Temptress (41 page)

“I had left Wybren before the fire broke out.”

“Left your wife to fend for herself?”

“She was with someone else.”

“And you could not fight for her honor?”

Theron’s lips barely moved. “I see you do not question her fidelity. Alena had little honor, Ryden, and we both know it. ’Twas her choice to be with the man you sent to spy on her.” He glanced at Morwenna. “We cannot discuss this now,” he said, “for on our ride here, we found Father Daniel.”

“Finally! Where was he?” she asked, irritated for a second that the priest had abandoned the keep. Her anger quickly dissipated when she noticed the solemn set of Theron’s jaw, the sadness in his gaze.

“He, too, was murdered, Morwenna, his throat slit in the same manner as the others.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered, feeling the blood rush from her head. “Not another one.” She thought back to the day she’d seen him through the doorway to his private chambers, the cruel whip in his hand, the scars and blood upon his back. A tormented soul.

“Take me to him,” she said.

“Not yet,” Ryden ordered imperiously. “We have but arrived.”

“Now.” Morwenna met his gaze, a challenge in hers. Ryden looked thunderous, but she didn’t care. Castle Calon was not his, and if she had her way, it never would be.

With Theron leading the way, she swept from the room.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

T
he Redeemer slipped unnoticed through the inner bailey. He had ridden from Wybren like a messenger from hell, driving his horse mercilessly to shorten the time it took to return to Calon.

As he’d expected, chaos had erupted with the discovery of the priest’s body. He smiled as he remembered their last meeting. Father Daniel had been exhausted, spending all day first giving alms and then sitting with a dying man as the old merchant had coughed and hacked his way into the kingdom of heaven.

No amount of bloodletting nor prayers had saved him, and when finally the priest, after consoling the family, had been ready to return to the keep, night had fallen. He’d been walking alone in the streets and had been surprised to hear a familiar voice.

“I thought you’d already returned,” he said as they continued toward the keep through the rain.

“I decided to wait for you. We can walk together.”

The priest had nodded, and once they were outside of town, each caught up in his own private thoughts, the Redeemer slid his knife into his palm. His blood had been warm with the need of another kill, his nerves on edge at the thought that he might be caught.

He’d said, “I think there’s someone ahead. I see something.”

“Where?” the priest had asked, squinting into the darkness.

And then he’d struck. Plunging his dagger deep, up beneath the breastbone to slice into the heart.

“Wha—oh, merciful Father!” Daniel had cried in shock. The Redeemer pulled out his weapon, and as the priest fell to his knees in the mud, he had grabbed hold of his head.

As Father Daniel prayed for forgiveness from God, the Redeemer had stared into the eyes of his victim. Quickly, cleanly, he had slit his throat, carving a deep W for Wybren into the man’s skin. It was all part of the plan, a way to brand all the pretenders to the barony as well as those who distrusted him. Though that dull-witted Vernon and the heretic of a midwife had been only stumbling blocks in the way of his ultimate goal, the Redeemer had enjoyed dispatching each of them from this earth. The same was true of Father Daniel. The priest was forever prying, watching, eyeing him suspiciously.

Well, no more,
he thought.

A fitting end for so tormented a soul. No more flailing the skin off his back. No more lust for the lady of the keep! No more hours of atonement.

Father Daniel had met the Redeemer.

Now hours had passed and he heard all the noise in the great hall, people rushing in and out, more than he would expect. . . . He wondered as he hurried along the path from the well if more was happening than he knew. Surely the priest’s murder would cause a stir, but there was something other than just the panic and horror he’d expected—more shouts, harsh words, raised voices. . . . His insides curdled as he realized Theron had beaten him back here. Theron and Dwynn, that traitorous moron.

To think that Dwynn would be the one to warn them—after all the Redeemer had done to protect him and care for him. Now he envisioned the dull-witted one as dead.

By treachery and deception. By throwing in his lot with the sons of Wybren. The Redeemer owed him nothing. As for the woman to whom he’d sworn to protect Dwynn, surely she would not have asked had she known the little half-wit was a lying double-crosser. The fool deserved no better fate than the priest.

Furious, the Redeemer rounded the corner of the bee-keeper’s hut. He then cut through the garden and entered a side door by the kitchen that led behind the huge hearth, where the fire was now banked for the night.

Hardly daring to breathe, he sneaked into a hallway and down the servants’ stairs to a short tunnel that opened to the jail cells, where, during Morwenna’s rule, no prisoners were kept. The dungeon was quiet aside from the footsteps and voices filtering from above.

From the empty jailor’s area, he slipped through a doorway and crawled into the oubliette deep in the bowels of the keep. The stench of the tiny cell was still foul though he could remember no one ever being shoved into this hole—at least not in the time he’d been here, nearly twenty years. At the far end of the cell, he applied pressure to the hidden latch and shoved hard on the stones. And while the rest of the castle cried, whimpered, and wondered at the priest’s fate—or celebrated that Theron of Wybren was alive—the Redeemer slid into the dark, cobwebby maze that had become his home.

 

“This man is bloody Theron? Not Carrick?” Alexander’s dark eyes glowered suspiciously as he stared at the man who had lain in Tadd’s chamber recovering from wounds, the man he’d thought was Carrick. Morwenna, Alexander, Theron, and Payne were walking to the gatehouse to see the slain priest for themselves. They’d left the others, including a loudly protesting Lord Ryden and the sheriff’s tearful but relieved wife, in the main house with instructions to the staff to keep them warm and fed and contained. “But Theron died in the fire,” Alexander said as they passed the well. Two boys were hauling buckets of water to the great hall, sloshing water as they hurried in the opposite direction.

“Obviously I survived,” Theron said through tight lips.

The two prisoners had assured Morwenna that they were not unduly abused by Carrick’s outlaws, but it was clear to her this statement was given to convince her of their ability to take over their duties as before rather than a tale of truth.

Theron pointed out, “You should have known I wasn’t my brother if Carrick was the leader of the damned group who captured you.”

“He was never there,” Alexander protested.

“That’s true,” Payne agreed. “We never saw the leader. Where is he again?”

“Under guard at the keep.” Morwenna slid Theron a glance. “In the room you occupied. The capture of Sir Alexander and Payne was only a ruse so that our guards would be distracted and Carrick could get inside.”

“You’ve spoken with him at length,” Theron said.

“Aye.”

“ ’Tis not enough to have him guarded in that room,” Alexander spat angrily. “If this one”—he hooked a furious thumb in Theron’s direction—“was able to escape, then bloody Carrick can as well!”

“I don’t think so,” she said, but her mind went down a dark path. Her last impression of Carrick was of him slipping through the hidden doorway, pulling it closed behind him. Who knew what he was really planning? She’d agreed for the moment to help him, just as he would help her, but now she doubted his intention, and her stomach twisted at the thought that she’d not only given him his freedom, but mayhap also sent him straight to Bryanna. Where else could she be but in the passageways?

She hazarded a glance in Sir Alexander’s direction and saw the swelling and discoloration upon his face. Payne, too, showed signs of a severe beating. Carrick may not have struck them himself, but he had instigated their wounds. Their capture had been his plan.

She looked up at the man she loved . . . and was surprised at the emotion she felt. It had so easily come to her, that she loved Theron of Wybren. Her heart broke to look at him. To think she’d once believed fervently that she’d loved Carrick.

She tried to shove the horrid thoughts aside and take solace in the fact that Carrick had given her his word.

She went cold inside. Slid her fingers through Theron’s.

Carrick could do no harm in the secret hallways.

She felt sick inside.

Morwenna’s stomach clenched.

They reached the gatehouse, where every rushlight was lit and a fire roared in the hearth. Yet Morwenna felt cold as death, and she rubbed her arms as she viewed the priest.

Father Daniel’s corpse was lying upon one of the tables that had been draped in sheeting. Blood stained his cassock from a wound in his abdomen as well as the horrid jagged cut across the front of his neck. His skin was white, as if all the blood had truly drained from his body, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling until Payne reached out and closed them gently.

“If only Nygyll were here,” she said, but as the words passed her mouth, she felt a shiver slide down her spine. “Where is he?”

The sheriff was examining Father Daniel’s wounds. “Has he been gone long?”

“Since the night Isa was killed, you two, Dwynn, Father Daniel, and Nygyll have all been missing. Bryanna’s missing, too.”

“Bryanna?” Alexander’s head snapped up. “What happened?”

Morwenna let out her breath. She glanced at Theron. “She may have found the hidden door. The one you used.”

“What hidden door?” Alexander said, his gaze centered on Theron.

“The one I think the murderer used. It links to hidden hallways and chambers, even leads outside. I think that’s how he came and went.”

“And Carrick’s in the room where there’s an entrance to these hallways?” Alexander roared.

“Yes,” Morwenna admitted.

Theron grabbed Morwenna by her arm. His fingers clenched tight, his jaw chiseled in stone. “Don’t tell me he knows about the damned door.”

“Yes,” she said again, feeling a fool. How could she have trusted Carrick again? How? “He went inside just before you arrived.”

“Bloody hell!” Alexander glanced at Theron. “You know the entrances to the passageways?”

“Some of them.”

“Then let’s go!” The captain of the guard glared at Morwenna. “I only hope we’re not too late.”

 

He sensed it.

Another presence.

Someone else in his domain.

The Redeemer listened hard, heard the barest of whispers. A female voice. Chanting.

His insides twisted. Who dared enter his domain? He instantly promised himself that he would slay whoever it was . . . and then he recognized her voice. The breathless prayers were not the deep seductive tones of Morwenna, but those of the sister. He remembered watching her in her chamber: her curling hair that shone a deep brown red in the fire glow, the smaller but high breasts with their rose-colored nipples, the thatch of hair at the juncture of her legs, again with that same erotic, reddish hue.

His member twitched at the thought of her sleeping restlessly, naked on the bedcovers, obviously in need of a cock to be thrust inside her. His cock.

At the memory, his member twitched and he licked his lips as he thought of what he would do to her.

Eventually she would die.

She was not the chosen one.

But now, with so much of his quest accomplished, certainly he could allow himself a bit of pleasure?

But she was a virgin. No man had been near her and, oh, to feel her tightness around him, to experience the shattering of her maidenhead, to hear her gasp in delight and horror as he thrust into her again and again, pushing, delving, claiming her . . . !

He closed his eyes, realized that his breath was coming out in hard gasps, that his manhood was already rock hard and his heart was hammering wildly, pumping blood through his veins so fast that he couldn’t think.

And yet he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

It had been so long.

First the young one. The virgin. He would claim her and then kill her, and then . . . then Morwenna.

The chanting stopped, as if she sensed he was near.