Dark Ruby

CHAPTER Sixteen

“Why not just kill ‘em?” Webb asked as he picked at his thumbnail with the tip of his dagger. He leaned against the stones of the grate as servants scurried, eyes averted, in and out of the curtains and up the stairs. Guards were posted at all the entrances of the keep, ready for an attack, should one come from Lord Trevin’s loyal soldiers at Black Oak. Though many of the peasants and servants were in prison, there were enough to run the castle and all of those couldn’t be trusted. Not yet. There were dozens of pairs of eyes and ears that were watching and listening.

Ian sighed. He would have to be careful if he wanted to earn the trust of those whom he ruled.

A spark shot from the fire in the great hall and he kicked the dying ember back to the flames. It had been two days since the attack by the outlaw and he would like nothing better than to put an end to Trevin McBain’s miserable life, just as he’d promised Gwynn. Nothing better. But he had to think in larger terms, about the future, about his wife, and his power. As for the boy, well, once again, it had to appear to Gwynn as if Ian were a forgiving man even though he’d shown his true colors on the night of the attack. He’d kicked himself several times over for her to see the hatred that blackened his heart.

Gwynn was the key. The sorry fact was that he was afraid he loved her. The image of her face, twisted in pain and fear as she’d raced across the bailey intent on reaching her child and lover had seared through his brain. He doubted it was possible that she would ever care so much for him. He’d once only wanted her submission, her taming, and cared not if she loathed him. Now he needed more. Not just her expressionless compliance, but her heart as well.

“’Twould be easy enough to kill ‘em,” Webb said frowning as he cleaned each of his filthy fingernails.

“Aye, and then what? They will die anyway, but I needs not hasten it along. Let the midwife chant her spells and burn her candles.” He fluttered his fingers in the air as if waving off a bothersome fly. “Allow the priest to pray and flog himself in atonement.” That one, Father Anthony, was an odd man. Never had Ian seen a man so intent on doing himself physical harm. “Do not stop the physician from testing urine, or letting blood.” He leaned forward in his chair and rested his elbows on the trestle table as he eyed the candles burning brightly within the ring of interwoven antlers suspended from the ceiling. Webb was an imbecile who thought only of the moment at hand and Ian, though it was against his nature and he truly would like nothing better than to slit the outlaw’s throat, tried to be patient. “I want to rule with her at my side. For that she must trust me.”

Webb spat into the fire and sheathed his blade. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and eyed the lord of the manor as if he were weak. “’Tis too late for trust, m’lord,” the dark one snorted with a cruel laugh. He reached for the mazer of wine he’d left on a corner of the table.

“Do you not know it’s never too late?”

“Oh, aye, and now ye’ll be quotin’ scripture or some such rot to me. Ah, Lord Ian, a fine and righteous and pious man ye be.” He laughed again and Ian seethed, his neck growing warm. As soon as things at Rhydd quieted, and he and Gwynn were ruling the castle amicably, he’d find a way to dispose of Webb. He was a good warrior, true, but he felt no bond with the man who had helped his brother go free and after Ian had paid dearly to keep Roderick imprisoned. Webb would have to die for that mistake.

Ian leaned back in his chair and propped a boot onto a nearby bench. Today he was feeling his years. Five decades and no heir. ‘Twas time to change that, if he could. Margaret had given him no sons, nor had any of the wenches he’d bedded claimed he’d fathered their children, and then there was the sorry fact that his wife might be pregnant. With the thief’s issue yet again. Had they not been together, spent nights alone or only in the company of Trevin’s men?

Anger surged through him, that same bloody anger that was fed by his hatred. He touched the side of his face, his fingers tracing the wound the thief had given him. Oh, how he longed to kill the bastard. ‘Twould be so simple. Webb was right.

But Ian would have to patient. If Gwynn was with McBain’s child, then the babe would never survive the birth. Ian would see to it. He would not be played for the fool his brother had been. But until the child, if there was one, was disposed of, he could not chance bedding Gwynn. If she did get with child, how would he know whether it was his or the spawn of the thief’s?

He had to wait.

Either she was pregnant or would, soon, have her time and the laundress would know. But there was no reason he couldn’t hurry McBain’s death along, was there? Who would know? Mayhap, for once, the dark knight was right. “I will think on it,” he said. “Now, tell me, what of the magician?” Another burr under his saddle.

Webb scowled into his cup. “Disappeared.”

“Impossible.”

“He must’ve ducked out the gate before we closed the portcullis. In all the fighting and with that bloody fog, ‘twas hard to see.”

“He’s here. I can feel it.” Ian sipped from his cup and tried to dispel his thoughts about the old sorcerer. There was something about the old cripple and his bad eye, something he should remember…

He heard footsteps on the stairs and looked up to see Gwynn accompanied by two guards descending into the hall. Dressed in deep, red velvet, her hair braided away from her face, her chin lifted, she was as beautiful a woman as he’d ever seen. And she was his wife. A fleeting sensation of pride swept over him until he remembered she might be with child. A babe without any of his blood running through its veins.

“Wife,” he greeted, standing and pulling out her chair. “Come, come, there is much we needs discuss.”

“I want to see my son,” she said, her cheeks two bright spots of color.

“And you shall, as soon as he improves-”

“Now!” she insisted. “I needs see him, touch him.”

There was pain in her green-gray eyes and he knew he had no choice. If ever she was to trust him, to love him, he would have to accord her this one small wish.

He inclined his head. “I will see to it.”

She stiffened for a second and distrust marred her beauty.

Ian glanced up at one of the guards. “When we are through here, the lady will visit her boy.”

The ghost of a smile touched the edge of her lips. “And Lord Trevin?”

His patience snapped. Murdering the thief in his sleep sounded better all the time. “Nay. He, though being attended to, is a prisoner. The same as the others. As soon as he is well enough, he will be set to the dungeon to await my judgment.” Ian had to be careful. He wanted Gwynn’s trust and confidence and he hoped someday she would care for him just a little. But he refused to look weak. He reached into his pocket. “By the way, I found something of yours.”

“Wha-? Oh, merciful God.” Tears filled her eyes as she watched him twist the ruby ring in his thick fingers. She’d not seen it in thirteen years, yet she recognized the ring Trevin had stolen from her, the one she’d eventually given him in order to keep his silence about Gareth’s conception. Now it winked in the firelight, dark facets sparkling as Ian placed the stone in her palm and she curled her fingers over it.

“’Twas with the thief,” Ian admitted and her heart tightened in pain.

In all the years they’d been separated, Trevin had never given away the ring, never sold it. “Thank you,” she said against a hot throat.

“Anything for you.”

She saw a glimmer of love in his hateful amber eyes. “Then please, m’lord,” she asked, her words tumbling out, “forgive those who rose against you. Do not seek vengeance against the carpenter, the alewife, and all the others who were caught in the fight. Have the gallows dismantled. Show some pity, some caring for those you rule and let the soldiers of Black Oak go free-”

“I cannot,” he said simply. “Though it grieves me, lady, those who rose against me must be punished.”

“But they did it for me.”

“Then they will have to learn who the lord is. You are but my wife and though ‘tis my every wish to make you happy, I cannot appear weak. Now, go, see the boy and-” he glanced up at the guards “-my wife may see the midwife who will attend to her from this moment on. She will no longer be locked in her room, but-” he added when she lifted her head expectantly “-for the time as it is, she must remain within the great hall.”

Gwynn didn’t know whether to thank him or demand more freedom. She opened her mouth, saw the set of his jaw beneath his silvering beard, and she nodded. “Thank you, m’lord,” she said, still clutching the ring. If he were willing to concede her this much freedom, she would take it and plan accordingly.

“’Tis nothing, Gwynn. I only ask that you believe I want to please you as I hope you want to please me.” His benign smile was not be trusted, for the gleam in his eyes reminded her that he’d lusted for her long and she knew him not to be a kind or forgiving man.

“Aye, m’lord.”

“Take her to her son.”

Heart pounding, she allowed herself to be led away by the guards. Finally she would be able to see Gareth, to touch his face and hair. If only she could do the same for Trevin. She ached to touch him again, to kiss him, to tell him how much she loved him… She walked along a corridor to the western edge of the great hall and up the stairs. All the while she squeezed the dark ruby so tightly it nearly drew blood, then at the locked door in the towers, she slipped the ring upon her finger.

Gareth was in a small, windowless room resting upon a tiny bed. One candle burned in a sconce and the air was thick with the smell of death. For the first time she believed that she might truly lose her only child. Grief, ugly and creeping, gnawed at her. “Oh, Gareth,” she said on a sigh as she fell to her knees and touched his forehead. His skin was hot, his eyes closed, and he moaned softly. Tears burned behind her eyes as she saw the blood-crusted bandages wrapped over his wounds, one in his chest, another in his thigh.

“I’m here,” she said, holding his hand, now larger than hers, in her fingers. Please God, save him. Please hear my prayer. “Gareth, I will stay with you. But please, awaken.” Her heart was heavy for he did not stir and the thought that he might never awaken tore at her. Guilt took a stranglehold of her throat and she wept, her tears staining his blankets and dropping onto his skin. “You have been my life, son,” she admitted, “and you will always be.”

Pain seared through his body. Every inch of his skin felt as if it were charred with red-hot coals and he couldn’t open his eyes. He heard people, the priest, the old midwife, voices he didn’t recognize, but Trevin knew he had one foot on the path to hell.

Gwynn. Where was she? Had she escaped? No. He’d failed. Somehow she’d returned to Rhydd and tried to save him and the boy. His head pounded. He’d failed Gareth as well. His only son; now, without a doubt, if not dead already, on his way to the gallows.

“He awakens.” The priest again.

“Nay, he only stirs.” Idelle’s voice, as if from the far end of a corridor.

“Will he live?”

“He is strong of heart but who knows? His wounds were deep, and if he survives ‘tis only to face the hangman’s noose.” Cold, brittle hands smoothed his hair from his face.

“Let us pray.”

Idelle agreed and as he drifted in and out of consciousness, Trevin heard their whispered prayers for his wayward soul. He felt himself slipping away, but fought hard. He could not give up. Not while there was a breath of life in his body. Not while Gareth was alive and needed him. Not until he was certain Gwynn was safe.

“Ye must eat, m’lady,” Idelle said as she eyed Gwynn’s untouched trencher of brawn that lay, where she had placed it, upon a small table in Gwynn’s chamber.

“I’m not hungry.” Gwyn paced from one side of the room to the other, pausing to look out the window and cringe each time she viewed the gallows, hastily constructed and nearly ready, should they be needed. Ian had savored the irony of having Richard, the wounded carpenter, oversee the building of the very structure that would eventually take his life. No amount of pleading from the carpenter’s wife, or from Gwynn, could convince him to spare Trevin’s accomplice. All the men who had taken up swords against Rhydd that night had been shackled in the dungeon, including Henry, who, it seemed, had been a traitor to Trevin’s cause, though he was loudly complaining of his treatment according to some of the women who had taken food to the prison.

With the exception of Muir, they’d all been caught. The old man had vanished from within the fog-encased bailey. No one had seen or heard from him since and it had been days… long, sad lonely days that had bled into the other. She found her only solace in the fact that both Gareth and Trevin were alive, if only clinging to life.

She spent a large part of her days with her son, the rest here, in her chamber, for though allowed the freedom of the keep, she had no the heart to take up her duties as mistress to Lord Ian. She cared not about the herbs, gardens, nor the books or records nor the damned cloth that needed to be purchased. Nor could she stand the fighting between the cook and steward.

All that mattered were Trevin and Gareth. Somehow she had to free them both. There had to be a way. There had to! She clenched her fist and felt the ring upon her finger—the ruby. The depth and darkness of the stone gave her strength.

“But ye must think of the babe, if not yourself,” Idelle said.

Gwynn knew the old woman was right, of course; there was the chance that she was starving a child, should there be one, growing within her. Ian suspected that she had made love with Trevin and as such, was waiting to see if she were pregnant before taking her to his wedding bed. He wanted his own heirs and wasn’t about to be duped into raising another man’s child as his own the way his brother had been. So she had some time; not much, but a little.

“Tell me again of Trevin.”

“He grows stronger, aye, but does not wake. He is guarded at every hour and when ‘tis time and he has healed, he will be taken to the dungeon where, along with the rest of his men, he will await his trial.”

“You mean his death,” Gwynn said, worrying the ring in her fingers.

“Aye.”

“You are allowed to see him?”

Idelle nodded.

“Then you must take a weapon, a-”

“He does not waken. ‘Twill do no good.”

“But we must save him.”

“And risk Gareth’s life?” Idelle asked, shaking her head, her half-blind eyes sad. “Do you not think that Lord Ian’s retribution would be swift and sure if Trevin were allowed to go free?” She picked up the tray of uneaten food. “Let him go,” she advised. “M’lady, Lord Trevin’s destiny is now in his own hands.”

“Nay-”

“Think of your son. His son. What would he have wanted?”

“Then you must help me. I have to see Trevin one last time.” She was desperate. “Is there nothing you could put in the guard’s food to make him drowsy? So that I could visit Trevin for but a few minutes.”

Idelle hesitated. “’Twould be difficult.”

“But not impossible.”

Slowly the old woman nodded. “Nay, not impossible.”

“Then, please, Idelle. Do it.”

“Ye will not be able to leave this room unnoticed. Ye may rove free, but you are watched.”

“I will go at night.”

“A guard is posted at your door.”

“I know the guard and his ways.” Gwynn sensed the old woman weakening.

“’Tis too dangerous. Ye will be caught.”

“No. Bring me animal fat and I will grease the hinges and do not worry about the guard.”

Idelle hesitated.

“Please, Idelle,” she said firmly. “Do this for me.”

With a shake of her graying head, the midwife rolled her opaque eyes. “As you wish, m’lady.”

For the first time in a week, Gwynn felt a ray of hope pierce her dark soul. She wouldn’t give up. She couldn’t. Twisting her ring, she walked to the window and eyed the gallows—built squarely in the middle of the bailey for all to see. Richard was at his post, chained and guarded, as he instructed younger men to pound nails and shore up the post that would eventually end his life.

Unless she did something.

But what? The question haunted her and kept her awake at night. Now the wheels were set into motion. She had a chance to see the only man she’d truly loved. Somehow she had to find a way to save him.

Think, Gwynn, think. You’re a smart woman. You’ve ruled this keep. Your son and the man you love are dying. You have no time. Hurry!

“In the name of the Father and the Son and the-” The priest’s voice stilled and he froze as Trevin skewered the man with a deadly gaze. “For the love of God, you live!”

“Shh!” He’d been waiting for days and now, as night was falling, he knew it was time to return to the living. He’d awakened to broth being spooned down his throat but had kept the presence of mind to feign the same deep sleep that had kept conscious thoughts at bay. He swallowed, but was unable to speak for a second.

“I am p-p-pleased that-”

“Hush!” Trevin ordered in a harsh whisper. “Give me your cross.”

“What?”

“The cross!”

“Oh. Nay, I cannot-” Trevin’s hand shot out and wound in the folds of the priest’s vestment.

“If not for me or Gwynn, then for Roderick,” Trevin forced through cracked lips. “I have heard your prayers, Father, when you thought you were alone and I know that you broke your vow of celibacy, but not with a woman.” The priest nearly fainted, then slowly, his glance sliding toward the closed door, he lifted the chain supporting the heavy gold and silver cross that hung from his neck. With shaking hands he handed the chain to Trevin who snatched the cold metal and stuffed it under the thin blanket covering his body. “Speak of this to no one and I will keep your secret.”

“I-I-”

“Shh. Get out.” Trevin closed his eyes and held onto the metal. At first he hadn’t believed Father Anthony who, in his rambling prayers, had continually begged forgiveness for his own sins of the flesh with the lord of the castle. ‘Twas no wonder Roderick had been unable to get Gwynn with child. He’d been in love with a man. The thought knifed through Trevin’s innards, but he would not think of the two men together, nay, but concentrate on the fact that now he had a weapon. Cold metal filled his palm and he brushed his fingers over the pointed tip of the cross. Now, he had to wait.

But not for long.

Muir’s old bones ached from hiding in a small space below the loom, a place Idelle had hidden him on the night of the escape. He’d been brought food and water and even a pint now and again while he’d waited, hoping that the soldiers would believe that he truly had vanished, or, if not that, at least think that he scuttled away through the open gate.

But he would not leave Trevin. Not when there was a breath of life in his old body or any in his young charge’s. For he still considered himself Trevin’s guardian and whenever that thought faded, he had only to think of his sister, Cleva, and the cruel, ruthless soldier who had raped her. Muir, who had robbed the man earlier, had tried to stop the travesty, of course, had attacked the man as he’d unlaced his breeches, but the soldier had been swift with his blade and had swung fast, nearly killing Muir and leaving him blind in one eye.

Muir, shivered in his hiding spot, little more than a grave it was, with straw for a bed and rats for companions as, overhead, the weaver kept at her task, the shuttle clicking loudly as the threads were woven.

He remembered the blow, strong enough to cleave a man, but it had glanced off his hard skull, slicing through his eye as he’d fallen and in that moment a great light had seemed to glow in the forest. From that moment on, he’d had visions, cursed as they were, and he’d heard his sister’s screams as the young soldier—brother to the lord, Roderick of Rhydd—had mounted her, raping her over and over again while Muir could do nothing to save poor Cleva.

Nine months later she’d birthed Trevin and, after forcing her brother to promise to take care of the baby who only reminded her of that one, violent, dark act, had drunk enough hemlock to kill herself. There had been nothing Muir could do to save her and he had raised her son—Ian of Rhydd’s son—as if the boy had been his own. He’d sworn to his sister that he would never reveal the name of the boy’s father or tell him how he’d been conceived. Only then had Cleva been satisfied. For all these years he’d kept his promise, but now, with the circle of fate ever tightening, he saw all his best intentions sliding away.

He banged on the false door with the hook of his cane and the clicking halted. The weaver, a stout woman with fair skin and merry blue eyes kicked off the rushes and opened the trap door. Fresh air flooded the small niche and filled Muir’s old lungs.

“’Tis time,” he said and she, worrying her lower lip, only nodded. She was one of the few in the castle who were loyal to Lady Gwynn and detested Ian of Rhydd, yet had managed to escape prison.

“God be with you, Muir,” she whispered as he ducked behind spindles of colored thread mounted on pegs near a back wall.

“He always is.” His legs were cramped, his blood felt as if it were congealed and a tingling sensation in his feet and fingers made walking and holding his staff difficult, but as evening was soon approaching, he had little time to spare. His vision had come earlier and, if it could be trusted, an army was nearing.

None of the soldiers who guarded the roads leading to Rhydd had discovered the men as they sneaked through the forest on foot, but Muir could sense them approaching, had seen through his pained blind eye, that they slunk at night through the forest. They were the men loyal to Trevin—Sir Gerald, York, and the rest. Now, he had to do his part, which was simple. He would steal the keys from a guard, unlock the dungeon, freeing the men inside, then having them overcome the guards of the sally port and throw long ropes down the outside of the curtain so that more armed warriors could scale the walls and save them all.

The scents of warm bread and roasting meat hit him as he sneaked behind the kitchens but he ignored the rumbling in his stomach. Barrels of wine were being rolled into the wine cellar and he licked his lips as he thought of the nectar within the oaken casks, but he kept to this mission. Now was not the time to give in to his lust for wine. There would be time for sampling the barrels soon. If all went well. If it didn’t… then his thirst for the spirits would be forever quenched.

Gwynn watched the moon rise and waited until the sounds of the castle had muted and the farrier’s hammer had stilled. The geese, ducks, and chickens had roosted for the night and the torches had burned down and were but smoldering. The gallows, skeletal and foreboding, were visible in the moonlight, so she looked not through her window.

Asides, she had a mission.

She cracked the door slowly and the old creak of hinges no longer squeaked as she’d greased them with sheep fat Idelle had stolen from the kitchen. Her boots, too, were soft and silent as she watched the guard at his post. He never dozed and took his job quiet seriously, but she knew he could be distracted, and she waited, her heart pounding, sweat dripping from her forehead, she saw the comely kitchen girl who met him regularly at night.

He spoke—a quick joke. The girl giggled and tossed her head as he approached. They embraced and for a heart-stopping moment Gwynn remember making love to Trevin deep in the forest—his touch and the feel of his mouth upon hers. She licked her lips and once the two lovers were caught in each other, she slipped from the room, closed the door softly behind her, and took the corridor to the steps that ran to the back of the castle.

Heart thudding, she made her way through the hallways to the far tower of the keep, the one where not only Gareth but Trevin were housed. She’d asked about him, but the gossip that had returned to her had been in snippets and contrary. Some said he was hovering near death, others thought him stronger by the day, but never had he awakened. Idelle seemed to think that he might forever be in this state of near-death and that thought was the worst of all.

Let him live, she silently prayed as she climbed the stairs to the room where Gareth lay. No guard was posted at his door, so she stopped, walked noiselessly into the small room, and brushed a kiss across her son’s forehead. “I miss you. The pup is waiting for you as I am, Gareth.” Her throat swelled shut and she fought tears, as she did each time she visited him.

It pained her to leave him, but she had another mission tonight. Quietly she walked to the top floor of the tower, her back pressed against the wall as she climbed the stairs, for she feared that she would be spotted.

She hoped that Idelle’s herbs had worked and the sentry was sleeping. She paused, straining to hear the sound of snoring, but the hall was silent. No sound greeted her and she hurried up the final steps, sending up a quick, silent prayer before rounding the final corner.

The guard was missing. No one stood at his post and the door to Trevin’s room was ajar. For a moment her stupid heart leapt and she thought that he’d escaped, but as she inched forward and peered into the tiny chamber, her blood turned to ice. Trevin lay on the bed. Unguarded. Unmoving.

Her heart shattered. He was dead. Oh, no. “Trevin,” she whispered, falling to her knees and taking his still-warm hand in hers. “Oh, love, no, no, no, no.” Inside she was dying. How could she have loved him so long and never told him? How could she have regained him only to lose him all over again? Tears burned behind her eyes and fell onto his body, bare, aside from the bandages that were wrapped over him. “I love you,” she whispered, sniffing, holding him tightly. “Forgive me, but I loved you with all my heart and love you still.” Desperation tore at her soul. Grief racked through her body and her years ahead without him seemed long and purposeless. She reminded herself that she had Gareth, that part of him would live on through their child and also that she might have another babe growing deep within her. “Trevin, please… please do not die. I need you, I-”

“Touching.”

The voice curled with acrimony and Gwynn started. She turned and saw Ian looming in the doorway. But he was not alone. With him was the magician, hobbled it seemed, his hands bound behind him and the woozy guard as well, trying and failing to keep his eyes open. A small cry escaped her lips.

Hot amber eyes burned in anger. Ian shoved Muir into the chamber and ground his teeth together. “I tried to be patient with you!” he growled. “I gave you freedom. I didn’t kill your bastard of a boy, I-”

“You only stayed away from me because you thought I might be carrying Trevin’s babe,” she accused, standing up to him, glaring back at eyes as deadly as a wolf’s. Tears ran down her cheeks and pain burned deep in her heart, but she wouldn’t back down, not ever. “And I am with child.” Her voice shook with pride and she hoisted her chin even higher. “My time has come and gone and I know that I carry Trevin of Black Oak’s child in my womb.”

The minute she said the words she regretted them.

“Whore!” Quick as lightning he grabbed her. “You vile, worthless slut, there’s no reason to hold back any longer, is there? I’ve waited long for this-”

“Leave her be!” Trevin’s voice rasped through the darkness.

Gwynn jerked back. Her heart soared.

Ian whirled and glared at the bed. “Dare you speak, thief?”

“Trevin?” The dead weight within her dissipated as he opened his eyes. She tried to reach him but Ian shoved her roughly aside.

“I should have done this long ago.” A dagger glinted in Ian’s hand.

“No!” Gwynn cried. The blade slashed downward. “Nay!”

Trevin’s arm erupted from the covers. Metal met metal in a sickening clash.

“Oh, God, no-”

The sharp tip of Trevin’s cross plunged deep into Ian’s belly.

“Aaagh-” Blood poured from the wound. Ian staggered backward in shock.

Gwynn screamed.

“’Tis true, ‘tis true, father to son and son to father-” Muir mumbled seemingly horror-struck as Ian reeled against the wall, his dagger falling from his hand.

“What?” Trevin asked, blood staining his hands as he pushed himself upright.

“’Twas your destiny. Ian of Rhydd is your father.”

“Nay!” Trevin bellowed, his face still white as death.

“Holy Christ… the girl in the forest…” Ian’s eyes glazed over and he mumbled incoherently. “I… knew… oh, Christ in heaven… what have I done?”

“She was my sister.” Muir’s voice was flat and hard.

“Who?” Trevin asked, his eyes dark with a quiet, nagging certainty. “Who was?”

“Your mother.”

“Nay-”

“’Tis true,” Muir insisted.

“You are my… son.” Ian’s face was slack, his breathing labored as he slipped to the floor. “My only…” His voice faded and he breathed his last rattling breath.

“Oh, God.” Gwynn was shaking. Ian was Trevin’s father. She was in love with the son of the man… but it didn’t matter, she told herself firmly. Nothing did other than Trevin and Gareth’s safety.

Trevin’s face was twisted in pain. He moaned from the deepest reaches of his soul. “Nay. I cannot believe… Nay. Nay! NAY!”

“Believe,” Muir insisted.

“Never!”

“You must, Trevin, for it is the truth.”

“It… it is hell,” he whispered, white lines bracketing the corners of his mouth.

Gwynn, shaking off all the anguish that tore at her, flung herself onto Trevin, the only man she’d ever loved. “You live. Think not of anything else!”

“But, my father-”

“’Tis of no matter.” She held his face in her hands and rained kisses over his cheeks and lips. Tears ran in crooked paths from her eyes. “You live. Oh, Trevin, you live-”

“But-”

“Shh. Think not of the pain. Look at me.” When he failed, she pressed harder on his cheeks. “Look at me!” Slowly he raised his eyes and the torture in them was deep. “You live! I-I thought you were dead. Now ‘tis not the time to think of anything but living.”

He swallowed hard, cast one last look at the dead man, and shuddered. “Aye,” he finally agreed with half smile as if he, too, could shake off the torment at least for the moment, “I live, and I shall, I fear, for a very long time.”

She kissed his face and shoulders and refused to think of the slain man so close at hand. When Trevin glanced once more at the corpse of his father, she kissed his eyelids, forcing him to think only of her.

“I love you,” he said when she finally lifted her face from his.

“What?” She froze, hardly daring to believe what she’d heard.

“I love you, Gwynn of Rhydd, and I have for all of my life. From the moment I spied you in your chamber years ago, I lost my heart to you.”

She felt as if her heart would break.

With one finger he lifted her chin and stared deep into her eyes. “Why did you think I kept your ring for all those years?”

She shook her head. “I know not.”

“Because every time I looked at that dark ruby that sparkled in the light, I thought of you, lady. Every time. Even when I was married to another.” His eyes held hers. “’Tis my curse to love you, Gwynn. A curse I will bear for the rest of my life.”

“Oh, for the love of all that’s holy,” Muir said. “Would ye give up this silly talk and cut me loose? There’s wine to be drunk.”

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and Trevin jumped to his feet, grabbing Ian’s knife and ready to slay whoever entered. He shielded Gwynn’s body with his own. “Halt!” he commanded as Stephen’s face came into view.

“Nay, m’lord, do not harm me,” he said. “Gerald and the others have come and freed the prisoners. We have taken the castle. Sir Webb is behind bars, but Ian…” His gaze moved over the small room to rest on the still form of the dead baron. “Ah. All is well.”

“Aye.” Trevin’s arm circled Gwynn’s waist.

Stephen cut off Muir’s bonds and the old man rubbed his ankles and wrists. “’Tis time to celebrate, methinks.”

Relief caused Gwynn’s legs to buckle, but Trevin held her steady. He looked into her eyes and kissed her. “Now, take me to my son and-” he threw Muir a dark look that brooked no compromise “-I’ll hear no more of this nonsense about Ian being my father.”

“But-” Muir said.

“’Tis never to be spoken of again. But… I will want to know of my mother.”

One side of Muir’s mouth lifted. “As you wish, sire.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Together Gwynn and Trevin made their way down the stairs to the chamber where their son lay as she’d left him, unmoving, white as death. “He does not hear me,” she said, tears stinging her eyes. Oh, if only Gareth would rise up.

“I know what the lad needs. I’ll be back soon.” Stephen, none the worse for his days in the dungeon, left them alone for a few minutes.

Trevin looked upon his son and love crossed his features. “He will live,” he predicted. “He has not stayed alive all these days only to die.”

“I… I… I pray it so.” Gwynn could not think of life without Gareth. Would God be so cruel to give her Trevin again only to steal her son’s life? Her insides shriveled at the thought and she clung to the man she loved, the father of her boy.

Trevin’s arm tightened over her shoulders. “Have faith.” He kissed her slowly upon her lips and images of making love to him filled her head.

“I love you, thief,” she whispered, her lips trembling into a bit of a hopeful smile.

He traced those lips with the pad of one callused thumb. “As I love you, Gwynn. As I love you.”

Surely God would not punish them, give them this precious love only to wound them by taking their boy. And yet… Have faith. Trevin’s words echoed in her heart and she vowed to trust in him, in God, and in the powers of all things good on this earth.

But Gareth didn’t move.

Tears burned behind her eyes as Stephen returned with the puppy who wriggled in his arms.

The big knight bent down, allowing the pup to nuzzle Gareth and anxiously wash the boy’s face with his slick tongue.

“Come, lad, your Boon needs you,” Stephen encouraged.

Nothing.

Trevin’s face was a mask of tension.

Gwynn bit her tongue and swallowed the tears that were thick in her throat.

“I love you, son,” Trevin vowed.

“Oh, Gareth, please wake up,” she whispered.

No movement.

The dog gave out a lonesome, pitiful howl and Muir sighed as loudly as the wind upon the sea. “’Tis too late.”

“Nay!” Gwynn wouldn’t give up.

Boon yipped.

Gareth moved slightly. Or was it the torches casting hopeful shadows over his face?

“I need you,” Gwynn said, hardly believing her eyes.

“Aye, and so do I.” Trevin brushed the hair from Gareth’s forehead.

The boy’s eyes fluttered open for a second.

“Gareth?” Gwynn dropped to her knees and took one of his hands in hers. “Can you hear me? Gareth?”

“He will be fine,” Stephen predicted, winking at Trevin as Gareth stirred and moaned from his bed. “But he’d fare much better if his mother and father were married, I think.”

“Married?” Gwynn repeated.

“’Tis only a thought…”

“But a good one.” Trevin, his eyes glistening, lifted Gwynn to her feet and cupped her face between his big hands. “What say you, m’lady?” he asked, his eyes holding hers. In that blue seductive gaze, she saw her future, her love. “Will you marry me?”

She glanced at Gareth, breathing easier it seemed. Her boy. His boy. Their first. There would be more. Many more. If she could but trust her heart to him.

Had she any choice?

She tossed her hair over one shoulder. “Marry you, eh?”

“’Twould be my honor if you became my wife.”

“And mine, if you were to be my husband.”

“Good, good, now. Let us celebrate.” Muir was down the stairs, moving more quickly than anyone would guess a man who professed himself to be a one-eyed cripple should be able to travel. Stephen carried Gareth, the puppy loping behind. Trevin, holding Gwynn’s hand, walked her to the great hall where Muir was already ordering pages to bring mazers of wine.

Once the cups were filled Muir lifted one in a toast. “To the baron and his wife, may they live long and prosper.”

“Here, here,” the voices of those who served them faithfully rejoined.

Trevin tipped the edge of his cup to hers. “To you, fair lady,” he said and she laughed merrily. Gareth would live and all was as it should be.

“And to you, thief.” Her smile was seductive. “You know, you stole my heart a long, long time ago.”

“Aye, lady, as you stole mine.” His arms surrounded her, his mazer fell to the floor, and he kissed her until she couldn’t draw another breath. “May you never give it back.”