Warrior's Lady (21 page)

His blade plunged deep, straight through the killer's chest, delivering a death blow. The assassin's sword fell from his hand and he dropped to the ground, clutching the gaping wound.

Camden sheathed his sword and bent down beside the man. "God be with you—"

A hand groped his arm, dug nails into Camden's flesh. "Beware …" He tried to breath, only to choke on his own blood. "The bishop," the man warned before his body went limp and his eyes drifted back in his head.

The bishop? Camden brought his hand down over the man's eyelids, closing his eyes forever.

"Go in peace," he whispered.

Again time slowed as the battle died all around, until only his own men remained standing. Eager to make his way home, Camden stood and made his way to Rhiannon's side. He placed Rhiannon gently in the saddle, then signaled to his men to ride out.

Swinging up into his saddle behind Rhiannon, he charged ahead, leading the way back home. With the assassin's death, his secrets and his people were safe.

As a warrior he understood death. As a man, he hated that he had caused it for his own selfish gains. He pulled Rhiannon closer against his chest. The warmth of her body comforted him somehow, working its way inside him, soothing his conscience.

Snow continued to fall lightly as he and his men made their way home. Camden frowned as they neared the rise to the castle. A dark pile of rubble and a gaping hole in the outer wall remained a reminder of the deception that had taken place there this day.

The group of men did not go to the gate, but entered the castle over the tumbled and obliterated stones of the wall.

Camden came to a stop, frowning at the damage. "How long?" he asked as Orrin came up beside him.

Orrin understood the question. "I can have the wall repaired within three days."

Camden shook his head. "Too long. We'll be too vulnerable to attack."

"The men will serve a constant guard."

"It is the spy within our midst that has me most concerned. How easy for him to pretend to guard the breach at night or rebuild it during the day, then slip away unnoticed?"

"I'll not make it easy. I intend to guard the breach myself."

Camden cast a smile of appreciation at his friend. "Even you must sleep."

Orrin straightened. "No one will enter or leave this castle without my notice; I give you my vow."

"We'll both share the duty, as we always have."

Orrin nodded and turned away to resume supervising work on the wall.

At the stairs to the keep, Camden dismounted and grasped Rhiannon's waist, assisting her from the horse. "We need to get you cleaned up. I will send for the healer."

"Please, I just need to rest."

He studied her for a long moment before he nodded. "If you will not see a healer, then you must promise me that you'll drink the tonic I send to your chamber."

"I promise," she said. A few moments later Rhiannon found herself ensconced in her bedchamber. Despite the chill that wracked her body, she hesitated to approach the crackling flames in the hearth.

She glanced down at the charred hem of her dress and what was left of her shoes. She slipped them off, leaving crumbles of ash and leather on the floor beside them. Several large blisters covered her skin where her slippers had been. Red burns streaked up her legs, discoloring her flesh. A stinging pain rippled across her legs. She was lucky. Burns and blisters she could heal from. Rhiannon shivered at the memory of the heat creeping up her legs. If Camden had not arrived when he did, she would have perished in a blaze of flames.

Before her thoughts could turn down darker roads, a parade of servants entered the room. Two men carried a copper hip bath that they placed near the fire. Four more men entered behind them carrying large buckets of steaming water that they dumped into the waiting bath. Two women brought a linen towel and a plate of freshly baked bread with a chunk of golden cheese. Mistress Faulkner brought up the rear of the procession. She placed a mug of cool liquid in Rhiannon's hands.

"The master asked that you drink this. All of it."

Rhiannon brought the mug to her lips and drank the bittersweet ale inside. When she finished, Mistress Faulkner took the mug from her fingers and handed it to a waiting maid. Then she proceeded to lead Rhiannon to the bed, where she carefully laid out a green damask dress along with a pair of soft leather slippers.

"Milady," she said when the others had left. "I made this dress for you, to thank you for your help with Charlotte and her child." Mistress Faulkner cast her gaze to the thick woolen carpet as she spoke. "I treated you poorly. I shall not do so again."

"The dress is beautiful," Rhiannon said, uncertain what to think or do. "Thank you for your kindness." Could she trust the chatelaine? She seemed sincere enough. Or was this offering another attempt to humiliate her?

Mistress Faulkner helped Rhiannon take off the ruin that was her dress, then assisted her into the hip bath. Pain streaked across her feet and up to her legs as she settled into the water. She lathered her body and hair quickly with the lavender soap, then rinsed, as eager to wash the smell of smoke from her skin and hair as she was to be freed from the heat of the water against her burns.

When she was done, the chatelaine assisted her from the bath, wrapping her body in a soft linen towel. Rhiannon settled in a chair near the fire, careful to keep her legs and gee from getting too close to the heat. At the sight of the flames, she flinched but forced herself to breath slowly. This fire would warm her and help dry her hair. This was not a fire of destruction.

As her hair dried, the pain in her feet and shins lessened. Rhiannon drew her legs up, placing her feet on the chair. She studied her legs. Where the red streaks used to be, only smooth flesh remained. She frowned, suddenly confused. "Mistress Faulkner, what was in the tonic that Lord Lockhart sent for me to drink?"

"I have no idea. Why?"

How could she explain what she didn't understand herself? "'Tis nothing," she said as she lifted first one foot then the other, inspecting the soles that used to be covered in blisters. They were now only slightly red and the pain had vanished. Utterly astonished at how rapidly she had healed, Rhiannon placed her feet on the floor and stood, moving to the bedside. There, she smoothed the elegant fabric of the dress Mistress Faulkner had made her. The luxurious softness planted seeds of temptation in her chest. Could she wear the garment? Did she have a choice with no other clothing in her possession?

"Mistress Faulkner, do you promise me that this was not Violet's mother's gown?"

The older woman's face paled. "I know I've given you no reason to trust me." Her eyes filled with remorse. "But it's true I made the gown for you. I made one for Lady Violet as well."

Rhiannon believed her. In an uncharacteristic move, Rhiannon hugged the woman, bringing a startled gasp from the chatelaine's lips. "Thank you," Rhiannon said. "I have not had a new dress in ages."

"You're welcome, milady." An excited sparkle came into the older woman's eyes. "Let's try it on." When the task was complete, Mistress Faulkner stepped back, admiring her work. "You look lovely. Just as mistress of the castle should look."

Rhiannon inhaled sharply as a shiver ran through her. "I am not the mistress here. I am just Lady Violet's nursemaid," Rhiannon rattled on, suddenly nervous.

Knowing reflected in the older woman's tired gray eyes. "You are here. Make the most of it." She gave Rhiannon a squeeze on the arm and left the chamber.

Unsettled by the woman's words, Rhiannon paced the room. Dear heavens, is that how they saw her? An opportunist come to stake a claim?

Her legs became unsteady. She stumbled toward the bed and collapsed against its softness as a queer jolt of pain centered in her chest. Aye, the Ruthvens had been notorious for their unabashed attempts at advancement, through any means available. When proper and decent means slipped through their fingers, her family had become ruthless and unfeeling in the ways they chose to get ahead.

When she was young, her own father had abducted the king, and had sold Camden and Orrin into slavery, no doubt along with countless others. Her brothers had murdered so many of their neighbors that she had lost track. They'd raided, pillaged, and done anything to foster their own gains.

Why did she expect anyone to believe she was any different from her family? Rhiannon shut her eyes and leaned back on the bed, suddenly exhausted. She'd almost been burned alive because of her family name.

A startled gasp escaped her. She sat up, her body tense. That wasn't true. She'd almost been killed because she'd refused to be like her family. The man had asked her to betray Violet, and in turn Camden.

And she had refused.

"Wake up, ye bastard."

Bishop Berwick awoke with a start, his eyes wild and unfocused in the darkness of his little country bedroom. Where were his servants, the armed men he'd hired? He paid them handsomely to see that he remained safe.

He heard a rustle of movement from somewhere in the room.

His hand slid beneath his pillow. His fingers closed around the grip of a dagger.

"Yer Grace," the voice came again.

The bishop rolled off the bed, hitting the floor hard, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness. Then he saw it. The light of the moon revealed a solid silhouette near the window. The drapes billowed in the light breeze, creating undulating shadows in the now silent chamber.

The bishop got to his knees and crawled to the foot of the bed, his pristine nightshirt dragging on the floor. "Who's there?"

"Ye used me."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I hate bein' used."

The words came not from the window, but the opposite corner of the room. The bishop spun toward the corner. How had the man moved so quickly and silently?

There was no one there.

"What do you want? Money? An intercession? Just name it, and it is yours."

"I want out. I won't tell on 'em anymore."

The voice came from the direction of the window again, but nothing was there.

The bishop's heart thundered in his chest. "Who?"

"Lady Violet and Mistress Rhiannon."

He had to keep the man talking to get a fix on his location. He strained to listen. "Rhiannon is dead."

"Nay, she isn't."

"Lockhart." The bishop frowned into the darkness. Damn the man.

A movement came from the opposite corner. "I'll not be a party to killin' them girls. For God's sake, ye tried to burn the girl alive."

The man stepped in front of the window. Moonlight illuminated the silhouette to reveal the warrior he'd hired a few weeks ago — a young man who'd said he'd do anything to keep his son from harm. A surge of relief rushed through him. He cautiously rose to a half crouch. The man posed no danger.

"If you want silver in addition to my promise not to harm your son, Rhys, I can be generous." The bishop stood, moving slowly toward the man.

The man's face was distorted in the half-shadow. "I'll take yer promise that my son will be safe, but I don't want yer silver. I want out, with my conscience intact. Ye've lost, and I won't go down with ye."

"Nonsense. Nothing has changed because the girl lives. Although, I cannot say the same for you." The bishop lifted his dagger and with a snarl drove the weapon into the man's ribs.

Shock froze the man's expression. He staggered, then fell to his knees in a pool of his own blood.

The bishop tossed the dagger onto the floor beside him. With a slight tremble in his hands, he reached for the hand bell that would bring his manservant to his side.

A moment later the door opened, and his sleepy chamberlain appeared. "You rang, Your Grace?"

"We've had an intruder." The bishop scowled at the man on the floor. "I had no choice but to defend myself."

A flicker of fear crossed his butler's features. "I shall take care of it, Your Grace." The servant bowed, then left the room only to return a moment later with two grooms.

"Put this around him, like a shroud." The bishop tossed an old sheet at the men, a sheet from his mother's sickbed. "We must do this properly," he said.

They did as they were told. Draping the body in the sheet, they rolled the man's body up in the woolen carpet.

"Dump his body in the loch," the bishop ordered, savoring the god-like power that surged through him.

A renewed surge of determination straightened his spine. Ridding himself of the man had been easy, as though it were God's will. If this exhilarating sensation came to him each time he condemned a man to death or saved his life, he wanted more of it. Surely, that meant he was doing the right thing, trying to get the Stone away from the Lockharts. For who deserved it more than a man of God?

"Then get back here. Time grows short. The Council could arrive at any time. We must find where Lockhart hid that Stone."

Dampness surrounded him. Rhys pushed against the darkness. Agony shot through his side and the salty taste of blood came to his mouth. Where was he?