Temptress (28 page)

Now was the time.

He climbed onto the horse’s back and trotted the beast toward the gate. No one seemed to notice.

Yet.

He rode tall, as if he had every right to come and go as he pleased, and as he reached the gate, the two sentries were talking as one replaced the other. They both swept him a quick glance and he raised an arm, just as he’d seen the men in the hunting party do.

The guards barely paid him any notice and he rode through. Across the drawbridge and down a muddy road he walked the horse, but all his senses were heightened, his muscles tense. When he was at a fork in the road, he kicked his steed and felt the big horse’s muscles bunch and then surge as the beast sprang forward.

Upon its back, Carrick leaned forward, guiding his mount out of instinct, feeling the cold winter sweep by in a rush of wind that shoved his cowl from his head. Through the mist the big horse ran, and in the distance, through the shifting fog, rose the forest.

He knew the way to Wybren, had heard his caretakers whisper of a shortcut across the river at Raven’s Crossing.

He felt himself smile despite the cold.

Soon after nightfall, he’d reach Wybren.

And when he did, he was certain all the demons in hell would break loose.

 

The lying, cheating, murdering son of a flea-riddled cur had left her again!

So enraged she could barely speak, Morwenna surveyed the bed, the
empty
bed, where only she lay. Carrick, that miserable piece of snake dung, was gone.
Gone!

“Christ Jesus,” she swore, the grogginess she’d felt upon opening her eyes rapidly chased away by stone-cold fury.

She slammed a fist into her pillow. “Damn, damn, damn, and double damn!” she growled, anger and shame washing through her. How could she have been so stupid? So trusting? So ridiculously naive—
again
? Both fists curled and pounded the mattress. If she ever saw him again, ever got her hands on him, she’d strangle the life out of him!

She sat in the bed and thought about the night before. The lust. The passion. The pure, sublime eroticism. Her anger slowly dissipated in the dark room. Tears burned at the back of her eyes and she pulled a pillow to her chest.

Oh, God, what had she done?

This was her fault.
Hers
.

He was gone. Like a whisper on the wind. Like before.

She tossed her pillow aside and shot from the bed as if she could deny what had happened. Shoving her tangled hair from her eyes, she refused to think of the passion she’d shared with the bloody cur and closed her mind to the erotic images still conjured by the scent of sex that lingered on the bedsheets.

By the gods, what kind of fool was she? she asked herself morosely. Then her blood boiled again as she recalled how easily she’d been seduced with the crook of his dark eyebrow, the twitch of one side of his mouth, the flash of fire in his blue, blue eyes.

Bloody piece of swine dung!

“Fie and fiddlesticks,” she muttered, her mind racing in circles.

How had he escaped?

And where had he gone?

Throwing on her clothes, she ignored the sharp needle of pain that pierced her heart, that jab of knowledge that he’d callously and determinedly plotted against her . . . luring her in with sweet, sensual kisses and a touch of pure magic only to deceive her yet again.

But you were the one who came to him. He could not have done this without your oh-so-willing help,
she reminded herself.

“Bother and bloody broomsticks!” She swept her angry gaze into every corner, under the bed, and into an alcove and yet knew with heart-stopping certainty that he was gone.

He’d left her.

Just like before.

“Damn your soul straight to hell, Carrick,” she growled through clenched teeth, kicking at a pillow that had dropped to the floor. Feathers flew as the pillow hit the wall before falling into the rushes. What a fool she’d been! What an idiot! She had no more brains than Dwynn! Maybe less!

Full of recriminations, she swiftly went through the motions of searching the room once more, peering under the bed, looking into the alcove, even glancing at the cold embers of the fire and up the damned chimney though all the while she knew full well that he was far away.

Halfway to . . . where?

Where would he go?

A headache thudded behind her eyes as she concentrated. Where the bloody hell would he try to find shelter? Sanctuary? Who would take him in?

Through the window came the sound of a cock crowing. She looked up and saw daylight. She realized then that the room wasn’t dark despite the lack of fire or the burned-out candles in the sconces. She froze, trying to listen over the fury of her own heartbeat, and she heard the distinctive sounds of the servants already at work, their voices and footsteps. She also heard the sounds of men and women shouting out morning greetings, along with the grunts of pigs and clucks of chickens. The smoky scent of cook fires and sizzling meat and the sweet aroma of baking bread reached her nostrils. Her stomach growled but she felt no hunger.

With the realization that the morning was well under way came a new mortification. She couldn’t just slip through the darkened hallways to her own room and hope no one noticed, not when all the servants and freemen had arisen for the day. No doubt half the castle staff—those who lit fires, cleaned rushes, replaced candles, and brought up fresh linens, along with the soldier who guarded the door to this very chamber and anyone he’d gossiped with during the night—already knew that she’d spent the night in Carrick’s chamber. When she walked through the door, she would have to face them—and their curious stares or smug smiles or knowing glances.

And soon they would all know that after he’d bedded her and she was lulled to sleep, he’d slipped away from the keep. Heat crawled up the back of her neck.

’Twas one thing to have people rumor about one; quite another to step into the hallway from a lover’s chamber when the servants were already awake and at their duties.

A new wave of embarrassment flooded over her, but she found no way to avoid it. Better to face everyone head-on. Stiffening her spine, she squared her shoulders. Then tossing her hair away from her face, she lifted her chin and yanked open the door.

Sir James was at his post, one shoulder propped against the smooth stones of the corridor, his eyes definitely closed, his mouth slightly agape, his breathing regular. The rushlights in the corridor had burned down to nothing, as had the candles in their sconces. None had yet been replaced. For the moment, it seemed, no one save the sentry knew of her nightly visit to Carrick.

She let out her breath as the sounds of voices drifted up the staircase. It would be only a matter of minutes before the servants would start working on this floor.

“Sir James!” Morwenna said, touching the guard upon the shoulder of his tunic.

He started. “Wha—? Oh!” Blinking rapidly and pulling himself to attention, he focused on her. “M’lady,” he said in a rush, his eyes filled with regret as he realized he’d been caught napping. “Oh, ’tis sorry I am. I . . . er . . . I must’ve dropped off.”

“Was that before or after Carrick escaped?”

“What?” Sir James’s Adam’s apple bobbed wildly. “Escaped?” The sentry’s gaze centered on Morwenna and she felt her cheeks burn with embarrassment. “But I thought you were with . . .”

“Yes, yes, I know. I
was
inside, but I fell asleep and somehow Carrick managed to leave without rousing me. Or you.”

“He did not pass me,” Sir James said firmly, but his own cheeks reddened, and she realized the man had no idea how long he’d dozed in the corridor. “He must be yet inside.” On a mission, Sir James hurried into the chamber where Carrick had resided for nearly a fortnight. As hers had before, the sentry’s gaze swept every corner and nook and cranny within the room. He studied the floor, the walls, and even the ceiling, as if he expected Carrick to appear.

He found nothing, of course.

Not even when he searched under the bed and inside the alcove where linens were kept.

“Call the captain of the guard,” she ordered once Sir James saw the chamber was truly empty. “Have Sir Alexander double the sentries at the gates and then have his men begin scouring every inch of this keep. Every inch! Then ask Sir Alexander to meet me in the great hall.”

She crossed the hallway quickly, slipped into her chamber, and slammed the door shut behind her.

“Fool, fool, fool!” she railed as she walked to the basin left on a stand near the window. What had she been thinking?
What?
Why was she so weak whenever Carrick of Wybren was concerned?

Angrily she splashed the cool water upon her face and rinsed her mouth. Mort, who had been lying upon the wrinkled bedclothes, pushed himself to a standing position. As she cursed herself, the dog stretched and yawned, showing off black lips and yellowed teeth and not concerned in the least about Carrick’s whereabouts.

“This is a crisis, you know,” she scolded, and he wagged his tail. “Oh, for the simple life of a dog.” Again he wiggled his back end, but this time gave up a quick, sharp bark. “Okay, okay. Good morning to you, too,” Morwenna muttered. “Though, trust me, it’s anything but good.”

Eager to be petted, he continued to whine until she finally crossed the room and plopped down beside him. “Miss me?” she asked, taking the time to scratch his grizzled chin and ears. He washed her face with his tongue and she almost laughed. Almost. Patting the bristly fur on his head, she said, “I guess I should have stayed here last night.” Sighing loudly, she pushed herself upright, found her shoes, and then reached for her wool mantle hung upon a hook near the door. “It would have been a much wiser thing to do.”

The dog wagged his tail wildly and hopped off the bed to wait at the door while she tossed the russet-colored mantle over her head. The minute she unlatched the door, the dog shot through, bounding down the hallway just as Fyrnne and Gladdys, toting large baskets of fresh laundry, candles, and herbs for the rushes, appeared at the top of the stairs. “Good morning, m’lady,” they said in unison.

“Good morning,” Morwenna responded and realized that so far they knew nothing of the night before. So far. Soon the gossip would blaze throughout the keep.

Finger-combing her hair, she flew down the stairs. She expected Sir Alexander to be waiting for her in the great hall. She’d already braced herself for the rebuke she was certain to see in his dark eyes. How many times had he insisted that her “guest” be treated like a captive? How often had he suggested that Carrick be kept under lock and key and that she not visit him alone?

Oh, ’twas more than an embarrassment to have to tell the captain of the guard about Carrick slipping away; ’twas downright humiliating. On more than one occasion she’d sensed that Sir Alexander was in love with her. Though he’d tried to hide his feelings, bury them deep, she’d both witnessed the way he looked at her when he thought her gaze was directed elsewhere and felt the heat of his eyes upon her back when she was turned away.

She’d attempted to ignore the warning signs, hadn’t wanted to acknowledge his attraction to her, and yet there it was, forever between them, making her more and more uncomfortable each day since Carrick, battered and bleeding, had been dragged into the keep.

But today in the great hall, she saw no sign of Sir Alexander.

Instead she found his second-in-command, Sir Lylle, standing in front of the fire with Sir James.

Lylle was a tall, thick-bodied soldier with thinning brown hair, a scraggly beard, and a voice that usually boomed when he spoke.

However, this morning Lylle’s voice was soft, a whisper that couldn’t be heard over the shouts of the cook, the shuffle of feet, the crackle of the fire, and the general hubbub of the castle getting ready for the day.

Preparations were being made for the morning meal. Trestle tables had already been pulled from their stacks against the walls and carried to the middle of the room. Benches had been hastily arranged around the plank tables while the scents of sizzling meat, baking bread, and cinnamon and ginger wafted through the room. Servants moved quickly from the kitchens to the great hall and back again while Mort explored beneath the tables, his nose pressed into the rushes as he searched for leftover scraps that hadn’t been swept away or discovered by the other dogs.

She glanced at the stack of firewood that lay untouched near the fire. Though the castle dogs were in their places near the grate, and the flames were crackling and popping as they consumed the dry wood, the fire was unattended. Dwynn, who usually seemed nearly omnipresent, was, for the moment at least, missing. Probably carrying in another load of wood. Or listening at someone’s keyhole.

Lylle, warming the backs of his legs, had the decency to redden as he caught sight of her. He whispered something to Sir James, and Morwenna stiffened. It didn’t take a sage to understand that he and James had been discussing her part in Carrick’s escape.

“Where’s Sir Alexander?” she asked.

“There was a disturbance last night, m’lady,” Sir Lylle explained. He’d taken off his gloves and held them both beneath one arm as he rubbed his hands together. “A farmer’s wife claimed that her husband was attacked by a group of men in the middle of the night. They didn’t get good looks at the attackers but assume they are the same band of thugs who have haunted the woods near Raven’s Crossing. Sir Alexander, along with the sheriff, left before dawn to speak to the man who was ambushed. They’ve yet to return.”

Nothing was going right this morning, she thought crossly. “I assume Sir James told you that Carrick of Wybren is missing.”

“Aye.” Lylle nodded. “I’ve already dispatched five groups of three soldiers to search the keep. They are starting with the gates, sally port, towers, and wall walks—the perimeter of the castle—and then slowly working their way inward toward the center of the keep.”