Temptress (10 page)

“Who’s in charge here?” she’d demanded of the small crowd gathered at the spectacle. She had eyed the people, her chin naturally lifted, her eyebrows arching.

Carpenters, laundresses, the priest, and a dozen others had stood near the keep’s stone steps. But none had uttered a word. All had seemed dumbstruck.

Alexander had hurried down the stairs of the gatehouse and was striding across the trampled expanse of grass. “M’lady?” he’d asked. “Lady Morwenna?”

She’d turned swiftly and he’d seen her full in the face. Intelligent midnight blue eyes narrowed imperiously as she studied him. “And you are?”

“Sir Alexander. Captain of the guard. At your service.” He’d knelt in the mud and she’d laughed, a deep, throaty, yet merry sound that had touched his soul.

“Oh, please, do not . . .” Glancing around the bailey, she saw that others had bowed their heads. “Oh, well . . . We’ll have none of that. Not today. I’m tired, hungry, and in dire need of a bath. My horse needs—”

Alexander nodded toward a page gawking from beside a hayrick. “George, take the lady’s horse and see that the mare is fed and groomed.” His gaze returned to the lady’s face. “Come inside. I’ll introduce you to the servants, and I assure you, your every need will be attended to.” He motioned to the small crowd that had gathered. “Everyone, back to work!”

Before anyone could move, more horses thundered into the keep. A party of seven, two women and five men dressed as guards, passed under the portcullis and into the inner bailey.

To another page, Alexander said, “You there, Edward, alert the stable master that we have more horses to stable. They’ll need to be cooled, brushed, watered, and fed. Have John send his son Kyrth and one of the other grooms to tend to them.”

Edward nodded, his hair darkening in the rain as he dashed off toward the stable.

“Lady Morwenna!” an old woman bouncing uncomfortably in the saddle of a swaybacked horse yelled as she frantically tried to stay astride.

The lady’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “That’s Isa,” she whispered to Alexander. “My old nursemaid. She’s never quite gotten over the fact that she brought me into the world. Sometimes it’s best to pretend that she’s the ruler. . . . It makes things go more smoothly. As for my sister”—Lady Morwenna hitched her sharp chin in the direction of the younger woman, who was easily riding a bay gelding and now drawing up on the reins—“definitely do not ever allow
her
to think she rules.”

As the small party approached, it was evident that the guards who had accompanied Lady Morwenna were unhappy with their headstrong charge. All five of the soldiers wore stiff, uncompromising expressions as they reined in their horses and dismounted.

“They warned me to stay with them,” Morwenna admitted quietly, and then she cleared her throat. “I believe I’m in trouble.”

No,
Alexander had thought at that moment,
I’m
in trouble. For in the few moments that he’d known her, he was falling hopelessly in love with her. Which was ridiculous, something that never happened to him. Oh, he’d been smitten upon occasion, but usually after a few pints of ale and always with a fetching lass whom he would forget the next day. But never, in all his thirty years, had he felt this unlikely, unwanted, and desperately ill-advised pull on his heart. ’Twas foolish, and Alexander prided himself for clear thinking. He’d reached his position at Calon through bravery, intelligence, and, aye, a bit of scheming. He’d hoped that after that fateful day, his wits would return to him and his first impression of the lady would fade into laughable nothingness.

Of course it hadn’t. His life had shifted from the moment he’d laid eyes upon her. And now his lot was cast.

Though it was impossible, though he was not, nor ever would be, of her station, he loved Morwenna more than any man should love a woman.

And it was all for naught, he knew now as he pushed open the gatehouse door and was slapped with a blast of winter wind.

Lady Morwenna was promised to another man. A baron. A man as wellborn as she.

And a man who was a cur. Bile rose in the back of Alexander’s throat. Lord Ryden of Heath. A wealthy baron who was nearly twice her age and had already buried two wives. Alexander’s nostrils flared and one fist clenched as he strode up the slight hill toward the keep.

There was naught he could do. He’d been born the only son of a laundress, with no father nor mention of one. That he had risen to his position here, at Calon, had been because of cunning, grit, and ambition. His bravery in battle was for one purpose and one purpose only—to gain power.

But with all he’d done, he could never become a nobleman.

And as such, he would never be able to win a place in the lady’s heart.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“
D
o not punish Sir Vernon,” Morwenna ordered as she and the captain of the guard sat before the fire in the great hall. It was obvious Alexander was irritated, angry with his sentry, and, she supposed, himself. “It was my fault. I plotted to fool him,” she admitted. “I was awake and waited until he’d gone to the latrine before slipping into the room.”

Alexander looked at her, then glanced away. “ ’Tis my duty to see that you are safe, m’lady,” he reminded her. “How can I do this if you trick the guards I’ve assigned to you?”

“ ’Tis not your fault.”

“Then whose?”

“My own.”

He frowned then, his expression as dark as midnight. “There is another issue here. If you can fool my guards so easily, then others may as well. Others who mean you or this keep harm.”

“Punishing Sir Vernon will not change that.”

He raised an eyebrow in dispute. “You don’t believe in making an example of him?”

“Not when I was the one who duped him.”

“Ah . . . ‘duped him.’ My point exactly. One should not be able to ‘dupe’ a guard in my service. I’m sorely disappointed in Sir Vernon.”

“And in me?” she asked, watching denial form beneath his beard. “Do not lie to me, Sir Alexander.”

“I would hope that if you wanted to do anything that is the slightest bit unsafe, you would confide in me so that I see that you are protected,” he said, his gaze locking with hers again.

“You worry too much, Sir Alexander.”

“You pay me to worry.”

“I pay you to protect the castle.”

“And yourself,” he said, taking a long draft of wine, his eyes for a second betraying him and conveying emotions he quickly disguised.

“I appreciate your concern.”

Clearing his throat, he set down his cup. “Sir Vernon’s penance, if you will, is to spend the next fortnight on the east wall. Afterwards . . . we’ll see.”

“Would you send me to the wall walk as well?”

He grinned, a slash of white teeth showing in his beard. “Nay, m’lady, I fear I would have to lock you in the highest tower and keep the key on a chain around my neck.”

“At least ’tis not the dungeon.”

His dark eyes sparked and she thought he was about to tease her further and say he’d love to cage her behind the iron bars of the cells within that lowest level of the keep, but he only shook his head, his smile fading, the joke between them dissipating in the air as the physician slipped down the stairs and hurried into the chamber.

“If I may have a word, m’lady?” he asked.

“Of course.”

Sir Alexander was on his feet quickly, his backbone snapping into a stiff, authoritative stance. Half a head taller than the physician, he stared down at the man but seemed slightly embarrassed at being caught smiling and drinking wine with the lady of the keep. “I’ll take care of the situation, m’lady,” he said with a quick bow of his head.

“I think, Captain, you should hear this as well,” Nygyll said.

“You have news of the man?” she asked, waving both Nygyll and Alexander onto the stools near the fire. A boy added wood to the logs already burning in the grate and a silent girl poured another mazer of wine after meeting Morwenna’s gaze and receiving a nod.

“The patient is improving.”

“Is he?” She couldn’t help but feel a bit of elation. “So soon.”

“He’s a strong man.”

“Aye.” She’d seen his muscular arms and torso for herself, sensed that he was a warrior of sorts despite his tattered clothes. Alexander’s expression was grim and he fidgeted as if he was in a hurry to be off.

“We’ve all heard the rumors,” Nygyll continued, studying his hands, “that the patient might be Carrick of Wybren.”

“ ’Tis just that, gossip and supposition, because of the ring he wears.”

“The ring is missing,” Nygyll said softly.

“What?” Morwenna froze.

“I said, the ring is not on the man’s finger.”

“But it was there last night. . . .”

“Last night?”

“Yes. Late. I saw it with my own eyes.” Or had she? When she’d looked over his bruised body, she’d searched for moles or scars or . . . Surely the ring had been on his finger. If it had been missing, she would have noticed. Wouldn’t she?

Nygyll must have read the doubts in her eyes.

“You must be mistaken,” Sir Alexander cut in. “The prisoner, er, patient has been under guard from the moment he was brought to Calon.”

“You’re certain the ring is gone?” Morwenna asked the physician.

“You can see for yourself.”

Shooting to her feet, Morwenna was across the great hall within seconds. Sir Alexander was but a step behind her with Nygyll on his heels.

Morwenna flew up the staircase, ignored the guard, threw open the door to Tadd’s chamber, and found the black-and-blue man where she’d left him last night. The patient, as hideous as ever, hadn’t moved. He lay upon the bed, his near-black hair curling over his bruised forehead, the crusts of blood dark against his battered flesh.

Quickly she walked to the far side of the bed, where his right hand was hidden beneath the covers. Without a thought, she tossed back the blankets and saw his fingers, the knuckles swollen and cracked, the fingernails broken.

As Nygyll had said, the man’s hand was bare, the third finger of his right hand lacking the ring.

Her stomach turned over. “How could anyone remove it?” she demanded. “His fingers are swollen, his joints . . . Dear God.” She saw it then, flesh ripped from his finger, his knuckle red with fresh blood.

“The finger is broken; the joint as well,” Nygyll said as he walked into the room behind Sir Alexander.

In her mind’s eye Morwenna witnessed the gold band being ripped from the unconscious man. “Holy Mother,” she whispered.

Alexander viewed the still man’s damaged hand. “ ’Tis not possible,” he said, though without any conviction as he stared at the bloodied evidence.

The physician shook his head. “The sentry failed.” Before the captain of the guard could defend his men, Nygyll added, “Whoever wanted the ring was desperate and had to work fast.” His gaze landed on the beaten man’s discolored face. “He is lucky.”

“Lucky?” Morwenna repeated, her stomach roiling.

“That the finger wasn’t severed.” Nygyll’s mouth tightened as he picked up the man’s bloodied hand. “Whoever wanted the damned thing could easily have sawed off the finger beneath his joint.”

“For the mercy of God, who would do such a thing?” she whispered, feeling herself blanch.

“I know not.” Nygyll’s gaze traveled to the larger man standing next to him.

Alexander’s jaw slid to one side and his eyes thinned as he looked around the room. “On my word, m’lady,” he vowed, his eyes grave and burning with a quiet fury, “we will find the bastard who did this.”

“Mayhap you should question the guard,” Nygyll suggested.

Alexander skewered the physician with an uncompromising glare. “Mayhap you should do your job, physician, and let me handle mine.”

“Mayhap you should see that yours is done properly!” Nygyll answered hotly and then turned to Morwenna. “Obviously someone got past the sentry, entered the room, and then ripped the damned ring from the patient’s finger and crept back into the night. No one, not even the guard, saw the culprit, and the ring is missing. We are fortunate that nothing else happened, for just as easily whoever it was could have slit this man’s throat.” He motioned to the patient and then turned his back upon Alexander, as if the soldier wasn’t worth consulting.

Noticing a serving girl poking her head into the room, Nygyll lifted an arm and snapped his fingers. “You there, Mylla, stop your gawking and be useful.” His pursed lips were white around the edges, his nostrils flared in agitation. “I’ll need hot water, fresh linens, and yarrow for the wound . . . oh, and some comfrey. Send someone to the apothecary—that’s right, comfrey and yarrow. Do you understand?” As the girl nodded and hastened off, Nygyll turned his gaze toward Morwenna again. “Now, m’lady, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, his voice losing its hard, imperious edge. “I do need to tend to my patient.”

“Of course.” She cast one last glance at the wounded man, and the knots in her stomach tightened. Who would do such a thing? Why? Was the gold crest of Wybren the reason for the stranger being attacked? Who would want it? Its value would only matter to members of Castle Wybren unless the ring was melted down. Or could it be that the ring was a trophy, a little prize to remind the attacker of how he had somehow duped the owner? Had the assailant returned and finished his act of thievery?

Muttering under his breath, Sir Alexander was but a step behind her as she marched toward the stairs.

“Who would do this?” she demanded.

“I know not. But I will find out.” Alexander’s voice was stern as steel. “Whoever did this is making a point, showing us all that he can move through the keep at will. He wants us to know about him; he’s flaunting his power. Elsewise, why not just kill the patient and be done with it?”