Temptress

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE

  Praise for the medieval romances of Lisa Jackson

  Impostress

  “Strong, vivid characters and bold writing style . . . adventurous and sensually passionate.”

  —Booklist

  “Entertaining . . . a comedy of errors. Fans will relish this engaging medieval romance.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  Wild and Wicked

  “Charming and delightful, absolutely entertaining. Don’t miss it!”

  —Heather Graham

  “An exciting medieval romance filled with drama and several delightful twists and turns. . . . Lisa Jackson writes a jewel of a novel that makes the thirteenth century seem so darkly real.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  . . . and for the Dark Jewels Trilogy

  Dark Sapphire

  “Impressive.... Lisa Jackson shines once again in her new romantic adventure.”

  —Reader to Reader

  “Another entertaining medieval romance. . . . Lisa Jackson paces the story well and fills the pages with intrigue and passion.”

  —Romantic Times

  Dark Emerald

  “A complex medieval romance . . . moves forward on several levels that ultimately tie together in an exciting finish. The lead characters are a passionate duo while the secondary players strengthen the entire novel. Ms. Jackson has struck a gemstone mine.”

  —Painted Rock Reviews

  “Snares the reader in an intricate plot and holds them until the very end.”

  —Romantic Times

  Dark Ruby

  “A true gem—a medieval masterpiece. Wonderfully compelling, filled with adventure and intrigue, sizzling sexual tension and a to-die-for hero, this one has it all.”

  —Samantha James

  “Rich, mysterious, passionate. It’s a winner.”

  —Alexis Harrington

  “Fast-paced and fun from the start . . . a high-action adventure that will keep you turning the pages.”

  —Kat Martin

  “A rich, unforgettable tale.”

  —Stella Cameron

  ONYX

  Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

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  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published by Onyx, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, October

  Copyright © Susan Lisa Jackson, 2005

  All rights reserved

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  eISBN : 978-1-101-11782-8

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I would like to thank everyone who helped in the creation of this novel. First and foremost, my sister, Nancy Bush, also an author, who helped me with the editing and proofing of the pages, all the while plying me with Hot Tamales (yes, the candy) and diet Pepsi and assuring me that “we can do it.” Second, Claire Zion, my editor, for her patience with this project, and third, my agent, Robin Rue, for being a calm voice of reason.

  There were tons of others who gave me time and support and provided laughter when I needed it. To all my friends and family, thanks!

  PROLOGUE

  Wybren Castle, North Wales

  December 24, 1287

  ’Tis time.

  The voice was soft but insistent, like a flaxseed lodged in his collar, a tiny irritation relentlessly pricking the back of the neck, ever nagging. Reverberating through his head, it urged him onward as he slipped through the gloom of the keep.

  You know you cannot wait any longer. Redemption is at hand. For you. For them.

  He flicked an anxious tongue to his lips, tasted the salt of his sweat though it was freezing within the castle walls, his own breath fogging and mixing with the smoke from the smoldering rushlights. His muscles ached with tension and fear; his ears strained to hear the quietest footfall lest he be discovered. Still he hesitated.

  You must do it. Now. All is in place. The guards are asleep from all the revelry, their minds sluggish from too much ale. The guests, too, with their full bellies and wine-sotted minds, sleep as if dead. And the lord’s family, all of them, are near dead already, their cups having been washed with the potion. Their rutting has ceased. Hear them snore through the doors to their chambers.

  From the depths of his cowl, he looked over his shoulder, checking the hallway one last time and then, knowing God was speaking to him, lifted his unlit torch to the embers of the hallway sconces. With a crackle and hiss, the oil-soaked tip caught fire, casting the dark corridor in flickering, deadly shadows. Swiftly he bent down and touched his torch to the bit of braided oil-doused cloth that he’d tucked under the doors moments earlier and then watched
in fascination as the quick little flames sped beneath the door to the dried rushes spread thickly upon the chamber floor.

  First the baron, he thought, and then the rest.

  He worked with speed, praying softly, lighting each wick in succession along the corridor. His heart hammered wildly, sweat and fear sliding down his spine. Should he be caught, he would be imprisoned, quickly judged a traitor, and then hung until he was twitching, near death. Before he took his last breath, he would be removed from the gallows, his body drawn and quartered, his entrails spilling out while he was yet alive, and then, upon his death, his head would be skewered upon a pike and placed on display high above the wide wall walk, an example to all who might consider this kind of treason.

  Do not fear. Your cause is just. You are the Redeemer.

  Smoke began to fill the hallway, seeping stealthily beneath the doors.

  He calmed his fears. ’Twas done. The rest was in God’s hands, or those of the devil. He knew not which, nor did he care. For the voice that urged him on came from within, the nagging insistence arising from a deep part of his own desire, the words only amplifying what he wanted so desperately. And yet he heard them as surely as if someone had whispered them against his ear. He told himself they came because God wanted vengeance. He was but the servant . . . unless it wasn’t God who spoke so intimately to him.

  Unless it was a demon or even Satan himself.

  He glanced around the arched ceiling of the hallway, breathing shallowly as if expecting an angel of darkness to swoop down before him as the smoke rose in thin, evil wisps.

  Yet no apparition appeared.

  Whether the voice he heard was from heaven or hell, the deed was done. Redemption and, aye, vengeance were at hand. At last.

  At the end of the corridor, he tossed his torch onto the floor and then swept rapidly down the stairs, his footsteps making no sound as he eased out of the keep and into the black, moonless night.

  Soon someone would rouse.

  Soon an alarm would sound.

  Soon it would be over.

  And justice, at long last, would be served.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Castle Calon

  January 12, 1289

  Morwenna moved upon the bed. Her bed?

  Or another’s?

  Lifting her head, she saw the glowing embers of the fire, red coals casting golden shadows upon the castle walls. But what castle? Where was she? There were no windows, and high above the walls, past creaking crossbeams, she spied the night sky, dozens of stars winking far in the distance.

  Where was she?

  In a prison? Held captive in an old, forsaken keep whose roof had blown away?

  “Morwenna.”

  Her name echoed against the thick walls, reverberating and turning her blood to ice.

  She twisted on the bed and stared into the shadows. “Who goes there?” she whispered, her heart thudding.

  “’Tis I.” A deep male voice, one she should recognize, whispered from the dark corners of this seemingly endless chamber. Her skin crawled. With one hand she clamped the bedding to her breast and realized that she was naked. With the other hand she searched the bed, fingers scrabbling for her dagger, but it, like her clothes, was missing.

  “Wh-who?” she demanded.

  “Don’t you know?”

  Was he teasing her?

  “Nay. Who are you?”

  A deep chuckle from the gloom.

  Oh, God!

  “Carrick?” she whispered as he appeared, stepping into the light, a tall warrior with broad shoulders, deep-set eyes, and a chiseled chin. She couldn’t trust him. Not again. And yet a thrill pulsed through her veins and erotic images stole through her mind.

  He stepped closer to the bed and her heart pounded, her mouth suddenly desert dry. She couldn’t help but remember the feel of his sinewy muscles beneath her fingertips, the salty taste of his skin, the male smell of him that had always stirred her.

  “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” she asked but realized she didn’t know where she was.

  “I came for you,” he said, and she trembled inside.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You never did.” He was close to the bed now and leaned even nearer. Her heart thudded as he slowly pulled his tunic over his head, and the fire glow caught his sinewy muscles as they moved. “Remember?”

  Oh, yes . . . yes, she remembered.

  And cursed herself for it.

  “You should go,” she told him.

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere but here.” She forced the words out.

  His smile flashed white. Knowing. Oh, he was a devil. Isa was right. Morwenna should never have allowed him close to her, let him into this room without a ceiling.

  But you didn’t. You don’t even know where you are. Perhaps you’re his captive and this is your prison cell. Could it not be that he is keeping you here as his slave, to minister to him, to lie with him, to do his bidding?

  “If you won’t leave, then I will,” she said, her gaze sliding away from his face to search the floor and the pegs near the door for her clothes.

  “Will you?” he taunted, settling onto the bed next to her and running a finger down the side of her jaw. Her skin prickled in delight. Her blood rippled with lust. “I think not.”

  “Bastard.”

  He laughed at her, ran his finger ever lower, pushing aside the bedclothes, baring her breast, watching the nipple pucker under his perusal. Though Morwenna knew she was making a devastating mistake, she turned her face up to his, felt the warmth of his breath against her skin, knew that she would never be able to resist him. A deep warmth invaded that most intimate of regions and she sighed as he worked his way lower, callused fingers trickling down her willing flesh.

  Lowering his head, he placed a kiss upon her bare abdomen.

  She moaned, heat pulsing through her body. Then she sensed they were not alone, that unseen eyes were watching their every move. Someone or something with evil intent.

  From where? The open ceiling where she saw stars shooting across the heavens . . . or closer? In the room with them?

  “Morwenna!” Someone was calling her, but she could not be disturbed, not when this man she had loved with all of her heart had returned. “Morwenna!”

  “Morwenna!”

  Her eyes flew open.

  The dream evaporated like a ghost chased by morning’s light.

  The dog at her feet gave out a disgruntled snort.

  “God’s teeth!” She sat straight up in bed, pushed her hair out of her eyes. It had been a dream. All just a cursed dream. Again. When would she ever learn?

  There was no one in her chamber, no mysterious warrior about to seduce her, no old lover returning. She was alone. And yet . . . something felt amiss, like a breath of wind in a sealed tomb. Her skin prickled as she drew the bed linens close.

  “What a ninny,” she muttered, forcing herself to breathe normally.

  She was in her bedchamber at Castle Calon, in her room, in her keep, the one her brother Kelan had entrusted to her. She glanced about the large chamber with its vibrant tapestries and whitewashed walls. The ceiling, rising high above the crossbeams, was very much intact, the fire in the grate burning embers, shutters on the windows allowing only a few gray wisps of the coming dawn inside. Nothing was disturbed. Even the dog, a cur she’d inherited when her brother had assigned her to Calon, had been sleeping soundly, his snoring ruffling the fur of the rabbit coverlet tossed carelessly over the foot of the bed. She was letting the old rumors about the keep being haunted bother her; that was it.

  “Lady Morwenna!” Isa’s frantic voice echoed through the hallways.

  Morwenna started. Her dog, suddenly wide awake, sprang from the bed to bark wildly as if the old deaf thing was sounding an alert.

  “Hush, Mort!” Morwenna commanded.

  The beast lowered his speckled head and growled in low disobedience.

  A thunderous knock er
upted on the door. “M’lady?”

  “Coming!” Morwenna yelled, irritated at the urgency in Isa’s voice. The old woman was forever concerned about the future, her ancient eyes imagining danger and darkness in every corner. Morwenna threw on her tunic and raced across the fresh rushes to the door just as the pounding resumed upon the thick oaken panels.

  “What is it?” she demanded, unlatching the door and pulling it open to find Isa’s face colorless, her lips tight. Beside her in the darkened hallway stood one of the huntsmen. Jason, a tall, gangly man with bad skin and teeth to match, was worrying his hat in his hands. “What’s wrong?”

  “A man was found outside the castle gates,” Isa said, breathless. Strands of once-red hair were visible beneath her cowl and her ice blue eyes blinked nervously. “Near dead, he is, and beaten to within an inch of his very life.” Her eyebrows knitted together and her thin lips tightened. “The attack was so savage that no one . . .” She took in a deep breath. “Not even his own father would recognize him.” Isa shook her head and her cowl slid to her shoulders. “I doubt he will live another day. Tell her, Jason.”

  “ ’Tis true,” the huntsman admitted. “I found him while chasin’ down a stag just before dawn. Stepped over a rotten log and there he was, covered with leaves and dirt, barely a breath left in him.”

  “So where is he now?”

  “In the gatehouse. Sir Alexander thinks he could be a spy.”>

  “A near-dead spy,” Morwenna clarified.

  Isa nodded, and she looked as if she wanted to say more but held her tongue.

  “Has the physician seen him?”

  “Nay, m’lady, not yet,” Isa said.