Temptress (5 page)

“I don’t know what good this will do,” Alexander grumbled as Morwenna gazed after the priest.

What were Father Daniel’s secrets? For that matter, what were everyone within this keep’s most private thoughts? A chill settled deep in her bones. Not for the first time she felt estranged from everyone else in the keep, a shepherd who knew not her flock. She’d been here less than one year. She was the outsider.

“M’lady,” Alexander said, clearing his throat.

“What? Oh!” She remembered his statement. “I, too, know not of what we’ll find in the forest, Sir Alexander, but let’s take a look, shall we?”

Morwenna nodded to the guard and waited as he pushed open the heavy door to the outside. Mort, who had been snoozing before the fire, stood and stretched. As she stepped into the inner bailey, a rush of winter wind screamed bitterly over the winter grass to burrow deep through Morwenna’s mantle and slap at her face. Ignoring the icy blast, she bent her head and made her way along the well-worn path to the stables with Mort tagging at her heels. The grass was yellow and trodden, crisp with frost, puddles along the pathway showing bits of ice.

Two boys, noses red, wool caps pulled low over their ears, hauled firewood toward the great hall while another carried pails of water. A girl, not quite in her teens, was throwing seed and oyster shell for the chickens, which clucked and pecked at one another. Feathers scattered as the hens hurried out of the way. The smell of smoke, fermenting beer, animal dung, and rendering fat tinged the cold air. In the pens, pigs grunted noisily and goats bleated as they were milked.

The castle was at work, everyone at a task; the momentary disturbance of the wounded man was seemingly forgotten. She glanced up at the wall walk and saw sentries posted, as always. Merchants and farmers were flogging their beasts as huge carts were pulled through the crusted ruts of the main road leading into the keep.

Morwenna ducked along a path leading past the alewives’ hut, where the women were talking loudly, discussing the discovery of the wounded man.

“. . . beaten so badly his own mother would not recognize him,” one woman—Anne, a true gossip—whispered.

“A robber, no doubt, who deserved his fate,” another responded.

“Or else some husband caught him raising the skirts of his wife,” Anne confided.

Chuckles erupted and Alexander let out a disgusted breath. “Women,” he muttered as Morwenna lengthened her stride and maneuvered away from the nattering crones.

She walked swiftly alongside the armorer’s hut. The steady ping of a hammer molding chain mail could be heard over the nasty hiss of a goose as it chased a small, interloping rooster out of Morwenna’s path.

As she passed through a final gate, Morwenna glanced at the heavens. The clouds were ominously gray and thick with the promise of more rain.

“I know not what you expect to find today,” Alexander said gruffly as they reached the stables and Mort found a favorite post, where he lifted his leg.

“Nor do I, but mayhap my curiosity will be satisfied.”

He tossed her a doubtful look as she walked inside. The smells of hay, horses, leather, and dung assailed her and the wind no longer pulled at her hair. Morwenna walked unerringly to a stall where her favorite little jennet was already saddled and waiting.

Dark eyes bright, Alabaster snorted loudly and tossed her white head, jangling her bridle.

“Ready to run, she is,” John, the stable master, said. He reached down and patted Mort’s head. “There’s somethin’ in the air that’s got all the horses ill at ease this morn.” Straightening, he frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. “Somethin’ they don’t like.”

“Like what?”

He glanced at her as he reached for the reins to Alabaster’s bridle and shook his head. “Don’t know, but I feel it, too.” He stroked Alabaster’s neck.

A frisson of fear slid down Morwenna’s spine. John seemed a solid man, a sensible, staid soul, nothing like the cackling alewives or the disturbingly quiet priest.

“ ’Tis only the cold and the winter, John,” she said lightly, though she sensed he didn’t believe her and, in truth, she, too, was unnerved.

Ever since the damned dream about Carrick.

She pushed her wayward thoughts aside and followed as John led her horse outside. Ever eager, Alabaster, nose to the wind, tail plumed, stepped into the crisp morning and began to pull at the reins. “Calm down, there,” the big man said, smoothing the horse’s neck. As white as a ghost, with gray stockings and muzzle, the jennet had been Morwenna’s horse for the past four years. “Be careful, m’lady,” John advised. “ ’Tis slippery this morn, the ground frozen. You take care.”

“I will, John,” she said and, at the skeptical rise of his bushy blond eyebrows, added, “Promise.”

“Oh, I’m not doubtin’ ye,” he said quickly, though his face flushed and his bulbous nose turned even redder as she swung onto the mare’s back. Footsteps flapped along the path, and Bryanna, her face chapped from the wind, her dark curls flying behind her, rushed around the corner. “Wait for me,” she said breathlessly. “I’m coming with you. John, I need a horse.”

Morwenna inwardly groaned and the stable master looked up at her. She nodded to him and he motioned to a boy who was mucking out the stalls.

“Kyrth, saddle Mercury for the lady. Did ye hear me, lad?”

The boy tossed down his shovel and, brushing his palm across the seat of his breeches, gave a quick nod. “Aye. ’Twill be but a minute.” He ducked under the low-hanging roof and disappeared into the stable while Alexander mounted his own steed, a bloodred stallion who pranced near enough to Alabaster that she turned her white head and tried to take a nip out of the larger horse’s flank.

“Steady, girl,” Morwenna cautioned. “You don’t want to pick on someone so much stronger, now.” But as she spoke to the horse, an image flashed through her mind, a picture of herself with a sword, going toe to toe with Carrick. He was far stronger than she, over six feet tall and muscular. Though she was quick on her feet and deadly with a sword, he had easily disarmed her, leaving her breathless as he pointed his weapon at her heart. They had been in a castle courtyard, alone, the sweet scents of honeysuckle and roses wafting through the evening air, and her back was pressed hard against the stones of one wall.

“You lost, m’lady,” Carrick had told her, his eyes glinting in the coming dusk.

“This time.” She’d tossed her hair out of her face and met his gaze as the sword didn’t move. She was breathing hard, sweating from exertion, her heart pumping. Carrick, too, was flushed, a sheen of perspiration covering his brow.

“Every time.”

“You flatter yourself.”

His smile had been slow and sensual. “Mayhap I must, for no one else will.”

“And now you’re begging for a compliment.”

His grin had nearly been evil. “But you won’t give me one, will you?”

She’d tossed back her head and laughed. “That’s where you’re wrong. I believe with all my heart that you, Carrick of Wybren, are the most handsome and arrogant and prideful snake I’ve ever met.”

“Snake?” He feigned shock. “I’m wounded!”

“Asp?”

“ ’Tis the same.”

“Both speak with a split tongue, do they not?” she’d teased, and as a spark had flared in his eyes, he’d dropped his sword, letting it clatter to the stones, and swiftly pinned her against the wall with his body. His lean muscles had strained over hers, calf to calf, thigh to thigh, chest to breast. She’d barely been able to take in air, he was so tight against her.

“You’re a vexation, Morwenna,” he’d said, his breath whispering against her ear, his hands holding hers over her head, then moving slowly downward, stroking her muscles. Her heart had been a wild thing, pounding and pumping. He’d kissed her then, his face pulsing hot, his lips hard and insistent and that tongue she’d so recently decried working its magic upon her. With an unwilling moan, Morwenna had melted against the courtyard walls. . . .

“Let’s be off!” Bryanna’s voice sliced through Morwenna’s daydream as if it were a cleaver. She let out her breath, noticed Alexander staring at her, and flushed hot in the cold air. Clearing her throat and giving her head a sharp little shake, she pushed the memory aside as Alabaster trotted from the stable, Mercury in tow.

With the stableboy’s help Bryanna mounted and took the reins in her gloved fingers. “Let’s be off,” she said again breathily, excitement flaring in her eyes.

“Aye.” Alexander nodded.

Losing no time, they rode through an open gate to the outer bailey, where sheep, cattle, and more horses were penned. In the orchard, skeletal trees stood, shivering in the wind. Only a few hardy winter apples and a scolding black crow were visible in the naked branches.

As they passed under the raised portcullis of the back gate, Alexander mumbled something under his breath about a “fool’s mission.” He lifted a gloved hand to the guard and then spurred his mount down the frozen road leading toward the river.

Outside the protection of the thick castle walls, the wind raced fiercely, once again slapping at Morwenna’s face and tugging at her hair. Ignoring the cold, she urged her mount to keep up with the swifter horse and felt Alabaster stretch out, her legs extending into an easy gallop as they veered off the road, raced across a fallow field, and headed toward the woods on the north side of the keep. Whooping happily, Bryanna clung like a burr to Mercury’s neck and followed gamely. To her younger sister, this morning was a lark, a welcome breath of excitement. To Morwenna the situation was far more grave and troublesome, yet she, too, felt exhilarated with the rush of the wind and the clods of dirt flying up from beneath her horse’s hooves. It felt good to escape the castle walls. Her spirit seemed to soar, to be unburdened, for as much as she loved Calon, there was something within the keep, something dark and sinister that she didn’t understand, a gloom she was all too glad to shed this morning.

Alexander slowed at the edge of the forest, and as the horses breathed loudly, hot breath streaming from their nostrils, he found a deer trail that had been recently trampled by many horses’ hooves.

“This way,” he said, and Morwenna’s short spurt of elation faded with the darkness of the surrounding woods. Following behind Alexander upon his mount, Morwenna heard the sound of voices drifting through the forest. As they passed beneath a tattered canopy of leafless trees and through a patch of scrub brush, the voices became louder. In a small clearing they found the sheriff, two of his men, and Jason, the huntsman. All the men had dismounted and were studiously surveying the ground beside a near-frozen creek. They looked up at the sound of the horses, and hats were quickly swiped from their heads as they lowered their eyes.

“M’lady,” the sheriff said as she climbed off her jennet.

“This is where the man was found?” Alexander asked. He hopped to the ground and Bryanna, as well, slid off her horse.

“Aye, behind that log, near the big rock.” Jason pointed to a large boulder with flat surfaces, sharp edges, and several dark splotches that ran in reddish rivulets to pool in small puddles upon the ground.

Blood.

Inwardly Morwenna shivered.

Alexander asked, “Have you discovered anything?”

Payne, the sheriff, shook his graying head. He had wild silver eyebrows, a high forehead, and lids that drooped over the corners of his eyes. Even so, Morwenna thought he saw more than most people. “There is not much to see. The remains of a campfire over there”—he pointed to a small pit where charred wood was visible and then moved his hand toward a stand of yew—“horse dung over there, and of course the blood on the rock along with some dark hairs. Probably a head—his head—smashed against it.”

Bryanna let out a sound of protest, but the sheriff continued. “There are hoofprints, of course, and boot prints all around.” He motioned to the ground. “Many of the impressions are unclear, but . . .” He squatted as he stared at the ground. “It seems that there are at least two different sizes of feet involved, and I would guess from the trodden underbrush that there was a struggle near this rock.” He scowled as he glanced about the copse of trees lining the small clearing. “Some of the smaller branches of a few trees are broken, but we can’t be certain they were snapped in a struggle, though that would be my assumption.” He rubbed his beard thoughtfully and his eyes narrowed upon the area, as if he was imagining the events that had occurred. “I’d say that the man Jason found here was ambushed at this spot, fought off his attacker or attackers, lost the battle, and was left for dead.”

“Or whoever was attacked prevailed and the man we have in the keep is the criminal. With what we know, we cannot determine who began the struggle here.” Alexander walked over to the rock and eyed it. “The man Jason found may well have been the assailant and his intended victim escaped.”

“Or his body is yet to be found in the woods,” Payne said as if to himself, and Morwenna shuddered. “But the beaten man’s weapon had no blood upon it—his dagger was sheathed when he was found.” Payne stood, a knee popping as he straightened. “ ’Tis a mystery. The best answers will come from the prisoner once we talk to him.”

“He’s not a prisoner,” Morwenna said.

“A guest then?” Payne snorted as if he thought the idea absurd. “Something happened here, Lady Morwenna, something violent and criminal.” As he said the words, a gust of wind rattled the branches of an old oak tree, almost as if it were the whisper of fate. Payne’s gaze focused hard on Morwenna. “As I hear it, the wounded man is wearing a ring with the crest of Wybren, and one has to wonder how he got it.”

Morwenna nodded stiffly, her mind wandering again to the identity of the wounded stranger.

“Was the ring stolen?” Payne continued. “A gift? Is he somehow connected to Wybren? There’s been much trouble at that keep ever since the baron Dafydd’s family was killed and his nephew Graydynn became lord.” Payne scowled, his face grim, his nostrils flaring, as if he’d smelled something rotten. “I suggest you keep the stranger under lock and key, at least until we can determine his identity.”