By the saints, Carrick,” she said on a disgusted sigh, “I fear you’re doomed. If you will not waken, there is nothing I can do to save you.”

He knew his manhood was rock hard and he half expected her to throw back the covers as she had before. She didn’t. Instead her voice turned harsh as she whispered, “I swear on my mother, Lenore of Penbrooke’s, grave, if you can hear me, you son of a wild dog . . . if . . . if this is all an act . . . then you’re a worse bastard than even I imagined, and I’ll send you to Graydynn and gladly accept whatever punishment he metes out for you. If you’re pretending about this . . . this state you seem to be in and I find out, trust me, Carrick, you’ll rue the day you crossed me!” Her anger seemed to pulse through the room. “I will never forgive you!”

He reacted then. Instinctively he opened his eyes and his hands captured her wrists, holding her fast.

She gasped, startled. Her heart pounded a thousand beats a minute and she tried to pull away.

He held her as if his life depended upon it. “Help me!” he rasped, forcing the words out through vocal cords that strained. “Help me!”

“Oh, my God, you can hear me!” she cried. “Carrick, oh, God . . .”

The world spun, darkness threatened. Still he grasped her wrists.

“I cannot believe you’re awake,” she said, as if through a long tunnel. As if the effort of holding her were too much, he dropped her arms and fell back against the bed. Groaning, he tried to stay alert, to tell her . . .

“Carrick!” she cried, but he couldn’t respond. Fingers grabbed his shoulders, pulling at him. “Please, talk to me . . . oh, no . . . don’t do this. Don’t you dare do this!” she ordered.

He heard the desperation in her voice, felt her shake his shoulders roughly, but he was already drifting away, his energy spent from his earlier efforts to stand and walk, as well as the effort to deceive her. Now he was being sucked under by the blackness again, and though he fought the sensation, it had its talons dug deep into his brain.

“You bastard, do not leave me again. . . .” But he was quickly fading and she knew it. “You . . . you miserable blackheart, you deserve whatever fate decides for you!”

He felt a rush of air as she turned quickly and her footsteps pounded to the door. He heard her say something unintelligible to the guard and then shout, “God’s teeth, Dwynn, you nearly scared the liver out of me! Why are you forever lurking about?”

He caught a glimpse of a man hurrying away. Then the door slammed shut with an echoing thud. As if Morwenna were closing him out of her life forever. He felt a second’s pang of regret, and then, blissfully, he faded into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

H
is horse was panting in the moonlit night, lather appearing upon his dark hide, his wet sides heaving as the Redeemer slid from the saddle to the near-frozen ground. His boots sank deep into the mud near the stream that ran through the forest of Calon. He cast a glance at his steed. The ride had been long and arduous and the stallion’s breath spewed out of his nostrils in twin shots of steam. The beast deserved to be walked, groomed, fed, and watered and yet there was no time.

Holding the bridle in his gloved hands, he allowed the animal a few long swallows of water from the icy brook where the water splashed over stones and cut beneath overhanging roots. Seconds later, fearful that the horse might become ill, he pulled his mount away from the rush of the water, swung up into the saddle again, and rode to a small clearing where he stared up at the battlements rising on the hillside.

This keep was not his home. Nor would it ever be. A strong fortress it was, but it was smaller than Wybren by half, the square towers not the perfectly rounded turrets that were mounted high on the walls of Wybren, the battlements of Calon not as steep. The only assets this castle had that Wybren did not were the labyrinthine secret passageways and the woman. Oh, yes, the woman. His pulse quickened at the thought of her. Morwenna. Proud. Tall and striking. A woman with intelligent blue eyes that seemed to see past his facade to the man within.

The chill of the night seeped through his hood and mantle, reaching to his bones. He thought of a warm fire, a cup of wine, and a hot, supple woman to chase the coldness from his soul, but he would have to wait. There was much to do.

Since Sir Vernon had been found, it was much more difficult to ride through the gates of Calon. He had to be careful, making sure his excuses for leaving, should they be checked, would be verified. No one in the castle doubted his need to leave, nay, it was a necessity, and yet everyone was being more closely observed since Vernon, the fat old fart, had been killed.

The Redeemer smiled as he remembered the act, the surprise on Sir Vernon’s face, the gasp of horror as he realized he was about to die, the satisfaction that came to the Redeemer as Vernon sputtered a bloody last breath.

Though killing Vernon had not been in his plan, he’d been unable to stop himself, had been pressed to find a way to service his bloodlust. When he’d seen the single sentry rooting around in the cranny cut into the wall walk, he’d known the man would have to die. Though he hadn’t realized it, Vernon had come too close to discovering a latch for a hidden door, one the Redeemer used to make good his escapes. If the simpleminded soldier had been left up on that walk, searching for places to hide his jug, there was a chance he would stumble upon the Redeemer’s private labyrinth, and if that had been allowed to occur, all his plans would have been threatened, perhaps exposed. No other sentry had paid the slightest mind to the small little cuts in the towers and curtain wall, and the Redeemer had felt safe. Until Vernon had started poking around.

It had been necessary to stop him.

That part had been easy.

And enjoyable.

As the Redeemer remembered the exact second Vernon’s eyes had met his, the instant of fear and confusion, he felt satisfaction. The guard had recognized him and then, quick as a bolt of lightning sizzling to the ground, the Redeemer had struck with all his fury, flinging his body upon the bigger man’s back, drawing his blade and plunging it deep into his prey’s thick neck, reveling in the guard’s pathetic struggles, his flailing arms, reeling body, and finally the moment the life seeped out of him as he’d tumbled to the hard stones of the wall walk. . . .

The Redeemer had been forced to work fast, and luckily the downpour had leached the blood out of his dark cape.

In the end he’d duped them all.

Tonight, astride his mount, the Redeemer smiled to himself and felt a tingle of excitement, a thrill hasten up his spine in anticipation of his next kill.

This one would be more difficult but even more satisfying.

The wind sighed through the trees, causing dry leaves to swirl and dance and the fronds of ferns to sway. Somewhere he heard the sound of a woman’s voice intoning indecipherable words without a bit of inflection.

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.