Champion of the Heart (15 page)

Jordan thought she heard a note of absolute amazement in his tone, but she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t exactly sure how to answer. It wasn’t Evan she needed to return to, but she did not want to tell Fox that. She did not want to give him any more information to use against her.

Her hesitation was enough of an answer for Fox. His jaw clenched and he blew out the candle. “Then you are not to be trusted,” he said from within the darkness.

His footsteps moved toward the door. Fear crept through her as the thick blackness surrounded her. “Fox,” she called out, afraid to take a step away from the wall and yet afraid to remain standing where she was in the utter darkness.

His steps hesitated, finally faltering.

“Is the castle really haunted?” she asked in nothing short of a whisper.

Silence stretched in the room until Jordan thought she heard the groan of an ancient ghost moaning right beside her. In the distance, she swore she heard metal clanking. The wooden floor creaked nearby. Then a waft of air brushed against the hairs on her neck. Or was that the breath of a spirit?

“Only by my memories,” Fox finally said softly, sadly. Then, the door opened and he was gone, sealing her in the darkness.

***

“Lands and titles! God’s blood, does he believe I am the king?” Evan roared, pacing the small stone room in Castle Ruvane. Weathered parchments bound in leather filled the shelves in the room. A candle burned on a plate on a small table near the bookshelves.

“Give him the lands, Evan,” James Ruvane said quietly. He stared down at the piece of parchment laid out before him on the wooden table.

“No!” Evan exploded. “I will see Mercer rot before –”

“She is my daughter, Vaughn, and I will do everything in my power to protect her.”

“Jordan is my betrothed. But I will not give Mercer –”

“They will kill her!” James exclaimed. “Is her life worth a decrepit haunted castle and some useless lands?”

Evan ground his teeth.

“You don’t give a rat’s ass about those lands. Your father never did and you never have either. Give him the lands!”

Evan dropped his head and paused before a tapestry of a hunt hanging on the wall. He studied the embroidered tableau, looking at the men on horseback, the dogs giving chase to a fleeing fox. Evan gritted his teeth. “It is not that I care about the lands. It’s Mercer. He’s been like a festering wound that refuses to close.”

James could see the anguish Evan was going through, could feel it himself. The Black Fox had given both of them plenty of headaches over the years, more times than he cared to remember. “I know, Evan,” he said softly, soothingly. “I know how you feel about Fox. But we must get Jordan back. At any cost. She’s the only child I have.” He stood, placing his hands behind his back, and stared out the window at the half-moon shimmering faintly in the night sky. “The king has called me to court. I must leave on the morrow.” He turned to Evan. “I am entrusting her safety to you. You must get her back.”

Evan nodded and turned to James. “I will get her back.” He strolled over to the table and stared down at the note. “I am to meet him at the Harvest Moon Inn.” He picked up the paper.

“Do not mistake the Black Fox for a fool, Evan,” James said. “If you risk my daughter’s life for some misguided notion of vengeance against him, or to heal your wounded pride, I will wage war with you. Do you understand?” His expression was grim as he spoke, his intent to follow through on his threat deadly serious.

Evan nodded again. “Do not fear, Lord Ruvane. I will see Jordan safely back to your side.” He crumpled the ransom parchment in his hand. “This I promise.”

T
he next morning, sitting before the cold hearth of the meal room, Fox could not stop thinking about Jordan. The sight of her. The smell of her. The feel of her. Damn, he thought, trying to erase the lingering sensation of her body pressed to his, trying to forget the scent of fresh lavender that surrounded her, trying to wipe away the image of her magnificent eyes staring woefully up at him with such innocence. Despite his best efforts, the memory of her sweet scent overpowered him, filling his senses. He was so used to the smell of sweat and hard work; her scent had been so refreshing, so womanly, so powerful.

He gritted his teeth, staring into the mug of ale he gripped in both hands. His reflection swirled around in the golden liquid. Haunted eyes stared back up at him.

Were there ghosts in the castle? he thought, echoing Jordan’s question in his mind. Yes. Yes, there were. And he knew his family was one of them. A mere shadow of what it used to be. He was one of them, too. A mere shadow of what he, as a boy, had always imagined he would become. He was supposed to be lord of this castle. Now he was nothing more than an outcast on his own lands.

His hound, Doom, lifted his head, his ears pointing straight toward the door.

“Ahhh,” a voice greeted from across the room, “the fox rises early.”

Fox did not look up at Frenchie’s warm greeting, recognizing the voice of their cook. Doom put his head back down at Fox’s feet.

“Could it be for my delicious tarts?” Frenchie wondered, scratching the three white hairs on his balding head.

Fox glanced up at him in surprise. “You have tarts?”

Frenchie shrugged apologetically. “No. But you sitting there reminds me of the days I cooked for the king. Everyone rose early just to get my scrumptious tarts fresh from the ovens. Ahh, they were glorious. Flaky and golden brown, rich with fruit.” Frenchie licked his lips.

“You never cooked for the king,” Fox retorted, looking back at the blackened logs on the fire. “You can barely even cook for us.”

“No, but if your father can say he is lord of this castle, then I can say I cooked for the king!” Frenchie exclaimed and pulled up a chair beside Fox. “I do have bread.”

“Is it moldy?” Fox wondered.

Frenchie straightened his back. “No. A bit crusty. But no mold ever grazes my bread.”

Crusty. That meant hard as a rock. Fox declined with a shake of his head. “I think I’ll wait until Beau and Pick return with some berries.”

“Always no. But you’ll see. Someday I’ll cook a meal fit for a lord... and I won’t be offerin’ you any!” Frenchie grinned a toothless grin. “‘Sides, you kind of get used to the bread.”

Fox rubbed his sore arm, gingerly. The physical battle with Jordan last night had done nothing to help it heal. He was beginning to wonder if it would ever be fully healed again.

“There was no one there,” Beau’s voice echoed from the corridor outside the room, interrupting Fox’s thoughts.

“I say someone was there,” Fox heard Pick retort.

Fox stood as they entered the room. He crossed the room, concern etching his features. “You saw someone?”

“Yes,” Pick answered quickly.

“No,” Beau replied just as quickly.

Fox’s gaze burned into Pick. “Which is it?” he demanded.

“I swear I saw someone in the forest just west of the castle as we were returning,” Pick said.

“Soldier or villager?” Fox asked.

“It was too far to see.”

Beau shook his head, his blond locks waving across his shoulders, denying Pick’s words. “When we got there, there was no sign of anyone. No branches broken, no footprints. Nothing,” Beau added.

“Hallucinating again,” Frenchie chuckled at Pick. “Why can’t you hallucinate about my bread being soft?”

“No one can hallucinate that well, old man,” Pick retorted to Frenchie.

Beau chuckled. “I keep telling him to stay away from those green berries.”

“I want a wider perimeter set up around the castle today. If anyone’s out there, we’ll find them,” Fox ordered. “Beau, you take the north end. Scout will take the south.”

Beau grabbed a handful of berries from his sack before handing the rest to Fox. “You and your hallucinations,” he mumbled to Pick.

Pick halted Beau with a wave of his hand. “We also heard a new rumor in town today.”

Beau nodded and laughed low in his throat. “Apparently, someone saw the castle crying tears of fire last night.”

“Tears of fire?” Fox asked.

Pick nodded. “We overheard the miller and the baker talking about it in the village this morning.”

“Imagine!” Beau hooted as he walked toward the door. “Tears of fire!”

Fox’s gaze involuntarily rose to the northern ceiling, toward the north tower. It appeared Jordan’s plea for help had helped them more than it had helped her. He grinned at the thought, imagining her expression when he told her the news.

***

Jordan turned toward the door of her prison room as she heard the lock being undone. The door swung open and the woman she had seen earlier entered, holding a bowl in her hands. What was her name? Scout, she thought, remembering one of the men calling her that earlier. Wordlessly, Scout placed the bowl down on the bed.

The smell of sweet porridge reached Jordan’s nose and her mouth watered at the thought of tasting a decent meal. Jordan turned her gaze to the bowl to see the wooden container was indeed filled with porridge, on top of which was a piece of bread.

Jordan lifted her gaze to the woman standing darkly silent before her. Scout was slender, clothed in well-worn breeches and a nearly sheer tunic. The tunic hung open halfway down her chest to her navel, almost revealing the entire rounded globe of one of her breasts. Her hair was long and wild, falling down her back in thick tangles of curls. Jordan frowned at her wanton, almost primitive appearance.

Scout glared at Jordan, then turned sharply away from her and slammed into a small girl. The child tumbled to the floor. Scout stared down at her for only a moment, then stepped out the door.

Aghast at Scout’s chilling behavior, Jordan raced to the girl’s rescue. She picked her up and set her on her feet. “There you go,” she said softly and brushed off the girl’s dress. Jordan looked at the girl’s face to see large tears glimmering in large brown eyes, her lip puffed out.

Jordan’s heart twisted at the girl’s pain. She lifted a hand to the girl’s knotted brown hair, wanting to soothe her, but the child pulled back from her touch.

“It’s all right,” Jordan whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”

But the small girl stepped away from her, her face a picture of horror.

Jordan immediately released her, letting her go. She didn’t want to, but she knew if she tried to restrain her, the girl would resist her help even more. She studied the girl in the second that she hesitated. Her hair was a mass of tangled strands, her face streaked with dirt. Jordan met her gaze. Brown eyes stared at Jordan in confusion and uncertainty.

“I won’t hurt you,” Jordan repeated in a soft tone.

The girl dashed for the door, disappearing into the corridor beyond. Scout appeared for just a brief moment in the doorway to glare at Jordan before slamming the door shut hard, again sealing her in her prison.

Jordan stared at the heavy door, the young girl’s mask of fear burning in her mind. She thought of her children -- little Kara with that brown curl that remained forever in the middle of her forehead; willful Jason with an unending supply of energy; Ana, who was growing into a beautiful, if shy, little woman; John, the smartest of the lot, quick with a solution; and baby Emily, her pudgy little cheeks begging to be kissed, her bright brown eyes shining with joy. Was she crying now? Who was watching to make sure she stayed away from the spring?

She could only imagine what they were thinking about her, the fear they were feeling. They would all be afraid of being alone, of being abandoned by her.

Jordan collapsed onto her bed, her grief coming hard and fast. But through her hot tears a determined voice made a vow: You will pay for this, Fox. You will pay.

J
ust as Fox finished breaking his fast with a few handfuls of berries, his father entered the room. Frederick sat beside his son at the table.

Fox studied his father, his old eyes, the wrinkles of worry permanently crinkling the corners of those eyes. His once full head of brown hair was now gray, thinning everywhere. He had been through a lot. Too much. And still he harbored the secret of who had murdered the baron. All this time, even under Fox’s insistence that he tell him, his father had not once talked about it. His eternal silence about the matter had driven father and son apart, causing Fox to draw his own conclusions. And he had.

Fox looked away from his father. Now, even if he revealed to him the identity of the murderer, Fox would never believe him. His father lived in his own world, a world where nobles still walked the halls of Castle Mercer, servants still scurried about urgently seeing to the needs of a bustling castle, and beloved friends and guests still filled the air with tales of wonder, local gossip, and news of the kingdom. It was true that ghosts haunted Castle Mercer -- ghosts of his own father’s forever-fevered mind.