CHAPTER Nine
“’Ere ye go, ye one-eyed bastard!” The guard, a squat, burly fellow with black hair growing profusely upon his arms, cast Muir’s cane into the cell, then locked the door. “Now, I’ll ‘ave no more whinin’ from the likes of ye.”
“Thank you,” Muir said and hid his smile. He’d been complaining about not having his cane ever since being tossed into the dungeon. ‘Twas an ugly place. Water seeped through the walls and pooled on the floor covered with dank, sour straw. Rats, beady eyes reflecting the orange glow of a few torches, scurried through the cages where emaciated men barely survived. Muir had learned most of the inmates were newly incarcerated, those who had dared question the new baron’s right to rule, and already they were in sorry shape.
The guard turned back to his chair and table where he was busy sharpening knives on a whetstone. The scraping of metal against rock was rhythmic and most of the inmates sat as if in a trance, neither speaking nor moving about.
Muir waited until the guard was bent over his blade and the candle that served as his only illumination showed his face set in deep concentration. Only when the magician was certain the sentry had forgotten him did he move to the darkest corner of his cell and with steady fingers unscrew the false bottom of his staff. From its hollowed-out center, he pried moss and stones, amulets, berries and herbs, a candle and, most importantly, a knife so small it could be hidden in a man’s palm or if the owner was very careful, inside his mouth—a tiny, perfect little blade that was able to pick locks as well as slice through flesh. Muir smiled to himself and hid the knife in a special pocket sewn into the sleeve of his ragged cloak.
He replaced the rest of his possessions quietly and decided to wait until the time was perfect to make good his escape. First, he would gain information, listen to the gossip of the castle and discover what exactly Ian of Rhydd had planned. Then, he would disappear, but not before he relieved the baron of a few jugs of his finest wine.
Satisfied that things would turn out well, he closed his eyes for a short nap only to feel a searing pain burn through his brains. “Jesus, Lord have mercy,” he muttered between clenched teeth. His sightless eye strung in an eruption of pain that caused him to double over and clutch his face.
“What now?” the guard demanded, scraping back his chair.
“’Tis nothing,” Muir lied, hoping to stem the ache that burned as if he was being branded.
“Then shut up!”
“Aye.”
The vision hit him hard. With the gale force of a storm. He saw all too clearly the images of a boy and pup stalking through the forest. Gareth and his infernal whelp. The boy wandered easily through the thickets, the dog at his heels, and all the while murky shadows drew nearer, following the lad with a deadly certainty that made Muir’s heart nearly stop. Just as the darkness attempted to cover the boy, Muir heard him cry out and chains rattled sharply, showing themselves in a coil like that of a labyrinth, blood dripping between the rusting links. Father to son and son to father.
“No!” Muir cried, realizing that the old secret was about to be revealed, that all he’d worked for his entire life was going to be destroyed. Oh, Morrigu and Cerridwen, let this happen not!
“Shut up, old man, or ye won’t live long enough to see the gallows!”
“Aye, aye,” he managed to whisper and wished for a long, calming draught of ale. Clutching his cane as if it were the staff of life, Muir rested his back against the cold stone wall as the pain subsided.
There was no hiding, no sliding away from destiny. Fate had seen to it that Gareth’s future was placed squarely upon Muir’s stooped shoulders.
‘Twas certain that if he didn’t find a way to conjure up a bit of magic—a miracle no less—he, Trevin, Gareth, and Lady Gwynn were doomed.
‘Twas time the tables were turned, Gwynn decided as she sneaked from her room and through the dusky corridor to the lord of Black Oak’s chamber. She hazarded one quick look over her shoulder as she climbed the short flight of stairs, for she could not allow anyone in the keep to know her plans.
As she passed a dark, empty alcove, she felt a coldness emanating from the spot, as if an invisible tempest had cut through her to chill her blood. Was the castle truly haunted as Hildy had insisted?
‘Tis naught but a silly girl’s imaginings, she chastised herself, but shivered just the same.
She reached the door to Trevin’s room and hesitated. Earlier, as the meal was cleared away, Gwynn had overheard Trevin speak in hushed tones to two of his most trusted men. Sir Gerald and Sir Stephen were to meet him in his room before the moon had risen over the west tower. She, complaining of a pain in her head, had made her way to her own chamber, insisting that she was a private person and would have no chattering maid sleep in her quarters with her. Only after Hildy had disappeared down the stairs, had Gwynn slipped into the empty corridor.
“God be with me,” she whispered.
Once inside the room, she closed the door softly behind her and paused to scan the large chamber. Tapestries hung upon whitewashed walls and a spoked chandelier with unlit tapers was suspended from a high, domed ceilings. A fire crackled cheerily in the grate and sconces held candles that had burned low but offered a soft golden glow that played upon the walls and ceiling.
The bed was low to the ground and offered no hiding place beneath it. A bench, three-legged stool, and a writing table were arranged near the hearth. A wardrobe stood against the wall, but she dare not hide within it as surely Trevin might take off his mantle and hang it within. She eyed the ornately carved cupboard and decided if she were hold her breath in tightly, she could hide behind the heavy piece. ‘Twas a small space to be sure, the wardrobe too massive for her to move, but if she inched her way in, she would be able to hear what happened in the room and once Trevin had fallen asleep, sneak away.
There was no other place to stow herself, so she edged behind the wide wardrobe. A mouse scurried from beneath her feet and cobwebs clung to her face and hair, but she was able to press her back against the wall. Her breasts were crushed by the oaken backing of the cupboard, her lungs constricted, her nostrils filled with dust. She let her breath out slowly, found she could breathe just barely, then waited as the sounds of life in the castle filtered through the windows and crept up the stairs. Soft conversations, rattling dishes, chinking armor, and the ring of hammers kept her from falling asleep on her feet. Once in while a dog barked or an owl hooted. Doves and pigeons fluttered to their roosts as life in the keep slowed.
After what seemed like hours she heard footsteps on the stairs before the doors creaked open. Swords and spurs clanked and male voices she barely recognized heralded the lord’s return.
The bench scraped against the stones of the floor as a group of men, none of whom she could see, settled near the fire.
“Tomorrow we leave to find Gareth,” Trevin said.
“And what of the lady?”
“She stays.”
Gwynn bit her tongue, though her blood boiled.
“Knows she this?”
“Nay, but, Stephen, a woman would only slow us down and we need speed and quick wits.”
“Aye, m’lord,” a third voice interjected. “If there be battle we must not worry over her. She would only be more trouble than we need.”
“I think she will not like this.” Stephen sounded worried. “’Tis her son.”
“A woman knows not what she wants,” the third man said.
Gwynn’s fists curled so tightly she felt her fingernails bite into the soft flesh of her palms.
“True enough. A woman is foolish thing.” Trevin sounded smug and Gwynn’s temper soared to the heavens. To think she’d actually thought she was falling in love with the stupid thug! “She will stay here and wait in case the boy returns.”
“We will ride to Rhydd?”
“Aye, but we’ll split up. One party will be the decoy to lure Rhydd’s soldiers in the wrong direction, the other will actually scale Rhydd’s walls and save Muir.”
“The magician?” A snort of disdain. “Why save his flea-ridden hide? Did he not lose the boy?”
“Do not forget,” Trevin said sternly, “Muir raised me. I entrusted him with the lad and if he’s held prisoner, ‘tis my doing, as surely as if I’d led him to the dungeon myself. I’ll not have his death on my head.”
The others grudgingly assented and they made more plans, talking and arguing while Gwynn stewed behind the wardrobe. Oh, how she wanted to leap from her hiding space and tell all the men, especially that arrogant Trevin McBain, thief, liar and seducer, what fools they were, that a woman would only aid them in their quest. Gwynn was as good a shot with an arrow as most men and though a sword was too heavy for her to swing for hours, she was dangerous with her little knife. Asides, she used her wits more often than her muscle to get what she wanted. Trevin, though he knew it or not, could use her to help him find Gareth.
She couldn’t hear all their plans, though, as more often than not their voices were low and muffled, muted by the other sounds of the castle.
The fire popped and sizzled, dogs barked outside, the wind rattled through the slats over the windows, and every once in while there came a harsh rap upon the door. Each time there was a knocking upon the worn oak planks of the door, Gwynn’s heart pounded in trepidation for she feared that someone had looked into her room, found her missing, and was alerting the lord. She strained to listen and bit her lip. None of the disturbances were about her, however, and eventually Trevin’s soldiers took their leave.
Thank the Lord.
Their footsteps dulled and the door of the room closed firmly.
Gwynn, hardly daring to breathe didn’t move a muscle.
A lock clicked.
No! Where did he keep the key? Was she to be locked in this room alone with him?
Sweat dotted her scalp and her palms itched. What was she to do? Wait until morn when she would surely be found missing?
Think, Gwynn, think! She had no choice but to wait until he was fast asleep, then she could search for the key, unlock the door, and sneak silently back to her room. In the morning he would discover that someone had been with him and left his door unlocked, but she had no other option. This chamber was far too high for her to dare to leave by way of the window. If she jumped into the bailey, she would surely break her neck.
Dear God, help me. She was not going to be left here at Black Oak, treated like a well-kept prisoner while her son might be in danger.
The minutes ticked by and she heard Trevin unbuckle his belt and remove his boots. The sounds brought images to her mind that she forced back but she felt the cupboard doors open as he hung his tunic and breeches upon a peg therein. Sweat collected on her brow, palms, and spine as his scent reached her. She let out a long breath when the wardrobe doors finally shut and his footsteps over the rushes indicated that he’d crossed the room.
Please let him sleep long and hard, she silently prayed as he tossed a last chunk of wood onto the fire and then, she assumed, dropped onto the bed.
Now, all she had to do was wait.
An insect of some kind walked along the back side of her neck. She couldn’t move, didn’t dare scream, so endured the passage of the bug as it crawled over her shoulder and along the neckline of her bodice before thankfully taking its leave. Her fingers were curled into fists and she closed her eyes, concentrating on the sounds emanating from the bed. Was that steady, regular breathing she heard or the soft moan of the wind? Did the lord snore slightly as he rustled under the covers or was the noise only the trick of her imagination willing him asleep. Did Trevin drop off easily or did he toss and turn, vexed as the hours of sleep eluded him?
What did it matter? In the morn he would discover that someone had been lurking within his chamber and made good their
escape. Certainly he would consider her a suspect. What then? Would he change his mind and instead of keeping her a spoiled, guarded guest, lock her in her room or worse yet, angrily toss her into the dungeon?
Nay. She had only to remember the way he’d touched and caressed her. Surely he wouldn’t cast her into a dank, horrid corner of the castle.
She rested her forehead upon the back side of the cupboard as her legs began to ache from standing in one position. Oh, Lord, she couldn’t stay here all night. Squeezing her eyes shut, she hoped to hear any noise to indicate that someone was about, but the castle was quiet and aside from the occasional muffled cough or rustle of mice in the rushes or wind sighing through the turrets, she heard nothing.
‘Twas now or never.
Slowly she inched sideways, barely making a sound aside from the hammering of her heart. She peered from behind the wardrobe. The room was dark save for the embers glowing in the hearth.
Trevin lay on the bed, unmoving, his clean-shaven face in shadowy repose, golden light gleaming against his shoulders and catching the swirling, dark hair that grew across his wide chest. Her abdomen tightened at the sight of him, for the blankets had shifted and covered only a small section of his body. One strong, muscular leg was exposed all the way to his hip and Gwynn felt a familiar fluttering in her stomach. She dragged her eyes away from the enticing curve of his buttock and turned toward the door.
One step. Two.
“Leaving so soon?”
Oh, Sweet Jesus no! The sound of his voice stopped her cold.
“Why, Lady Gwynn, did you hear every detail of our plan?”
Dear God in heaven, give me strength.
“Did you not think I spied you cowering behind the wardrobe like a thief caught in the act?”
Slowly turning to face the bed, she saw the sparkle of amusement in his eyes, the slash of white as he grinned in bemused satisfaction. Oh, how he enjoyed mocking her.
“Well, now, m’lord, it seems we are even,” she said tautly.
“Are we?”
“Aye. I caught you hiding in my cupboard years ago and now you’ve found me out.”
He stretched lazily and the mischief brewing in his eyes warned her that there was more trouble heading fast in her direction. “’Tis true enough except for one small detail.”
Whatever it was, it sounded dangerous. “I know not what you mean.”
“Well-” He swung both legs out of the covers and stood. She gasped and forced her eyes to stay focused on his face for he was naked as the day he was born, his manhood visible in a thatch of dark curling hair. “As I recall, I was forced to bargain with you, was I not?”
Oh, merciful God! Her pulse was thundering, her blood racing. Her throat was dry as desert wind in summer, her blood as warm as a vat of water left neglected on the fire. “You… you broke your part of the bargain,” she reminded him.
“After thirteen years.”
He was standing directly in front of her, so close she smelled the maleness of him, felt the heat of his body, noticed a trace of desire in his gaze.
Help me, she thought, knowing she was already lost.
“If I remember correctly, lady,” he said in a voice that seemed to belower in timbre than she remembered. “To atone for my having eavesdropped on your conversation with the old midwife, I was to spend three days in your bed.”
Oh, God. She swallowed hard.
“Now, what say you? Would it not be only fair if we were to strike a similar pact?” He lifted a finger and traced the curve of her jaw.
She shivered, her insides warming, but managed a condescending smile. “’Twas a different time, different circumstances. Had I not got with child my husband would have had me killed.”
“If he’d not been conveniently imprisoned.” He lifted her hair from her neck, leaned forward just a bit, and pressed his lips to the sensitive spot behind her ear.
Her knees turned as soft as cook’s pudding and she closed her eyes. “Imprisonment is never convenient.”
“Nay?” His lips were warm and oh, so, seductive as they moved against her skin. Desire awakened in the deepest part of her.
“Nay.”
“How would you have explained the babe? Surely he knew that you were not carrying his child as you were a virgin when you took me to your bed.”
The same question she had refused to answer so many years ago. He tugged on the neckline of her dress and kissed her bare shoulder. A deep lust stole through her blood. “’Tis of no matter now.” She cleared her throat, ignoring the passion he, and he alone, stirred within her. “I should take my leave-”
“Not yet, love.”
She closed her mind to the endearment as she knew in her heart that he’d said the same words to dozens of women. She shouldn’t fall into his seductive trap and yet when his arms surrounded her and he tipped her face up to his, she didn’t stop him, couldn’t find the strength to deny what she wanted so desperately. As he pressed her clothed body to his naked legs and chest, she felt all her resistance fall away.
Desire, her long-hated enemy, dared sear through her brain as well as the most intimate recesses of her body. Please, God, if You be listening, help me. Give me the strength to stop this madness.
But God turned a deaf ear to her pleas.
The laces of her dress gave way easily, the heavy fabric parting to drop in a wine-colored pool on the floor. Strong hands spanned either side of her rib cage, warm fingers searing her skin through the sheer fabric of her chemise.
His lips found hers and she sagged against him. Though she knew that what she was about to do was a sin, that in the eyes of God and the church she was a married woman, she could not find the resistance to stop the course of their twined destinies. Her pulse pounded, her breath was shallow, and all she knew was the touch and feel of this one harsh man.
Oh, Trevin, do not hurt me.
His mouth was hot, hard, and insistent. His tongue pressed against the seam of her lips and she opened to him, felt a thrill of anticipation as his tongue darted and played, plundered and danced with hers.
She welcomed him, tasting and touching as passion ruled her soul. Her arms wound around his neck, and her breasts, deep within her chemise, ached for his touch.
“Oh, woman, what am I to do with you?” he said on a sigh.
Anything and everything crossed her mind, but she held back the words and kissed him until she was breathless.
With a moan, he dragged her closer. One callused hand lifted her leg to his waist and already melting inside, she felt his manhood pressed hard against her mound.
Don’t do this Gwynn. Think! Consider Gareth! Remember that you are another man’s wife! Know that nothing good will come of lying with the thief! And yet she was unable to stop herself. Her hands explored muscles as corded as thick rope, an abdomen as hard as a shield, chest hair coarse and springy to her touch.
He groaned against her ear as his weight dragged them both downward to topple onto his bed. Firelight played upon the angles of his face, accentuated the scars crossing his shoulders and back, and sparked in his hair and eyes.
Lying atop her he kissed her eyes, her throat, her cheeks. “Ah, Gwynn,” he whispered, his breath whispering across her body. “’Tis beautiful you are.” He kissed her breasts, first one, then the other, through the lace of her chemise until the fabric was so wet it was sheer against her skin. Tongue, lips, and teeth caressed her. Hot. Wet. Hard. She moved against him, wanting more as desire pulsed wildly through her. Faster. Hotter.
“You be so sweet, a temptress, to be sure,” he said as he rimmed her nipple, so dark against the fine lace, with his tongue. Licks of desire swept through her, tingling her skin and creating a moist yearning deep in the most feminine part of her soul.
“And you… you be a smooth-tongued rogue.”
“A rogue is what you want, Lady Gwynn.” He lifted his head and stared at her with eyes a dusky shade of blue. “Say it.”
“Nay, I-”
He kissed her nipple again, drawing hard, suckling as if he were but a babe. “Say it,” he whispered across the breast.
“Nay.”
“Oh, woman.” He lifted the hem of her chemise and as he found her hips with his mouth, he discovered the rest of her with one strong hand. Fingers touched and probed and heat spiraled deep in her moist, intimate cavern. Sweat slid down her spine and she began to move, the wanting deep within her urgent and untamed. “Tell me you want me.”
She licked her lips and he groaned before kissing her again. His hand moved. She bucked upward. He caught her and slowly let her down again. Her breath stopped in the back of her throat as he touched her in a spot that sent tingles through her body. As firelight turned his skin a deep shade of gold, she nodded. “Aye, thief, I want you.”
“And I want you, love,” he admitted with a scowl. “More than I’ve ever wanted a woman. ‘Tis cursed I be with the want of you and I fear I’ll be forever damned.”
With one strong hand, he yanked the chemise over her head and settled his length to hers. Hard muscles collided with her softer flesh and the torment in his eyes faded. “The devil take tomorrow, may this night last forever,” he whispered as he kissed her again and while holding her close, parted her knees with his. Gwynn stared up at him as he touched her with his manhood, gently prodding, not quite delving deep, causing her to lift up her hips.
Perspiration dotted her body. Need burned bright at her core. Still he teased, just gently nudging, but not quite entering as she writhed with the want of him.
“Trevin…” Her voice was but a desperate whisper. “Trevin… please,” she begged, hating the sound.
“For you, love.” With a single thrust he drove into her. Her heart pumped. Her lungs burned. The walls of the castle seemed to shift. He withdrew slowly only to plunge into her again. “Trevin!” Her fingernails dug into his shoulders and she moved with him. Slowly at first, then faster, and faster, until she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, was lost in the wonder of making love to him.
The years spun away and she was giving him her virginity once again, rising to meet him, whispering his name, holding on to him as if he were the only man in this world.
“Gwynn… Gwynn… Faith… forgive me…”
With a triumphant cry that shook the battlements and echoed through her heart, their souls collided and they were joined as if forever. His seed spilled into her and though she was married to another man, she knew in her heart that this thief, who had won his castle in a crooked game of chance, was the only man she would ever truly love. Even though as he’d loved her, he’d cried out his dead wife’s name.