Dark Ruby By Lisa Jackson
Prologue
Tower Rhydd, Wales
1271
Glimmering in the dying firelight, the jewels in the ring winked a deep blood red. Beckoning. Seducing. Begging to be taken by trained fingers.
From his hiding spot behind the velvet curtains, Trevin wet his dry lips, rubbed the tips of his fingers together, and tried to quiet his thundering pulse. At fifteen he was a thief and a good one, an orphaned waif who stole to survive. Never had he attempted to snatch anything so valuable as the ring left carelessly on the window ledge. But he was desperate and the jewels and gold would fetch a good price, mayhap enough to buy a decent horse since his efforts at stealing one had gone awry. Painful welts on his back, the result of the farmer lashing him with a whip, still cut into his skin and burned like the very fires of hell to remind him that he’d failed.
But not this time.
Now he would have the means to escape Rhydd and his sins forever.
He listened but the lord’s chamber was quiet. Aside from the occasional tread of footsteps in the hallway, the rustle of mice in the fragrant rushes tossed over the stone floor of the castle, or the hiss of flames in the grate, there was no sound but the pounding of his heart.
Noiselessly he slipped between the drapes and stole across the rushes to the window where he plucked his prize and stuffed it swiftly into the small pocket sewn into the sleeve of his tunic for just spoils as this. Holding his breath, he started for the door only to hear a breathless woman’s voice coming from the hallway.
“In here, Idelle. Quickly.”
Trevin’s knees nearly gave way as he realized the lord’s wife was on the other side of the oaken door. He had no choice but to duck back behind the curtain and hide himself in the alcove where Baron Roderick’s clothes were tucked. Help me, he silently prayed to a God who rarely seemed to listen.
The door swung open and a rush of air caused the fire to glow more brightly. Golden shadows danced upon the whitewashed walls.
Trevin dared peek through the heavy velvet and watched as Lady Gwynn yanked her tunic over her head, then tossed it carelessly onto the floor. With a bored sigh, she, now clad only in her underdress, dropped onto the bed.
Trevin’s groin tightened at the sight of the lacy chemise against Gwynn’s skin. Idelle, the old midwife and a woman many proclaimed to be a witch, shuffled into the room and closed the door behind her. Half blind and a bit crippled, Idelle held some kind of special power and even though her ancient eyes were clouded a milky white, she seemed to see more than most people within these castle walls. ‘Twas said that she had the uncanny gift of searching out a man’s soul.
“’Tis the time,” she said in a voice not unlike that of a toad. Carefully she set her basket of herbs and candles on a small table. She laid each wick upon a red-hot coal from the fire until all the beeswax tapers were lit. Once the flames were strong and flickering in the breeze, Idelle reached into a pouch in her basket and dropped a handful of pungent herbs over the table. Some sparked in the candles’ flames and the scents of rose and myrtle blended over the odor of burning oak.
“Then let’s get it done.” Squirming upon the coverlet Lady Gwynn lifted her chemise over her legs and hips. Trevin was suddenly much too hot. Higher and higher the chemise was raised until the sheer fabric was wadded beneath her breasts.
Though he knew it was sin, he could not drag his eyes away from her near naked body. White and supple in the quivering firelight she rolled toward the old woman.
Trevin clamped his jaw tight. He couldn’t resist eyeing her flat white abdomen, the slight indentations between her ribs, and the nest of red-brown curls that seemed to sparkle in the juncture of her legs.
His throat turned to dust. So this is what a noblewoman looked like beneath her velvet and furs. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to run one of his callused fingers over that soft irresistible skin.
“There ye be, lass. Now, let me see what ye’ve got.” Idelle knelt at the side of the bed and her fingers, knotted with age, moved gently over the younger woman’s smooth belly. Groping and prodding, she murmured something in the old language, a spell mayhap, as it was common knowledge that she prayed and offered sacrifices to the pagan gods of the elders, just as the man who had raised him, the sorcerer Muir had. “By the gods, ‘tis no use.” With a sigh, she shook her graying head. Sorrow added years to a face that was barely a skull with skin stretched over old, bleached bones. “’Tis barren ye be, lass. There is no babe.”
“Nay!” Gwynn cried, but lacked conviction.
Sadly, Idelle clucked her tongue. “’Tis sorry I be and ye know it.”
“And wrong you be! Oh, please, Idelle, tell me I am with child,” she insisted desperately.
“Nay, I—”
“Hush! There is a child. There must be!” Stubborn pride flashed in the lady’s eyes as if by sheer will a baby would grow within her womb. “Oh, dear God you must be mistaken!” She whispered, though her chin wobbled indecisively.
Try as he might Trevin couldn’t draw his gaze away from her. She pushed her chemise upward to the juncture of her arms and for the first time in his life he saw a noblewoman, a beautiful lady, naked. He’d caught glimpses of serving wenches and whores, of course, but never before had he seen the wife of a baron. His mouth drew no spit as he looked upon the sweet roundness of her breasts. Her nipples were small and pink, reminding him of rosebuds. His damned manhood, always at the ready, became stiff.
“Touch me again. Try harder to feel the babe,” Gwynn pleaded, though she seemed resigned, as if she understood her fate.
Regret drew Idelle’s old lips into a knot. She laid the flat of her hand beneath Lady Gwynn’s navel, closed her sightless eyes, and whispered a chant. Upon the bed, the naked woman lay perfectly still.
With a sigh, Idelle removed her spotted fingers. “There’s nothing.”
“What will I do?” Gwynn asked, swallowing hard.
“I know not.”
“Mary, sweet mother of Jesus, help me,” Lady Gwynn whispered from her bed—the lord’s bed. If the baron had any idea that a poor stable boy—nay, a thief—had seen his wife naked, there would be hell to pay. Trevin would probably be drawn and quartered, his spilled guts fed to the castle hogs. He shuddered at the thought but still could not draw his wayward gaze away.
Her eyes were wide with fear and she bit into her lower lip. The candles near the bed gave off black smoke and the tiny flames reflected in tears drizzling from her eyes. Saint Peter, she was a beauty. “If I bear not a son, my husband will kill me.”
Trevin’s heart gave a jolt. He’d heard stories of the lord’s cruelty, but to kill this woman—this beautiful wife?
“Nay, he would never—”
“Don’t lie to me, Idelle.” Gwynn sat bolt upright on the bed, her pointed chin thrust forward, her chemise lowering over those perfect breasts. Frightened, she curved the fingers of one hand over the midwife’s scrawny arm. “There must be a child.”
“I’m sorry, m’lady, ‘tis ripe ye are, that I know. Aye, but—”
“I will bear my husband a son!” Gwynn’s pretty face twisted from desperation to sly expression that reminded Trevin of a wolf coming upon a wounded lamb. “I… I… slept with my husband each night before he rode to battle,” she said softly, as if to convince herself, “I tried, oh, how I tried…”
“’Tis a pity, to be sure.”
“And I did what you advised,” Gwynn added, as if her childless state were the old midwife’s fault. With one hand, she gestured to the beeswax candles dripping near the bed. “I added myrtle, oak, and rose to candles. I drew fertility runes in the sand and lied to Father Anthony when he caught me practicing the old ways.” Her eyes slitted and a cunning expression overcame her perfect features. “Then, to atone, I prayed on my knees on the cold stone floor of the chapel for hours upon hours, hoping God would answer my prayers. I did everything I could and yet you dare tell me there is no babe.”
Idelle frowned and rubbed at the sprinkle of whiskers upon her chin. “I’ll not lie to ye, m’lady.”
“For the love of Saint Jude!” Gwynn hopped off the bed and walked barefoot through the rushes to the small window cut into the chamber wall. Moonlight streamed through the opening and fell upon her beautiful, angry face while casting a silver sheen to her fiery hair. “You must help me.”
Idelle clucked her tongue while worrying her gnarled fingers. “I tried. By the gods, I tried, lass. But sometimes when a man and woman lay together, a child eludes them.”
“But why?” Gwynn asked, frowning and tapping her fingers in agitation along the whitewashed wall.
“Who knows?”
“God is punishing me, though ‘tis the baron’s fault.”
Idelle lifted a graying eyebrow. “His fault?”
“Aye, but he will kill me if I give him no sons,” she said again, turning and resting her head against the sill. Trevin cringed. If not for the shadows, she would see him. “Was not his first wife, Katherine, found dead in her bed” —she waved a hand at the pile of furs on the curtained mattress— “this very bed after six years of marriage and no children?”
“Aye, but—”
“Strangled, they say, or suffocated.”
“The Lord denied it, even unto Father Anthony.”
“And his second wife, Rose, drowned when she, too, was unable to give him a babe.”
“’Tis true,” Idelle agreed, rubbing her knuckles until Trevin thought she might work the skin off her bones.
Gwynn sighed loudly. “Lord Roderick is a young man no longer. He wants sons and I, Idelle, will give them to him, one way or another.”
Trevin bit his lip. He’d heard the talk whispered by the servants in the solar, scullery, stables, and throughout the barony. Even peasants in the village suspected that Baron Roderick had suffocated his first wife, drowned his second, and took another—this one, Gwynn of Llynwen, a woman of fifteen for the singular purpose of bearing him an heir. A son. Trevin swallowed though his throat was dry as sand.
Through the cracks in the drapes, he watched as the lady’s eyebrows drew together and her gaze moved swiftly over the window ledge. “My ring,” she whispered, distracted for a moment as her fingers ran over the stone and mortar. Trevin’s heart stilled. Guilt pierced his soul. “’Twas here but a little while ago… the ruby my father gave me…” She bit her lip in vexation. “I know I put it here. Oh, for the love of Saint Mary, my mind is gone with all the worry about a babe!”
Trevin didn’t dare breathe as she stooped to sweep the rushes with her fingers, as if the jewel had fallen onto the floor. Idelle, too, began searching and the damned ring burned a hole in Trevin’s sleeve.
“How very odd…”
“Could ye have misplaced it, m’lady?”
“Nay. Nay. It was here. Right in this very spot. I know it!” She slapped the ledge with her palm and then her gaze inched slowly around her chamber.
Sweat dripped down Trevin’s spine as she stared at the curtains. Trevin froze. Could she see him? Did his eyes reflect in the dim candlelight? Had he moved and caught her gaze? He closed his eyes to slits, mouthed a silent prayer to a God he didn’t trust, and swallowed a lump as large as an egg that had formed in his throat. Sweat rolled down his muscles though the autumn breeze rushing through the window was cold and caused the embers in the fire to glow a scarlet hue that cast bold red shadows upon the walls. Christ Jesus, how had he ended up here-trapped like a cornered fox?
Lady Gwynn sank to the floor. “I cannot worry about the ring right now,” she said, her voice soft and forlorn. “Not when I need not a ruby but a babe.”
“Would that I conjure up a child, but…” Idelle shook her head and scratched at the hairs sprouting upon her chin. “’Tis not possible.”
Standing, Gwynn turned her thoughtful gaze back to the midwife. “You could be mistaken.”
“Oh, m’lady, would that I were.”
“My time of the month is not for a fortnight yet. Only then will we know for certain.”
“But—”
“Leave me,” Gwynn ordered, dashing away her tears and plopping back on the bed. She tossed her long auburn curls in spoiled disdain. “I’ll hear no more of your heresy, old woman. I’m with child, I tell you as sure as there is a God, I am carrying the son of Roderick of Rhydd.”
“Would that it were so.”
“It is, I tell you. Go.” Gwynn hitched her chin to the door and there was nothing for the midwife to do but gather her basket of herbs, candles, and knives and start for the hallway.
However, at the door, Idelle hesitated and shivered as if the cold touch of winter had invaded her soul. “Lady,” she said, casting a worried glance over her shoulder, “do not contemplate that which is forbidden.”
“Forbidden?”
“I see it in your eyes, child,” Idelle said, her voice a worried whisper. “If you consider trying to trick him—”
“Hush!” Gwynn said, her cheeks flaming. “You speak nonsense and what can you see, half blind as you are?”
“My sight is from the soul. Be not foolish,” the old woman cautioned, as if she could read the dark turn of Lady Gwynn’s thoughts. She cleared her throat and added, “If ye be so troubled, I could send for the priest.”
Gwynn let out a breath of disdain and waved Idelle’s offer away. “Father Anthony and his prayers and penance are not what I need. Why the man asks to be flogged so hard that blood stains his shirt in order that he appear a servant and martyr of God I understand not.”
“Mayhap he has reason to repent.”
Gwynn signed. “He is a man of the faith.”
“Aye, but even a man who speaks the words of the Father is made of flesh and bone.”
“Be that as it may, I’ll not speak to him of this. ‘Twould but cause him to stutter and gulp so hard his Adam’s apple would bob as fast as a hummingbird’s wings in flight.” Gwynn’s smile wasn’t kind. “Please, leave me now.”
“As ye wish, child, but take care.”
Eyes squeezed shut, Trevin counted out his heartbeats as he heard Idelle shuffle from the room. The large door creaked open only to close with a thud and the chamber was silent aside from the hiss and pop of the fire.
Now, if only the lady would lie on the bed and fall asleep, he could make good his leave. The ring would be his and he would leave Rhydd and his past far behind him.
“Come here.”
Her voice seemed to echo through the room.
Trevin’s muscles turned to stone.
“Come here,” Gwynn ordered again and Trevin prayed there was a cat lurking in the shadows somewhere that she was calling. “You there, boy, behind the velvet. I know you’re there.”
Holy Mother of God.
He dared open his eyes to stare straight into hers as she was standing before him, her face looming in the crack of the curtains.
There was nothing he could do but slowly edge away from his hiding spot and stand before her in his bloody, mud-stained tunic. She was a small thing, inches shorter than he, but she held herself erect and stiff, as if she were looking down on him with all the power of the barony. “You heard me speaking with the midwife.”
It wasn’t a question.
“You know of my… difficulty.”
Sweet Mary she was staring up at him with eyes the color of the forest at dawn. “Aye.”
“And I know who you are. The thief who was bold enough to steal my ring from my chamber.”
His jaw grew tight and hard.
“This blood—” She touched his shirt with a long finger and eyed the scar that ran along his hairline.
“Yours?”
“Some, mayhap.”
“Another man’s as well?”
He didn’t answer. Wouldn’t incriminate himself.
“Did you kill him?”
He remembered the ire on the nobleman’s face, Ian of Rhydd, Roderick’s brother, when he’d realized that his bejeweled dagger had been stolen on the streets of the village. He’s spied Trevin pocketing the prize, caught him by the collar, and slapped him hard.
“You’ll not best me, you filthy urchin!”
“Wont I?” Trevin had flipped the knife into his fingers and Ian had turned his wrist, the sharp blade slicing down the side of Trevin’s face and neck.
Blood had gushed.
With all his strength, he’d kicked Ian of Rhydd in the groin. The older man had let out a bellow like a wounded bull and Trevin, blinded by the blood running down his face had lashed out with his newfound weapon, taking off a piece of the nobleman’s ear. Then he’d run as far and as fast as his legs had carried him. He’d dashed through the muddy, dung-strewn alley, dodging carts, peddlers, and such, reeling off corners and wiping his eyes as the blood had dried. He’d ended up here deep within the castle walls where no one would think to search for him. No one but the lord’s comely wife.
Now, Gwynn’s lashes thinned a bit. Stepping away from him, she said, “My husband would flog you and throw you into the dungeon to rot for your sins. And,” she held up a finger, “if he thought that you’d been spying in his chamber and had seen his wife without her clothes, he’d whip you within an inch of your life, then gut you and spill your innards for the dogs while there was still a breath of life in your body.”
Again, the truth. Trevin’s insides turned to jelly but he didn’t flinch, just held her gaze steadily. “Is that what you want, m’lady?” he finally asked, unable to still his sharp tongue.
“What I want is a babe.”
She looked at him and he sensed an idea forming in her mind—an idea that, he was certain, would scare the liver from him. “So what are we going to do with you?” she asked.
His heart was a drum. If he made a run for the door, she would scream and call the guards and the window was far above the ground; he would break both his legs if he attempted to jump into the bailey. There was no escape unless he were to grab her swiftly and cover her mouth with his hand. And what then?
She smiled and tapped a fingernail to a front tooth that slightly overlapped its twin. “Thief,” she said, nodding in self-approval as her idea took shape. “I have a bargain for you.”
“A bargain?” He’d been in enough tight spaces to smell a trap when one was being offered and yet he had no choice but to listen.
“’Twill not be unpleasant,” she said, clearing her throat as if her plan scared her a bit. “I… I want you to spend the next three days here in my bed, getting me with child.” Her face flushed a deep shade of red and she avoided his eyes as if suddenly ashamed. “No one will know you are here, trust me, and on the third night, I will see that you are able to leave Rhydd with a fine horse, a purse full of gold, and a new name. Nary a soul will know what became of you unless you are foolish.” Again she narrowed those dark-lashed eyes thoughtfully as if weighing each part of her plan, testing it carefully, wondering if she, a lady of noble birth, could trust a man who had entered her chamber only to rob her.
His heart was pounding wildly, his erection full and hard, yet he knew that bedding her was a mistake he didn’t dare make, that to touch even one hair of her gorgeous head was as dangerous as stepping through the very portals of hell.
“Come, boy, please,” she entreated and for a second she seemed a scared little girl, one he would love to protect. “All I ask is that you lay with me, and… and… afterward you’ll leave here a free man.” She reached forward, wound warm, soft fingers around his wrist, and drew his hand to her breast.
He felt the smooth flesh through her chemise and a bud of a nipple against his open palm. Oh, Mother Mary, what was this tormented ecstasy! This was wrong… so wrong. His chest was as tight as if barrel staves had surrounded it.
“’Tis a sin,” he said, his voice low and rough, not sounding at all as if it belonged to him.
She closed her eyes a second and bit her trembling lower lip. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded solemnly. “Aye, ‘tis a sin, and we know that you would never sin, eh, thief?”
“Sweet Jesus.”
“This is not the time for prayer.”
“But—”
“I’m asking you to help me,” she said simply and innocence overshadowed her display of cunning. She was one moment a vixen, the next a frightened girl.
And he, damn it, was only a man. A weak man.
Gaze locked with hers, he let out his breath. Slowly he ran his thumb over the hardening bud of her nipple and heard her sigh, as soft as the wind rustling through the dry leaves still clinging to the trees.
“This is wrong.”
“But it will save my life and yours.” She smiled slightly, sadly, as tears again filled her hazel eyes.
“’Tis no choice we have, thief. Come to the bed. Save your soul as well as mine.”
“God help me.”
She lifted her arms and circled his neck in an embrace he couldn’t avoid. Oh, God, how he ached. Desire pounded through his head. Need pulsed hot in his veins.
Tilting her head she offered him the seductive white column of her throat. “Please.”
He could resist no longer. A groan of surrender escaped from his throat. His mouth crashed down upon hers eagerly, as if he’d expected this moment in time to be his forever, as if destiny had claimed him.
Her lips parted willingly.
His blood was liquid fire. Hot. Dark. Wanting.
She quivered.
Could it be that this beautiful lady actually wanted him?
Trembling, he lifted her from her feet, carried her to the bed, and fell with her onto the fur coverlet. His hands found the hem of her chemise, his cock was thick and ready to burst, and he never stopped kissing her as she unlaced his breeches and peeled off his tunic.
This is madness, Trevin! Stop before you cross a bridge that leads to damnation.
Anxious fingers skimmed the muscles of his shoulders, the few hairs on his chest. So hot he was sweating, he kissed her hard, his tongue probing, his hands upon the laces holding her chemise closed.
His tunic slid to the floor and the ring, gold and deep dusky scarlet, rolled into the rushes.
“I knew it,” she whispered. “You’re a bold one, thief.”
And stupid to be contemplating bedding the baron’s wife. But his head was thundering with want, his flesh ready and as he shoved the chemise up her body, he parted her legs with his knees, shed all doubts, and thrust deep into her warmth, only to feel resistance, then a rending.
She let out a soft cry of pain.
He didn’t move for a second. Lust thundered through his body and yet something was wrong. Very wrong. “For the love of… you… you are a virgin,” he whispered, his voice raw, his mind screaming at him that he’d been played for a fool.
A tiny pool of blood stained the furs beneath them. Firelight played in eerie shadows against the walls.
“Aye.” Again tears starred her lashes.
His mind was swimming in murky waters as he stared down at her vexed face, her skin glowing gold in the flickering light. “I heard you tell the old woman that you thought you were with child.” Oh sweet Jesus ‘twas all he could do to concentrate to not move and feel her feminine warmth rubbing against him.
She didn’t say a word, just stared up at him through her tears and, swallowing hard, scaled his ribs with warm fingers.
“The baron will—”
“Never know of you. Trust me,” she begged. “’Tis my worry, not yours.”
“How could he—?”
“Shh. There are some secrets between a man and a woman that are not to be shared with another. Come, thief, do not stop now.” She touched him so gently he wanted to believe in her forever. Slowly, she rubbed her smooth skin against him, lifting her hips, and touching his flat nipples with her thumbs. “Love me.”
“Nay, I—”
“Love me, please.”
Oh, glorious torment, he couldn’t resist. Moaning in surrender, he caught her rhythm and was unable to keep from delving into her sweet heat again and again, faster and faster as the world caught fire behind his eyes. With a primal cry, he spilled his seed into the most secret part of her.
“Yes, thief, yes,” she whispered, suppressing a sob.
“’Tis good you be.”
And a fool like no other!
Falling against her, crushing her breasts, feeling her arms wrap around his sweaty torso, he found no joy. No satisfaction. For deep in the marrow of his bones he knew with dead certainty that his single act would be his undoing. Though Lady Gwynn had seduced him, the truth was that he, an orphaned stable boy who had been raised by a magician with a lust for wine had become a thief and had, in his most bold and stupid act stolen not only the lady’s ring, but Baron Roderick of Rhydd’s wife’s virginity.
‘Twas no doubt, there would be hell to pay.