Teresa Medeiros (11 page)

“I’ve never before seen the like, my lord.”

“Aye, master, ’tis a riddle only you can solve.”

Brisbane swept into the cell, took one look at its occupant, and said, “He’s dead. What else do you need to know?”

The corpse lay on his back in the bed, his toes turned outward and a blissful expression on his wizened face. Brisbane poked the old man’s bloated belly with one fingertip, his aristocratic nostrils flaring in distaste.

“Who is this fellow? What was his crime?” Roger had had enough on his mind with Colin’s return. He could hardly be expected to keep track of all the mewling peasants he sentenced to death or lifelong imprisonment.

“Poachin’, my lord,” chirped one of the guards. “He claimed to be starvin’. Et one of the castle rats, he did.”

Brisbane shook his head sadly. “Poor sot would have done well to remember that gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins.”

The guards exchanged a wary look. “Precisely our point, my lord,” the bolder one said.

They gestured as one to the table at the foot of the bed. Brisbane’s eyes widened, his jaded attention finally engaged. Although it was obvious a sizable dent had been made in the feast, the table still contained enough food to feed an entire garrison of soldiers. He glanced back at the corpse, realizing for the first time that the object clutched in the old man’s gnarled hand was a chicken bone, sucked clean of its tender flesh.

Baffled, he peeled back a hunk of bread to reveal a cold patty of meat. He swiped a finger through its creamy orange glaze and brought it to his lips. “Mmmm,” he murmured thoughtfully. “ ’Tis a special sauce.”

One of the guards drew off his conical helm, elbowing
the other into sheepishly following suit. “ ’Twas more than the old wretch’s gullet could take.”

Brisbane’s troubled gaze wandered from the beaming corpse to the stained-glass lamp shade, the plush rug, the opulent bed. “Aren’t these appointments a trifle bit luxurious? When I had the stonemason design the dungeon, I had something a bit more … stygian in mind. You know—iron manacles, piles of rotting bones, slavering rats.”

One of the guards marched into the corridor and flung open the door of the opposite cell to reveal the exact scene his lord had just described. A herd of squealing rats raced for the walls, their feral eyes gleaming bloodred in the gloom.

Brisbane grinned. “Ah, now that’s much better.”

The guard returned to his companion’s side. “ ’Twas this very cell Ravenshaw and his lady shared before we locked up the old man in their place.”

Their master’s smile slowly faded. “So how did Colin cajole you into providing him with these luxuries? He never lacked for charm, you know, even as a lad. He stole my own sister’s heart away from me with nothing more than a grubby fistful of weeds. Did he bribe you? Offer you some bauble he acquired in the Holy Land?”

The men exchanged another panicked glance, knowing their very survival depended on their answer. “ ’Twas not our doing, but theirs, my lord.” He traced a cross on his mail hauberk with a trembling finger. “We were naught but the victims of some dark enchantment.”

Brisbane’s upper lip curled in an ominous sneer. “I’m warning you. I’ve already heard enough superstitious drivel for one day. Ravenshaw may be sickeningly pious, but he’s no saint. He can’t work miracles or conjure
roasted chickens out of thin air.” Disgusted by their blithering, Brisbane turned and marched from the cell.

“Not Sir Colin, but
her,”
one of them called after him. “We believe
she’s
the one who did all this.”

“Aye,” blurted out the other, clearing his throat when his voice cracked with terror. “The woman.”

“The woman?” Brisbane slowly pivoted on his heel in the doorway. “The woman,” he repeated, frowning.

The woman who had appeared out of nowhere. The woman who had dared to taunt him with no visible fear of retaliation. The woman who had clutched the strange amulet she wore as if it possessed the power to grant her most passionate desire.

He fingered his chin thoughtfully. He’d always been inclined to dismiss such nonsense. After all, he wouldn’t have hesitated to barter his soul for personal gain and Satan had never bothered to approach him.

Yet the woman had touched the amulet and Sir Orrick had fallen beneath Colin’s lance as if struck by an invisible foe.

Heartened by the flush of delight slowly spreading over their master’s face, one of the guards asked, “Shall we rouse the rest of the garrison to rejoin the hunt, my lord?”

“Aye,” said the other. “The witch must be captured and put to death. We’d hoped you might allow us to captain the expedition as reward for our discovery.” The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, all but panting with eagerness.

Brisbane shook his head. ’Twould never do to allow these two simpletons to rush from the dungeon, braying about witches and stirring his villeins to panic.

He favored them with a benevolent smile. “You mustn’t be so greedy. You should always remember that virtue is its own reward.”

Still smiling, he slammed the door in their stunned faces. Ignoring their hoarse cries, he bolted the door behind him, leaving them to rot along with the old man’s corpse.

He strode through the dank corridors, nearly chortling aloud at the delicious irony. His only virtue was patience, but he possessed it in abundance when it served his needs. Patience enough to call off his own dogs and give the toothsome bitch ample time to tear out Colin’s heart.

The godly fool would never knowingly consort with a witch. If this woman was truly a daughter of Satan, Colin’s alliance with her could very well cost him something he valued even more highly than his life—his immortal soul.

“What are you doing?” Tabitha whispered.

“Praying,” Colin replied without opening his eyes.

She sighed and withdrew to the opposite side of the campfire. Colin had been on his knees for nearly an hour, head bowed and hands clasped before him. She’d had ample opportunity to study him in the flickering firelight. Although his posture appeared to be penitent, his expression was as unrelenting as ever, its fierceness softened only by the silky, dark crescents of his lashes resting against his cheeks.

An inhuman screech pierced the night. Tabitha shivered and drew her ragged pajama top tighter around her. She almost regretted offering Brisbane’s cloak to the shirtless knight. But as a breeze caught the woolen folds of the garment, whipping them back to reveal the swarthy expanse of his chest, she remembered that she’d made the gesture more for her protection than his own.

She averted her eyes with a disdainful sniff. She’d
never had much taste for beefcake. She’d always preferred cerebral men. Men content to admire her mind, not her body. Men so intimidated by her father’s wealth and her own frigid reputation that they would never presume to do more than shake her hand at her door, much less steal a tender kiss in a moment of weakness.

She jumped as a predatory scream was followed by a choked gurgle, as if the voice of some small, helpless creature had been forever silenced. Colin’s horse whickered uneasily. Lucy glanced up from the feast of fish Colin had speared in a nearby stream and roasted over the fire, then went back to devouring the flaky white morsels with a feline shrug.

Tabitha’s fearful gaze searched the shadows cast by the ancient trees. By night, the forest primeval appeared more cursed than enchanted. She’d never had a problem embracing the survival-of-the-fittest theory in the safety of her cozy penthouse. But here in this alien time and place, it was too easy to imagine a fearsome dragon prowling the night, looking to make a meal of some poor succulent virgin.

She edged nearer to Colin, desperate for some human comfort, even that of her own voice. “Who are you praying for?”

He opened one eye to glower at her, before dismissing her by closing it again. “My enemies.”

Even a devout cynic such as herself had to be impressed. “How very noble of you.”

“I’m praying that God will deliver them into my hands so I can destroy them.”

“Oh.” Tabitha was somewhat taken aback. “So you’re an Old Testament kind of guy, eh?”

A long-suffering sigh escaped him. “Perhaps I should be praying for the patience of Job.”

“Sorry,” she muttered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Both of his eyes flew open, their suspicious gleam reignited. “You’re not a heretic, are you? We burn heretics, you know.”

“Oh, no,” she said hastily, inching away from the fire. “I prefer to think of myself as sort of an Emersonian transcendentalist.”

He didn’t seem to know what to make of that so he simply rose to tether his grazing horse to a nearby tree.

“Does he have a name?” Tabitha asked, watching Colin stroke the stallion’s velvety nose, his rough hands gentled by affection.

“Nay, my lady. Chargers die by the thousands in battle and ’tis a wee bit harder to bid farewell to a creature with a name. Most mothers don’t even name their bairns until they’re of an age where they’re likely to survive.”

Listening to the wind sigh through the creaking boughs, Tabitha was chilled anew by the fragility of life in this era. Colin’s profile was pensive and she wondered if he was thinking of the infant sister he’d never known. Would the child be remembered by name or simply forgotten as if she’d never existed? Her own sense of urgency mounted. She had to find a way home. If she didn’t, she might never learn if her own parents were dead or alive.

An owl hooted overhead, startling her anew. “Are you sure we’re safe here? How do you know Brisbane’s men won’t find us?”

Colin squatted to throw another handful of sticks on the fire. “We’ve crossed the border into Scotland, lass.” He flashed her a less than pious grin that made her heart do an odd little flip. “Roger’s men couldn’t find their arses with a map in these hills.”

Tabitha nibbled on her bottom lip to hide a smile. Sir Colin certainly wasn’t a man to mince words. “When I
asked Brisbane why the two of you hated each other, he told me I should ask his sister.”

Colin’s grin faded. Although his eyes reflected the leaping flames, their utter absence of expression chilled her. “ ’Twould be an amazing feat considering Regan’s been dead for nigh on seven years.”

Tabitha frowned. “How did she die?”

“I killed her.”

Tabitha weaved imperceptibly beneath the blow, then waited for him to elaborate. Waited for him to explain how his horse had accidentally trampled the poor girl while she was picking wildflowers in a meadow. Or how she’d tumbled out a tower window while waving good-bye to him.

Colin just sat there, letting her twist in the wind.

“Well,
how
did you kill her? Did you push her off a cliff? Chop her into pieces with your sword? Poison her with hemlock? If we’re going to be spending the night out here in the middle of nowhere, I’d really like to know your preferred method of murder.”

The dangerous glint in Colin’s eyes warned her that he wasn’t oblivious to her sarcasm. But when he spoke, his voice was as dispassionate as if he were recounting a tragedy that had happened long ago to another man. “Roger, Regan, and I were childhood friends. I was young and foolish. Regan was sweet and willing. When we were both seventeen, I got her with child. She begged me to marry her, but I’d been promised to another since I was a lad. Breaking the betrothal contract would mean war for my father. I hadn’t the courage to defy his wishes until ’twas too late. When I finally went to the cottage where we trysted to tell Regan I would make her my wife, I found her hanging from the rafters, my unborn child dead in her womb.” He shrugged. “ ’Tis simple enough. Regan loved me. I killed her.”

“She killed herself,” Tabitha said softly, refusing to yield before his fierce gaze. “It’s not fair for her brother to blame you for her death and it’s not fair for you to blame yourself.”

His shield slipped for an elusive instant, giving her a glimpse of old wounds and bittersweet regrets. “ ’Tis unfortunate, my lady, that absolution isn’t yours to grant.” He stretched out on the ground, rolling into the cloak. “We’d best get some sleep. We’ll proceed to my castle on the morrow.”

Tabitha was alarmed by a new thought. “Won’t your castle be the first place Brisbane comes looking for you?”

His eyes drifted shut, but a ruthless smirk flirted with his lips. “God willing.”

Tabitha reclined on her side and pillowed her head on her hands. The fire crackled and snapped, creating a disarming aura of intimacy.

“Why did you come back for me?” she asked softly, finally daring to ask the other question that had haunted her since their wild flight from Brisbane’s castle.

Colin’s hesitation was nearly imperceptible. “Because honor demanded it.”

“Oh, of course. Honor.”

His words left her feeling cold. She eyed the woolen cloak, hoping his precious honor would goad him into offering it back to her. Although it was the heart of summer, a fallow chill still clung to the forest floor.

His contented snores ended her hopes. Sighing, she drew Lucy’s warm, furry body into her arms. Before she could even close her eyes, the kitten had squirmed out of her grip and sauntered boldly over to Sir Colin. The little minx slipped between the folds of the cloak and curled into a ball against his bare chest. Her purr was audible over the crackle of the campfire, and Tabitha
remembered how blissfully she had slept in that exact spot the previous night.

“Traitor,” she whispered, fervently hoping that she was jealous of the man and not the cat.

Colin squatted beside the fire to drape the cloak over the woman’s sleeping form. She’d curled in on herself and, despite her uncommon height, looked small and disturbingly vulnerable. Exhaustion had stripped her of her curious bravado. With her lips turned downward in a sad little bow and violet smudging the pale skin beneath her eyes, she looked lost in some fundamental way—like a child wandering alone in a strange and dangerous wood.

A wayward lock of hair had fallen across her eyes. He brushed it away, sifting its feathery softness through his fingertips. She nestled into the cloak and turned her face toward his touch, inadvertently grazing his wrist with her lips. Colin jerked his hand back, pricked by the reminder that she was no child, but a woman grown, ripe with all the perils and delights of her fickle sex.