Warrior's Lady (16 page)

She was ever aware of Tor’s presence. He watched her constantly, his eyes filled with silent accusation, his expression ominous. She had never thought of Tor as a violent man. Always, he had been a man of infinite peace and patience. But his inner serenity had been shattered and it was all her fault. It was a heavy burden to bear, but not so heavy as her grief at what awaited Jarrett when they reached the King’s Palace at Heth.

As their journey neared its end, Rorke began to mock Jarrett, grinning with malicious pleasure as he taunted him about what awaited him at the Pavilion, going on and on about what a pleasure it would be to lock the heavy shackles in place, to drop the hood over his head, to see him chained to the wall, bound and helpless.

“I shall leave you there a day or two,” Rorke decided, “so that you shall have sufficient time to wonder what Games we shall play.” His hand caressed the hilt of his sword. “I prefer steel, myself, but I shall have the Maje probe your mind to see which Game you dread the most.”

Rorke took hold of the rope around Jarrett’s neck and yanked on it, forcing Jarrett to his side. His gaze bored into Jarrett’s. “And when I am done with you, my Lord Jarrett, I shall get to know the silver-haired child better.”

“No!” Jarrett glared at Rorke. “By Hadra, I swear I’ll kill you if you lay a hand on her.”

A slow smile spread over Rorke’s face. “Such concern for a distant cousin,” he mused. “I begin to think you have strong feelings for the girl.”

A muscle worked in Jarrett’s jaw as he realized he had just given Rorke a powerful weapon to use against him.

Chapter Twenty

They reached the palace two days later. Jarrett was taken immediately to the Pavilion. Tor was imprisoned in one of the cells in the King’s Tower.

Rorke escorted Leyla to a well-appointed chamber on the third floor.

“I think you will be comfortable here, child,” Rorke said. “I shall send one of the maids to attend you. If you need anything, you have only to ask.”

“I need nothing from thee, Milord, save my freedom.”

“All in good time. For now, it pleases me to have your company.”

“What are thy plans for Tor and Lord Jarrett?”

“Their fate concerns you?”

“Yes. Tor is my countryman.”

“And Jarrett?”

“He is…he is my cousin.”

“Your cousin?” Rorke looked skeptical. “I think not.”

“Please let us go.”

“Perhaps, in time. My family has gone to Cornith to be with the King. Emissaries from Tyrell have gone to Aldane to discuss the possibility of peace.”

Rorke made a vague gesture with his hand. “I do not care for Cornith this time of year, so I have decided to stay here and amuse myself at the Pavilion.” He grinned at her, a cold, cruel grin. “I think my Lord Jarrett will provide a pleasant diversion, don’t you?”

“Please, Milord, do not leave him in the Pavilion. I will do anything thee asks of me if thee will only spare him.”

“Anything?”

She hesitated, knowing what that one word implied. “Yes, Milord,” she replied at length. “Anything.”

Rorke’s eyes narrowed. “What is he to you?”

“My cousin, as I…”

A low-pitched growl erupted from Rorke’s throat. “Do not lie to me or I shall bring him here and have him drawn and quartered before the sun sets!”

“No, please!”

Leyla dropped to her knees, her hands folded in supplication. Drawn and quartered! It was a terrible fate in which the victim was cut open and his heart ripped out while he still lived.

“He is my husband.”

“He loves you?”

Leyla swallowed hard, frightened by the feral gleam in Rorke’s eyes. “Yes.”

Rorke gazed sightlessly out of the window. “As I once loved Caandis,” he murmured under his breath. “Who says the fates aren’t kind?”

He stared down at Leyla’s bowed head. So many choices. He could defile the woman in front of Jarrett or he could make her watch while he slowly tortured her husband to death.

Or perhaps he would do both.

It had taken the combined strength of two Giants to strip away Jarrett’s clothes and shackle him to the wall and two more to hold him while the hood was fitted in place.

He let out a roar that could be heard throughout the Pavilion as the door to his cell was slammed shut and he was left alone in the darkness once again. Heart pounding with dread, he struggled against his bonds, the thick metal cutting into his skin until his wrists were slick with blood.

All for nothing. All for nothing
. The words echoed and reechoed inside his mind. He had known a few weeks of freedom, and now he was back in the Pavilion to meet the death that should have been his. But, worse than that, he had put Leyla’s life in danger as well. Leyla! He closed his eyes, concentrating on her face with all the power he possessed, willing her to hear him.
Forgive me
, he cried.
Beloved, please forgive me
.

His breath caught in his throat when he heard the door to his cell open. Fear, raw and primal, rose up within him.

“Ah, my Lord Jarrett.” Rorke’s voice dripped with satisfaction. “How well you look.”

Jarrett felt his body tense as he waited for Rorke to strike. The sword? A flame? Please, not the water!

He flinched as he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, Tor of Majeulla?” Rorke’s voice sounded from the far side of the room. “What is it that he fears the most?”

“Tor, don’t!” Jarrett forced the words through clenched teeth.

“Afraid, my Lord Jarrett?” Rorke jeered. “And we’ve not yet begun.”

Jarrett let out a long, shuddering breath. By Hadra, he was afraid, afraid that Tor would reveal what frightened him most. Afraid that the Maje’s hatred and his desire for vengeance were stronger than his feelings for Leyla. “Tor, for the love of heaven…”

“You will tell me what my Lord Jarrett fears most, Tor,” Rorke warned, “or the woman will suffer the consequences.”

Forcing Leyla from his mind, Jarrett closed his eyes and concentrated on knives—the Fen’s deadly longboar knives, the broadswords of the Aldanites, curved Serimite blades. Sharp knives, dull knives, all cutting into his flesh.

He felt Tor’s hand tighten on his shoulder, felt the incredible power of the Maje’s mind as it probed his own, slipping easily through his defenses to find his weakness.

Leyla. Fear for Leyla. That was what frightened Jarrett the most. Fear that she would be made to suffer because it would cause him more pain than anything else. And beyond that, dwindling in comparison, was a horrible fear of water
.

Strange, Tor thought, it was not the pain of knives or flame that Jarrett feared, it was the smothering darkness of the pool.

“Well?” Rorke’s voice was sharp and impatient. “What is it the rebel fears beyond all else?”

“The water, Milord. He has a deep and abiding fear of the pool.”

Jarrett swore under his breath, hating the Maje for revealing the Game he most dreaded, and yet feeling a surge of gratitude that Tor had not mentioned the thing he feared above all else. Fear for Leyla’s life.

“The water?” Rorke frowned. “Are you certain of this?”

“Yes, Milord. He fears the dark, the quiet, the sense of utter helplessness. It is the thing that haunts his dreams, the one thing that threatens to drive him beyond reason.”

“I see.” Rorke stared at the hooded man. “Tell me, my Lord Jarrett, what happened to Siid and Gar and Thai? I was told they went to search for you and never returned.”

Jarrett shrugged. “Perhaps they returned home.”

“Perhaps. Maje, I would know the fate of my friends.”

Tor concentrated for a moment, and then let out a sigh. “They are dead.”

“He killed them?’’

“Yes.”

“I thought as much. You’ve done well, Maje. I shall see you are suitably rewarded.”

“In the King’s Tower?” Tor asked, his voice thick with sarcasm.

“I shall see that you are moved to one of the castle apartments and properly attired.”

“I wish for nothing, Milord, save that thee should honor our agreement and let me take my woman home.”

“
Your
woman! She is
his
wife.”

“He will soon be dead, will he not?” Tor replied calmly. “And then she will be mine, as she was meant to be mine from the beginning.”

“I shall make a deal with you, Tor of Majeulla. I shall dispose of the rebel at my leisure, and when I have pleasured myself with the woman, you may take her home.”

Tor stared at Rorke, unable to believe what I he had heard. “Milord, has thee no honor?”

“None. If you do not find my offer satisfactory, be assured I can devise one even less to your liking.”

Tor glanced at Jarrett. The Gweneth warrior stood against the wall, his arms and legs stretched to painful limits, every muscle in his body taut and quivering with rage. The hatred emanating from him was a tangible presence in the cell, a living, breathing entity with a life of its own. He tried to probe Jarrett’s mind, but the force of the warrior’s hatred drove out all other thought, all reason.

“As thee wishes, Milord,” Tor replied at last.

“Rorke, no!”

“You bellow like a bull about to go under the knife,” Rorke remarked, and then he laughed softly. “I think I shall hold that possibility in reserve,” he mused aloud. “I’m only surprised I did not think of it sooner. Perhaps I shall bring the woman here to watch. Perhaps I will insist that she wield the blade.”

Drawing upon every bit of concentration he possessed, Tor sent his thoughts to Jarrett, willing the other man to receive his thoughts, to control his anger.

Whatever he does to her, I have the power to heal. Whatever loathsome thing he may ask of her, I have the power to make her forget.

Jarrett nodded imperceptibly.
I understand. I beg of thee, let no harm come to her.

Be assured I will give my life for hers if necessary.

Jarrett drew a deep breath and expelled it in a long, shuddering sigh. He had no choice but to believe the Maje would do as he said.

“Do what you will with me, Rorke,” Jarrett said, his voice low. “It matters not. I would ask one thing only.”

“Ask it then.”

“Swear that you will not use it against me.”

“I make no promises where the woman is concerned.”

“This is not about…about Leyla. Swear to me, Rorke, upon your mother’s honor.”

“I swear.”

“On your mother’s honor.”

“On my mother’s honor.”

“It is my wish that on the morrow you release my mother from the tower and send her to my uncle Morrad in Aldane.”

“It shall be done.”

Jarrett nodded. There was nothing more he could do. He had ensured his mother’s freedom. He would have to depend on Tor to get Leyla safely home.

Moments later, Rorke and Tor left the cell. Alone, Jarrett surrendered to the all-consuming darkness within the hood. Closing his eyes, he thought of Greyebridge, of warm summer days upon the moors, of cool autumn nights before a blazing fire. He thought of his mother, singing softly as she sat at the loom, of Tannya’s wrinkled smile, of riding his horse across fields of flowering grass.

And lastly, he thought of Leyla, the touch of her hand upon his flesh, the sound of her voice whispering that she loved him.

And in the quiet of his chamber, he prayed that the All Father would see her safely home where she belonged.

Leyla blinked in surprise when Rorke led her into the dining hall that evening. Seated at the long table were a score of people, Tor and Sherriza among them.

Rorke indicated that she should take the seat to his right, which placed her next to Sherriza and across from Tor.

Sherriza took Leyla’s hand in hers. “Are you well, child?”

“Yes, my Lady. And thee?”

Sherriza squeezed Leyla’s hand reassuringly. “I am well.”

She didn’t appear well, Leyla thought. She was pale beneath the dusting of powder on her cheeks, thinner than before.

Leyla glanced at Tor, her mind seeking to link with his.
What is the meaning of this? What is happening?

She is being sent to Aldane on the morrow.

What of Jarrett?
When he refused to answer, she tried to draw the answer from his mind, but he had shut her out.

A moment later, a half dozen servants entered the room bearing trays laden with food: whole roast chickens, baked hams, mutton and veal. There were platters of cheese and breads, four kinds of vegetables.

Rorke ate heartily, unaffected by the tension at the table as he conversed with his men. Everything he had ever wanted was within his grasp. Jarrett would soon be only a memory. Sherriza would be banished to Aldane. The Maje would remain his prisoner. Tor of Majeulla was a man of rare gifts, gifts Rorke intended to explore fully.

As for the silver-haired woman, he would sample her delights and then, regretfully, he would send her back to her own people. It would not do to anger Darrla. She was still the King’s sister, and though she was usually the most compliant of women, she refused to permit him the luxury of a mistress. It would not be wise to anger her unduly. Tyrell had no heirs. When he died, Darrla would inherit the throne, and after Darrla, her sons. A smile twisted Rorke’s thin lips. His sons. Jerrain and Norrman.

It was during the last course that Leyla found the courage to speak to Rorke.

“My Lord, what has happened to my husband?”

“He awaits my pleasure in the dungeons of the Pavilion.”

“I should like to see him.”

Rorke’s smile was cruel. “And so you shall, my dear. So you shall.”

A cold chill slithered down Sherriza’s spine as she recognized the implied threat in Rorke’s words.

“Rorke, I warn you, the King will not condone my son’s death.”

“I have said nothing of his death, madam.”

Sherriza shook her head. “I do not know how you convinced Tyrell to have Jarrett stripped of his lands and titles, but I am certain the King was not told the full story of what happened in the chapel at Gweneth. Tyrell is an honest and fair man. He would never have denounced Jarrett for refusing to kill helpless women and children.”

Rorke snorted. “They were not helpless women and children. They were Aldanite spies in league with your son.”