CHAPTER Four
“Something’s wrong.” Gwynn peered through the darkness and wrapped her arms around herself. She couldn’t stand another second waiting for Gareth, of feeling the weight of Trevin’s enigmatic gaze as it bored into her back. “He should have been here by now.”
Somewhere near the kennels the dogs put up a racket and were rewarded with a stern commanded from Alfred, the simpleton who had a way with animals but could not communicate with another human being if it were to save his soul.
“You’re sure the old woman can be trusted?”
“Idelle? Aye. With my life.” Gwynn fingered the worn handle of a pitchfork hung near the door. The bailey was dark, few patches of light glowing from the windows of the huts surrounding the great hall. Only the farrier’s forge glowed bright in the night. She shook her head. “Something is amiss.”
“Then we must go find the boy.”
“Not yet.” Thoughtfully she chewed on the corner of her lip. Where could the boy be? Not in his chamber or Idelle would have found him and sent him to the stables. Sometimes he hid in closets and crevices within the castle walls, watching for a game of dice. As she had learned the runes and spells of the old ones growing up, Gareth had learned how to wager at games of chance—so like his father.
She glanced again at Trevin and cursed silently that he should arrive this day, at the very time when Gareth was in jeopardy. A spell came to mind, one that would make an enemy disappear, but she held her tongue because, in truth, she didn’t know whether the man before her, the only man to have made love to her, was friend or foe. Her mind told her not to trust him, her wayward heart wanted desperately to believe in him.
“I must go.” She started to step through the door, but Trevin wrapped determined fingers around her arm.
“Careful, woman,” he said into her ear and his breath caused goose bumps to rise on her skin and oh, so, heart-stopping memories to roll through her mind. “Do not cross me.”
“I would not—” she said, but knew the words to be a lie.
“Good, because I have many friends within the walls of Rhydd, men with weapons who would come to my aid.” He hesitated, then said, “If there be trouble, seek out the carpenter. Richard.”
“The carpenter?”
“Aye, he is a friend.”
“And a traitor to Rhydd.”
“As you were, m’lady, when you slept with a man other than your husband.”
She stiffened and tried to ignore the warmth of his fingertips through her cloak. “The people of Rhydd are loyal to Roderick and—”
“Roderick’s dead.”
“—his wife—”
“You, m’lady, are now married to Ian.”
Oh, brother! How had her life become so complicated? “Everyone knows I only married Ian to save Gareth’s life.”
One of the horses nipped at another and the second neighed and kicked in defense.
“Shh!” Trevin commanded and he yanked her hard against him. He blew out the candle and the stables were instantly dark. Through the open door she saw movement as a guard, watching from the north tower, held a torch aloft and called down to the gatekeeper.
“Who goes there?”
“Wha’?”
Gwynn froze and silently prayed that she wouldn’t be found hiding in the stables in the arms of the outlaw baron of Black Oak Hall. Hard, inflexible muscles surrounded her and the smell of him, all male and leather reminded her of lying naked in his arms so long ago.
“Hush,” he whispered, his breath, warm and inviting as it teased the rim of her ear.
Through her clothes her buttocks were pressed hard against his thighs. He shifted slightly and taut muscles pressed against the curve of her spine. Desire unwanted, raced through her blood though she had no time for such nonsense.
Trevin and his lean body be damned, she had to think of Gareth. Barely able to breathe, she tried to concentrate on anything other than the splay of his fingers over her abdomen.
“I say, ‘who goes there?’” the guard yelled again. Sweet Jesus, let me out of here so that I can find Gareth. Her breathing was shallow and soft and her mind spun in images of Trevin and Gareth, father and son, so alike and yet so different. With each of her breaths, his arms tightened, fingertips brushing the underside of her breasts.
Somewhere in a nearby pen, a cow lowed and the dogs began baying again.
“No one’s about, ya ninny.” The gatehouse guard walked into the bailey and took a cursory look at the darkened grass. Cupping his mouth, he turned his head upward and shouted, “Stand yer watch and mind yer own business.”
“Christ A’mighty, y’re in a foul mood.”
“Yeah, well, ye got the dogs all worked up again, now, didn’t ye?” Grumbling under his breath the guard returned to the gatehouse and the sentry on the wall walk made his way to the tower, his torch a moving beacon.
“Now,” Trevin said, his lips brushing against her nape, “go you to the castle and find the boy. Bring him here to meet me.”
“I cannot.”
“If you do not,” he promised, agitation evident in his voice, “I will search him out myself and tell him the truth. ‘Tis time he knew whose blood is flowing through his veins.”
“That of a thief.”
“And worse,” he admitted and she thought of the rumors surrounding him. A black-heart. A rogue baron. A murderer and, as always, an outlaw.
“I’ll go,” she finally agreed as she couldn’t stand another minute in his arms. Her blood was heating, her traitorous heart pounding out a wild cadence, and her fears for her son were distracted by visions of lying naked in his arms, letting desire run its wayward course and she felt his weight upon her.
Swallowing hard at the memory, she slipped through the doorway and, without making a sound, darted through the blackest shadows of the bailey. Smoke from the fires of the day lay low and sifted through the damp air as she slogged through the bent grass and mud toward the great hall.
Puddles had collected on the path dampening her skirts and shoes. She had to think, to come up with a plan to save her son. Trevin and his wants be damned. ‘Twas Gareth who was in danger.
A scheme was forming in her mind as she rimmed the eel pond and a fish jumped near her feet. ‘Twas just a thought at this point, but swirling into a more definite notion. She would bribe the soldiers that were to ride Gareth to the outer reaches of Rhydd. Surely one would take the boy to Heath Castle where Luella would see that he was hidden safely away. Then, much later, would she join him. Somehow, someway she would be with her son again.
But you are married to Ian. At that thought she shriveled inside. How could she lay with him? Sleep in his bed? Pretend that she did not despise him? Her stomach turned over at the thought and she slid out of her slippers to climb the stairs of the keep.
The candles were burning down, their light muted, the smoke hanging in the corridors. Surely Ian had missed her by now and he would want to know where she’d been. She would lie, of course, claim that she’d been restless and had to walk to clear her head of all the pain and suffering she’d witnessed this day. Surely, Ian would expect her to mourn Roderick’s passing as well as worry about her son’s banishment.
She shoved open the door to her chamber.
She shopped short.
All the spit dried in her mouth.
“Wife.” There was no hint of a smile on Ian’s wicked face. He sat on the edge of her bed, leaning backward on one elbow, as if he owned the very place where she slept.
Webb, the abomination of a knight, stood near the fire. Blood, black, and caked, stained one leg of his breeches and his eyes, above his beard-darkened jaw glinted with an evil light that scared the liver out of her.
“Where is he?” Ian demanded.
Gwynn’s breath stopped. “W-who?” she forced out and willed her feet to keep moving into her room. Being in the chamber alone with these two men caused fear to eat at her innards, but she managed an outward calm. “Who are you looking for?”
“Your son, Wife.”
Sweet, merciful Lord in heaven. “Gareth? He is not in the castle?”
“Nowhere in the keep.”
“But he must be.” Silently she prayed that Idelle had snatched him away and that even now he was riding like a demon to castle Heath.
“We’ve searched everywhere.”
“Everywhere,” Webb repeated, then spit into the fire. The flames crackled.
“But the castle is large, with many hiding places. You know how Gareth is, still a boy. Always teasing and playing.”
“He’s gone.” Ian’s voice was flat.
“Nay. I do not believe that—”
“The sally port was not barred or locked. A guard found it creaking open and he’s certain it was secure when last he passed it. Also, the pup that you gave the boy is missing.”
Gwynn’s knees weakened. Was Gareth with Trevin? Had they escaped together? The sally port, usually guarded, was the back door of the castle, positioned high above the moat, a means of escape if ever Rhydd was under siege. She shrugged. “I know not where he is.”
With a snort of contempt, Webb limped to the window and regarded her silently.
“You can do better than this, Lady,” Ian said, scratching his beard. “Do not lie to me. Tell me where he is.”
“I swore to you on my life, I know not.”
“So be it.” Never taking his eyes off his wife, Ian pushed himself lazily to his feet. As he approached Gwynn she was aware of how much larger he was than she. Sighing he reached for his belt and began to slowly unbuckle the leather strap. Fear scraped down her insides. “Now, Wife,” he said as the buckle gave way and the belt slipped into his fingers, “my patience is gone. ‘Tis time to tell me where you have hidden the boy. I want not to harm you, but, if needs be, I am willing to do what I must to rule this castle.”
“And that includes flogging me?” she demanded, refusing to show him any of the dread that was strangling her.
“It only means that I am not afraid to make anyone, even my new bride, bend to my will.” He fingered the strap. “Pray that I won’t have to use force.”
“Do what you will,” she said meeting his gaze. “I fear you not, Ian. Nor will I ever.”
“Who the devil are you?” Gareth demanded as he tried to yank his shoulder away from the claw holding it firmly.
“Know you not?”
“Be you Lucifer?”
“By the gods, boy, would Lord Trevin have sent you to the devil?”
“Lord Trevin?” Gareth tried to view the man—for he appeared to be a man rather than a forest monster—who held him fast, but it was too dark to see much except his white beard and the moving hole that was his mouth. “You talk in circles. Now leave me be.”
“Not yet, m’boy. ‘Tis my duty to keep ye safe, so I’ll have no more of yer sass.”
“Your duty?”
“Aye, to Trevin of Black Oak.”
“Speak you of the outlaw who stole the castle?” Though shivering Gareth spat on the ground. “I’ve heard of him. Old Bart said he is a cheat.”
“Mayhap.”
“One who bested an addled, drunken old man who was foolish enough to bet his barony in a game of dice.”
“Well—”
“Then, Bart says, when the lord recognized what he’d done, this Trevin, who was but an outlaw knight, ran the lord through and tossed him into the moat!”
“Nay, nay, nay. Who is this Bart?”
“The best huntsman in all of Rhydd… well, he was until he lost his fingers to a wolf.”
“Bah! He knows only half the truth.”
“Nay, Matilda—she scrapes the hides from the huntsman’s kill, she, too, says Trevin of Black Oak is a murdering thief.”
“Well, she is a liar and the old man—Bart or whatever is his name, he be a fool. Don’t ye know better than to listen to women? They be the bane of a man’s existence, let me tell you. Now, come along.”
“Bart is not a woman.”
“Ah, well, some men, too, they are not to be trusted.”
“I’ll go nowhere.” The man not only spoke like he was truly daft but he reeked of sour wine.
“I’ve food and a warm fire, lad, come along afore whoever it is y’re runnin’ from finds ye.”
“Leave me be!” Gareth started to struggle and it took all of Muir’s strength to hold him down. The dog yapped wildly again and jumped up and down, snapping his ugly jowls. “You—beast—get back!”
“Nay, Boon, attack. Attack!” Gareth kicked and landed a blow to Muir’s shin.
“Miserable brat. If ye were not the son of—” He bit down his tongue though his leg smarted. “I’m here to help ye, if ye would but calm down.”
“Help me?”
“Aye. To save ye from those that would rather see ye in yer grave before ye reach thirteen years.”
The clawing, scratching, and kicking stopped. “You know of them?” he asked.
“Aye. Down, ye little cur!”
“Boon, stay!” Gareth commanded as he eyed this bearded man who held him in his aged hands. He was a short man with an expanding girth, flowing beard, and gravelly voice. His breath stank of sour wine and, even in the blackness, Gareth sensed that his clothes were those of pauper and there was something not quite right with his face.
“Why be ye here in the forests of Rhydd?”
“Waiting for you, of course.”
“Of course,” Gareth mocked and the old man sniffed in disdain.
“We must be off. If ye’ve escaped, then there’s trouble brewin’ just like I saw in my vision.”
“Vision? What be ye? A wizard?” Gareth doubted it. The old man was a drunk, little more. Any vision he saw came from the bottom of a cup of ale unless Gareth missed his guess.
Muir sighed theatrically. “Right now it seems I’m a pitiful man with a boy who asks far too many questions and a dog that would like to bite out my throat. Hurry along this way, would ye, and be quick about it.”
Gareth whistled for the pup.
“Oh, do be quiet,” Muir grumbled in irritation. He’d never much cared for lads of this age. Too old to be innocent and too young to know anything of any substance, they were trouble through and through. Trevin, at twelve, had been more difficult than he was worth. Muir had been forever getting that one out of trouble.
“Where are we going?”
“Someplace safe.”