Chapter Fifteen

Camden smelled the smoke before he saw it. "Hurry," he shouted to his men. He dug his heels into his horse's sides, praying for even more speed.

In a surge of motion, both man and beast burst into the clearing. Camden drew his sword and cleaved through the warriors before him without slowing his stride. He had to reach her.

Rhiannon was trapped, flames licking at the wood at her feet. Yet her face was serene, accepting of her fate.

Damn her for not believing she deserved more. Camden charged forward, sword flashing. He knew his men were near, but he only had eyes for Rhiannon.

He did not let fear enter his thoughts, for it would slow him down. He had to reach Rhiannon before the flames consumed her. The world around him slowed. He lashed out, and the men who charged him fell.

He called her name, his throat raw with fury.

Her head snapped toward the sound of his voice. "Camden?"

Hope blossomed in that one simple word. She was still alive. For now.

Through a haze of smoke, he focused on his goal. He guided his horse behind her, away from the others, and dismounted. With a single swipe of his blade, he sliced through the bindings at her waist, wrists and ankles. Free of her bonds, she sagged, her knees failing her. The bottom of her dress caught fire.

The stench of burning cloth filled the air as he yanked her from the flames and smothered the fire. He scooped her up with one arm and held her against his chest. The scent of blood assaulted his senses. He forced the realities of battle aside and with a gentle hand loosened the binding over her eyes. The fabric slipped over her cheeks to settle at her neck.

"You came for me." Her faint voice held a touch of awe and gratitude. Her fingers wrapped around his bloodied sleeve. "Thank you."

"We are survivors, you and me." He reveled in the softness he saw in her eyes, grateful that she did not know the truth.

Camden's warriors emerged on the scene. All around them, the battle raged with the screech and clangor of steel, the grunts of men. Two warriors charged him, swords raised to strike. Camden quickly set Rhiannon on her feet and tucked her behind him. "Get behind the horse."

He hefted his sword.

At the sight of his long curved blade, the men paused, frightened momentarily by the unknown.

Camden took advantage of their confusion and charged. He lunged left, right, using his curved scimitar like a saber. A sharp cry told him he'd hit a target. A body thumped to the ground. The other man, a big one, snarled and made for him. Camden thrust forward, upward, sideways, blocking every blow.

The man heaved his weapon over his head and charged like a giant, ready to cleave Camden in two. But Camden easily spun away as the force of the man's blade came down to plow through the snow and earth instead.

Camden brought his boot down against the back of a leg, crumpling a man to the ground. Suffocating in the heavy smoke, the man hacked and coughed, then gained his feet.

Camden readied his sword. The hook of his blade sliced clean through the warriors arm, followed by an upswing of his weapon that sliced the man's throat, ending his agony.

In the next heartbeat, Camden turned to block the thrust of yet another warrior's blade, coming face to face with the assassin he'd hired. The world seemed to freeze as they stared at each other, swords locked at the hilt.

"You killed the blacksmith," Camden said past the ache in his sword arm. He blocked out the pain, fixing on his enemy.

"I'll kill whoever I please tae get what I want," the assassin said through his brown and pungent teeth.

"I released you from your obligation." Camden pulled his blade away.

The man's gaze shot to Rhiannon. "I work fer another."

Rhiannon's face appeared pale in the glow of the red, flickering light. Growing flames climbed the pole where she'd been staked.

Camden turned back to his newest enemy and raised his sword. "For Rhiannon," he said as fury propelled him forward. Kill him, kill him, his blood commanded for all the innocents he'd been unable to save. He would save Rhiannon. He would save Violet. He would save himself.

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?

He tried to flail, but his limbs were caught against his body. A cold sweat swamped him just before he felt a sensation of flight followed by a hard thump and a rush of freezing water. He struggled even more, frantic now as the water rose and cut off his air.

Just when he began to despair, the barriers that confined him loosened. Cold sapped the breath from his lungs. Water crushed down over his head.

He stared up, or was it down, into the dark void that hungrily swallowed him. His lungs tightened at the lack of air. A hazy fog entered his brain. The dark waters seemed to stretch into eternity. A bittersweet smile came to his lips at the thought. Eternity was where he would be heading unless he could break through to the surface.

Please, God, let him find air. If he lived, he vowed he'd confess to Lord Lockhart.

Even if Lord Lockhart killed him after, at least his conscience would be cleansed.

He clawed at the thick blanket that trapped him, forcing it apart. Once free, his instinct told him to surge ahead. But was that up or down? He calmed his thoughts and drew the small iron ring from his finger. He knew that objects always fell down, whether on land or in the water.

The ring moved upward, so he twisted his body in the opposite direction. He gritted his teeth as hot, sickening pain seared his lungs. He thrust with his legs, and slowly moved toward the surface.

Too slow. Much too slow. He had to live. He had to warn Lord Lockhart of the bishop's plans.