Warrior's Lady (28 page)

Rorke sat down, his hands gripping the arms of the throne. Soon, he thought, soon everything he had ever wanted would be his.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Jarrett flinched as the heavy iron door closed behind him. He stood there for a long time, absorbing the darkness, inhaling the musty scent of decaying straw, the lingering stink of old sweat and vomit.

He quietly cursed the length of chain that tethered him to the wall, connected to his right ankle by a thick iron cuff. There was no need to chain him, he thought bitterly. He wasn’t going anywhere.

His steps measured the length and breadth of his prison, the infernal chain clanking with every movement. His hands slid over the cold stone walls, acquainted themselves with the straw-filled pallet, the slop jar that reeked of old excrement, the small barred panel set into the door that was the cell’s only opening.

Standing on tiptoe, he stared into the hallway. It was empty of life, of light. No guards were needed to keep watch within the dungeon, though he had no doubt that there were two stationed outside the entrance.

Four months. He could go quietly mad in less time than that.

Sherriza took Leyla’s hand as they made their way toward the dining hall where they were to take the evening meal with Rorke and the captain of the guard.

“Be strong, child,” Sherriza urged. “Do not let Rorke frighten you. He will do nothing until he has what he wants.”

“And he will have it,” Leyla said in despair. “Greyebridge. The throne. There’s no way to stop him.”

Sherriza’s hand tightened on Leyla’s. “That’s not all he wants, child. He wants you to share the throne with him.”

“What?” Leyla stared at her mother-in-law. “Who has told you such a thing?”

“I had it from Rorke’s own lips only this morning. He has always been jealous of Jeri, and he will not be content until he has all that Jeri possesses.”

“But…but Rorke has a wife,” Leyla exclaimed. “The King’s sister!”

“Men have killed to obtain thrones before. Mothers, fathers, siblings, all have been slain by ambitious men.”

“No.” Leyla shook her head. “No.”

“Listen to me, child. You must do nothing, nothing, to make Rorke angry. Do you understand? Jeri’s life hangs in the balance.”

“What difference does it make if Rorke is angry? He is planning to send thee back to Heth, to kill my husband, and thee worries that I might make him angry!”

“We have time, Leyla. We have the time until your child is born to find a way to thwart Rorke’s plans. You must be strong, stronger than you’ve ever been before.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Rorke has agreed to let Jarrett live until your child is born.”

“Truly?”

“Truly. If you are agreeable, if you flatter Rorke, we might persuade him to make Jarrett’s stay in the dungeon more comfortable.” Sherriza drew Leyla closer. “All is not lost. There are some within the castle who have sworn allegiance to Rorke, but who are still loyal to Jeri because he is Morrad’s nephew,” she whispered. “If we are patient, a way may be found to send word to Tyrell.”

“I understand. I will do whatever thee thinks best.”

“Good.”

Hand in hand the two women entered the dining hall, both determined to do whatever was necessary to help Jarrett.

Leyla looked up in surprise as Jarrett entered her chamber. “My Lord…”

He crossed the room swiftly and drew her into his arms. Closing his eyes, he held her close, inhaling the warm, sweet fragrance of her hair and skin. His lips drifted over her bared shoulder, savoring her soft flesh.

“Leyla.” His hands slid over her arms, caressed her breasts, then rested on her expanded girth. He smiled as he felt his child’s kick. “Are you well?”

“Yes. And thee?”

“Fine, now.”

He drew her down on the bed and buried his face in the hollow of her neck. Her hair was like finely spun silk in his hands. With a low groan, he covered her mouth with his, taking nourishment from her lips as though he were a man starved for food and she were a banquet meant only for him.

He murmured her name again and again as he held her and caressed her. Her nearness banished his fears, the sound of her voice overshadowed the memory of the long night he’d spent in the dungeon.

Leyla cradled him in her arms, assuring him that she loved him, that all was well with the child, that somehow they would find their way back to Greyebridge. Knowing that he needed to be a part of her, she slowly undressed him, raining kisses on his chest and belly, watching as his eyes grew cloudy with passion.

Rising from the bed, she slipped out of her gown and let it fall to the floor at her feet.

His breath caught in his throat as he gazed at her bared flesh. Her skin was the color of fresh cream. Her breasts were full, her belly distended with his child. She had never looked more beautiful. Or more desirable.

She stood there a moment, basking in the love that was reflected in the depths of his eyes and then, opening her arms to him, she joined him on the bed.

When he would have pressed her to the mattress, she shook her head and then, slowly and tenderly, she began to caress him, telling him with each kiss, each touch, that she loved him beyond words. She took satisfaction in knowing that she could arouse him, and as she fanned the embers of his passion, her own desire blossomed, until she was trembling with need.

“Now, my lord Jarrett,” she urged, lifting her hips to receive him.

And in the warmth of her arms he found the strength he was looking for.

Their days fell into a routine as the weeks went by. Sherriza and Leyla were given the run of the castle. They took their meals with Rorke, sat with him in the evening. Neither woman made any pretense of liking his company, yet they did not defy him in any way. If asked to sing, Sherriza complied with good grace. If Rorke was in the mood to talk, they talked. If he wished for silence, they acquiesced. When Sherriza remarked that Leyla needed exercise, he agreed to let them walk within the bailey each evening.

Occasionally Rorke demanded to be alone with Leyla. At such times, he spoke to her as if they were old friends, telling her of his childhood, of his sons.

He made no attempt to hide his desire for Leyla, or to deny that he intended to seduce her when her child was born. He dressed her in fine gowns of softsilk and velvet, offered her the jewels from Morrad’s treasury, adorning her in a sparkling array of precious gemstones set in gold and silver. Though he did not attempt to bed her, he often caressed her with his eyes, the bright heat of his barely controlled passion evident in the depths of his gaze. His hands ofttimes stroked her arms, her shoulders, and each touch was a promise of what was to come.

Leyla found his touch repulsive, but she dared not show it for fear of making Rorke angry. She knew what he was capable of, knew that he would not hesitate to punish her by mistreating Jarrett.

Often she looked at Rorke and wondered what had twisted him into the man he was now. He should have been well satisfied with his life. He had three daughters and two fine sons, a lovely wife who was sister to the King. He was the second most powerful man in the realm, he had lands and wealth, the King’s trust. Yet it was not enough.

The time passed with painful tedium for Jarrett. Confined to his cell, there was little to do but pace or sleep or stare into the darkness, contemplating his fate. His nightmares returned to haunt him and he often woke shivering in the middle of the night, the sound of his own cries echoing off the stone walls. He lived only for the time he was allowed to spend with Leyla. For those few short hours, he forced all thought of the future aside, wanting nothing to mar their time together.

Like Jarrett, Leyla lived only for those hours when Jarrett was with her. He refused to speak of the past or the future, which troubled her a great deal. When she let herself probe his mind, she encountered only despair and she feared he had given up all hope.

Once, when she remarked on this, he told her he had given Rorke his word that he would not escape if he were allowed to live until the child was born, and she knew then that he had made such a bargain because of her, to ensure that no harm would befall her during the last months of her pregnancy. He was sacrificing himself for her and for their babe.

“But surely you need not hold to such a promise,” Leyla argued. “Rorke has no honor. He has betrayed you in the past. He would do it again.”

“My honor as a warrior is all I have left,” Jarrett replied quietly. “I gave Rorke my word that I would not try to escape, and I will keep it. All that matters now is our child.”

“And what of me? What am I to do without thee?”

“Raise my son.”

She wept then, tears flooding her eyes and washing down her cheeks while he held her close.

Jarrett came awake slowly, his nerves taut, his heart pounding as he realized that someone was staring at him through the narrow slit in the door.

“My Lord? My Lord, it is Mettric. I was your uncle’s steward.”

Jarrett nodded at the man. Mettric was tall and extremely thin, with lank brown hair and pale skin. Only his eyes seemed alive, their gray depths filled with a vibrant glow. “Aye, Mettric, I remember you.”

“You are not alone, my Lord. There are those of your uncle’s men who await only the chance to take Rorke unaware.”

“How many?”

“I am not certain, my Lord, as we dare not meet together often for fear of arousing suspicion. Some of us chose to swear allegiance to Rorke rather than face death. Some of us feel that an allegiance sworn under such circumstances is not binding.”

Jarrett grunted softly. Were it not for the fact that Rorke had threatened his mother’s life, he would feel the same.

“It is your mother’s intention to go to Heth and plead your cause to the King.”

Rising to his feet, Jarrett approached the door. “It’s madness to try such a thing. If she’s caught…”

“Indeed, my Lord, but she has left this night. She forbade me to tell you of her plans until they were accomplished.” Mettric glanced up and down the dark corridor. “Take heart, my Lord. We may yet see the better side of this.”

“My thanks, Mettric. If all goes well, I will see that you are amply rewarded.”

“Good sleep, my Lord Jarrett,” Mettric said, and then he was gone, blending into the darkness.

Good sleep,
Jarrett mused ruefully as he paced the floor. How could he be expected to sleep now? If his mother was caught outside the castle, she’d be killed. If she managed to reach Heth, if she could convince the King that Jarrett was innocent of treason, there might be a chance that all was not lost. And yet…

Jarrett swore under his breath, wondering if his mother had stopped to consider that Rorke might put everyone in the castle under the knife and make a run for it if he thought his own life was in danger.

Rorke entered the dungeon early the following morning. Flanked by four armed men, he burst into Jarrett’s cell. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Your mother.” As he spoke, Rorke tapped a heavy riding crop against his left thigh. “She’s gone.”

“I have not seen her since our arrival,” Jarrett replied.

“But you know where she is, don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, Rorke struck Jarrett across the face with the heavy crop. “Has she gone to Heth?”

Jarrett pressed the back of his hand to the gash in his cheek. “I would not tell you if I knew.”

“But you do know,” Rorke said. He struck Jarrett again, deepening the gash. Blood splattered in the wake of the crop. “And you will tell me. Taark, bring the woman here.”

“No!” Jarrett took a step forward, only to come to an abrupt halt as four swords swung in his direction.

“Has she gone to Heth?”

Jarrett clenched his jaw, his mind searching frantically for some way to tell Rorke what he wanted to know without betraying Mettric’s trust. He flinched as Rorke struck him again, the crop landing with a sharp crack against the side of his neck.

“I have not seen my mother,” Jarrett said again, “but if she has left Aldane, then she would go to Heth.”

Rorke stared at Jarrett through narrowed eyes. Was he speaking the truth? They would soon know.

Jarrett’s head lifted at the sound of Leyla’s footsteps in the corridor. A moment later, Taark pushed her into the cell.

“Jarrett!” She started toward him, her face paling at the sight of the blood dripping from his cheek, only to be brought up short as Rorke grabbed her by the arm.

“Sherriza has left the castle,” he said curtly. “Where has she gone?”

Leyla’s eyes widened in horror as Rorke raised his arm and she saw the blood dripping from the end of the crop. Jarrett’s blood. “I do not know.”

“Do not lie to me.”

“Rorke, in the name of heaven, leave her alone!”

“Then tell me what I wish to know.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

Rorke’s gaze moved from Jarrett’s face to Leyla’s and back again. And then, without warning, he struck Jarrett hard across the face, splitting his lower lip and peeling a bit of skin from his jaw.