Temptress (24 page)

Nay . . . his family had lived there. . . . He saw faces, a large, swaggering father and a milder, hard-lipped woman who was his wife . . . his own mother? His jaw tightened as he tried to draw up the images, but they were unfocused and skittered in and out of his mind, just as did his name.

His throat went dry at the thought of her. How could he forget her with her heart-shaped face, smooth skin, and curling ebony hair? In the few moments he’d seen her, he’d noticed her eyes, a deep, dark blue and quick with intelligence, surrounded by a sweep of black lashes and eyebrows that arched in interest or doubt. In those fleeting instances she’d spent in his room, she’d displayed violent changes in temperament. She’d been wildly passionate, filled with despair, blazing with hot fury, or coldly determined. She’d sworn at him, accused him of all kinds of vile acts, and yet she had kissed him with tenderness and longing, an ache and heat he’d felt himself.

And in their few, brief meetings he understood one truth: Morwenna of Calon was still in love with Carrick.

Christ Jesus, if he could only talk to her, plead his case, ask her forgiveness.

No!
he silently raged.
Impossible!

His fists curled impotently and he heard her voice, soft and low, instructing the guard to let her inside.

His heart sank.

He would never be able to keep up this pretense. She knew that he could hear, could speak.

A key turned in the lock and he braced himself, every muscle straining.

He recognized her scent: Morwenna.

 

The Redeemer had watched as Morwenna slipped out of her room. She’d bathed and washed her hair, then nearly fallen asleep in the tub, her breasts rimmed by the soapy water, her dark nipples puckering as the temperature in the room chilled.

Oh, to suckle from her. To touch her. To rim his tongue over each little bud and to bite down . . . He’d let out a low moan at the thought, and her damned dog had looked up, barked, and growled.

Morwenna had suddenly roused, wrapped a towel around herself, and, following the dog’s lead, looked upward to the very place he stood. Her eyebrows had knotted, her lips flattening in anger. She’d stared hard, as if she could actually see the narrow, nearly invisible slits, and then said, “What did you hear?” to the stupid, mangy mutt. She then quickly donned a scarlet tunic and cinched it with a silvery belt.

Still eyeing the wall suspiciously, she’d started combing out her hair near the fire when a sharp knock registered on the door. Morwenna had visibly started as the dog charged to the door to bark and snarl crazily, all the while wagging its fool tail. What a useless creature.

Gladdys, that little goose of a maid, had announced herself before entering. Then, sending the mutt a glance suggesting she’d like nothing better than to kick him over the castle wall, she had helped Morwenna finish drying her tangled loose curls.

Disgruntled, the speckled beast had growled but settled into a ball on the bed again.

Nearly two hours later, after dismissing the serving maid, trying and failing at sleep, Morwenna had climbed out of bed, thrown on a long black robe, cinched it around her slim waist, and made her way to the prisoner’s chamber. And make no mistake, the man in the bedroom across the hall was a captive. Lady Morwenna could lie to herself and call him what she would, a guest, a visitor, or a patient, but the man was a hostage, held in a room, awaiting judgment.

Which was only fitting, the Redeemer thought, smiling to himself. Silently he had followed Morwenna’s movements, knowing with instinctive, gut-burning clarity where she would turn. Deftly, he had padded through the narrow passageways and waited, only to see her appear in the patient’s chamber.

The Redeemer’s back teeth clenched as he studied her.

Innocently seductive.

Intelligently alluring.

Her gaze centered on the unmoving man on the bed.

With naked fascination, he observed her every move, heard the low whisper of her voice, and felt the hate pulsing through his veins.

He should have killed the man when he had the chance, should have heeded his baser instincts rather than enjoying the wait, drawing out the pain, seeking satisfaction in a judgment yet to be passed.

He licked his lips and reached for the dagger strapped at his waist. A few seconds alone with the man and he would send him straight to hell.

Patience!
his mind screamed.
You’ve worked too hard, spent too much time planning what will come.

He’d lingered much too long already. And he couldn’t take a chance that he would be missed.

Every muscle in his body tensed. Blood thrummed in his ears. Silently and furiously he lifted his fist, clenching the knife until his knuckles showed white as he wordlessly railed against the gods while he stared unblinkingly through the gap in the stones. He watched her step farther into the beaten man’s chamber, walking without so much as a second’s hesitation to the cur’s bed.

What torment to witness her in another man’s chamber, observe the interest in her eyes as she approached his bed.

There was a noise from the hallway outside the chamber—no doubt the changing of the guard. He’d tarried much too long as it was, and though he was fascinated with the scene unfolding in the chamber below, he had to force himself away from his viewing area.

There was a chance he’d waited too long.

Mayhap he should just kill the cur and be done with it.

His pulse jumped in anticipation of the deed. His fingers itched to plunge a dagger into the bastard’s heart.

No one would know. He could steal into the chamber and quickly do the deed. . . . No one would find his hidden door.

Or would they?

But how much longer could he stand this agony? This wretched, soul-jarring knowledge that she lusted after another man, a traitor no less?

In time, she will see the truth. Realize that it is you she loves, that you and she are destined to be together. Do
not
stray. Keep to your plan and now, before ’tis too late, leave!

Teeth gnashing, he released his stranglehold on the blade and jabbed it into his pocket. He took one last glance through the slits in the wall and then silently crept from his hiding spot.

But he would return.

This night.

After he had made certain no one had missed him.

And if she gave herself to the bastard, he would watch every excruciating moment.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“
S
o, Carrick,” Morwenna said, staring at the wounded man and trying to imagine what he looked like without his bruises. His swelling had receded and beneath his beard she noticed the shape of sharp cheekbones and an angled jaw. His forehead was only slightly discolored now, dark hair falling to his eyes. “The deed is done. At dawn, Father Daniel, Graydynn’s brother, will ride to Wybren with the news of your discovery.”

She watched for any sign that he heard her and found no indication that he was awake. She believed that he fell in and out of consciousness, that at times he knew exactly what was going on while at other times he was unaware of anything. He rarely reacted when touched by the physician or maids in his attendance, and yet she’d seen his eyes open, viewed his erect manhood, heard him whisper another woman’s name. He’d shrunken since arriving, what little gruel and broth had been forced over his lips unable to sustain him, and yet he hung on, if not thriving, then at least sustaining.

“I know you can hear me,” she said with conviction, though she was lying through her teeth. “And I can prove it.” She glanced to the fire, where the embers glowed a soft red. “A coal upon your chest should do the trick. Or the touch of the poker after it’s sat for a time in the flames.” She was walking around his bed, eyeing him, wondering what it would take to wake him. “You asked for my help once; now ’tis your last chance.”

She touched him on the shoulder and then gasped as his eyes opened suddenly and he stared at her from the bed. Her hand flew to her mouth. “You can hear, you miserable slime!” Her pulse was pounding in her brain, her nerves stretched to the breaking point.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, his voice a rasp.

“And so you let me rail on and on last night!” she said, embarrassed at her admissions. “Have you no shred of decency?”

“Apparently not.”

“What?”

“It seems every person in this keep, including you, is convinced that I’m a traitor, a murderer, a thief, and God knows what else.”

She took a step forward, and the question that had been keeping her awake at night sprang from her lips. “Are you Carrick of Wybren?”

“I don’t know.”

“Answer me,” she demanded.

“I wish I could,” he said, and there was something in his tone that made her want to believe him.

“What are you saying?”

“That I don’t remember.”

“Oh, fie and fiddlesticks! You expect me to believe that you can lie there on the bed, talk to me, and make sense, and then believe that you know not who you are?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry,” she said, shaking her head resolutely. “ ’Tis too convenient.”

His eyes narrowed and she gasped as he pushed himself into a sitting position. “What do you think?” he asked, that intense gaze not leaving her for a second.

She swallowed hard. “I—I think . . . you are . . . yes, you have to be Carrick.”

“Why?”

“Because you look like him, to begin with. Oh, yes, you’re still bruised and a bit swollen and it’s been years since I’ve seen you, but . . . still . . . And you were wearing the ring of Wybren.” A sudden thought occurred to her and she pointed at his hand. “Did you hide it?”

“What?” He snorted. “Of course not.”

“Then you saw who stole it from you?”

“No.”

“But you were awake,” she said. “You told me you could hear.”

“Not always. At first I was awake very little. Only these last few days have I been aware of what has been going on.”

She rolled her eyes. “Convenient again, Carrick.”

“ ’Tis true,” he insisted and then grimaced. “But you wouldn’t believe me no matter what I said. You don’t trust me at all.”

“Because you’re untrustworthy.” She threw up her hands. “Being a liar is the least of your faults.”

His jaw tightened. “I did not kill my family.”

“Then who did, Carrick?”

“I don’t know, but probably the same person who attacked me and—”

“Who was that?” she demanded, and when he didn’t respond she folded her arms over her chest. “Don’t tell me. You don’t remember.”

“ ’Twas dark. I only remember riding and someone suddenly upon me, as if he’d leapt from a cliff or rock or tree.” His face twisted as if he was trying to recall events that were difficult to retrieve.

“And why were you riding to Calon?”

He slowly shook his head. “I don’t think . . . I don’t remember that Calon was my destination.”

“Where were you going?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and he appeared genuinely confused. And yet had not Carrick been a consummate actor, skilled at the art of half-truths and lies? This man looked like Carrick, but she didn’t recognize his voice, rough as it was.

At that thought her knees nearly gave way.
Love him?
How had she come up with that? Though she wouldn’t deny, even to herself, that she’d loved Carrick of Wybren with all of her young, naive heart, that was long ago, and she was a woman now. She could not,
would
not fall for his seductive charms again. And yet her fingers went of their own accord to her mouth and she remembered with heart-stopping clarity the warm meeting of their lips, the rush of blood through her veins, the light-headedness and sense of elation that had claimed her.

Foolish, foolish woman
.

Squaring her shoulders, she approached him again. “Prove to me that you are not Carrick,” she said, and when she saw the questions in his eyes, she pointed to the bed-sheet. “Carrick of Wybren had a birthmark high on the inside of his thigh. I, uh, I tried to see it the other night, but . . . ’twas dark, and I felt awkward lifting your coverlet, but now, as it’s evident you are able, throw back the bedclothes and let’s both look for ourselves.”

One side of his mouth lifted beneath his beard. “If you want to see my cock, m’lady,” he said, white teeth flashing, eyes glinting a hard steely blue, “all you have to do is ask.”

She blushed a dozen different hues of red but managed to keep her voice steady. “I have no interest in . . . your manhood, I assure you,” she said, her throat so tight she found it difficult to force words through it. “But the birthmark, yes, I would like to see it.”

“As you wish, m’lady,” he mocked, lifting a shoulder. Then, wincing with the effort, he levered upon one elbow and tossed off the coverlet.

She was faced with his sheer, unabashed nakedness. His discolored skin stretched over sinewy thighs and strong calves, and the dark hair that covered his legs was thick at his groin, where, to her dismay, his manhood lay flaccid. ’Twas something she’d never seen before, that limp . . . thing . . . in its dark nest. As many times as she and Carrick had made love, she’d never viewed him unaroused. Now she couldn’t help but grimace.