"The h.e.l.l I am." Her head was starting to hurt, the oppressive air of the tower closing in around her. "Sean, enough. Why is the baron coming? What manner of madness are you plotting now?"

"It isn't madness." His eyes slid from hers. "Gaston should not have spoken of it before you."

"No, he shouldn't have. You should have told me yourself." He reached for her arm, but she shook him off. "Since when is that puffed-up popinjay your confidante? Am I nothing now?" "Siobhan, you are everything." He took hold of her shoulders, holding tighter when she moved to shrug away. "Everything that has been done has been for you, for our family. How can you doubt that?"

"Because our family now is you and me," she answered. "And half of us don't know what the plan might be from one moment to the next."

His eyes narrowed as he frowned. "You think that I would bring you harm?" he said, letting her go.

"No, never," she answered at once. "You would protect me with your life, I know." This time it was she who reached out for him, laying a hand on his arm. "But I think perhaps you mean to protect me too much."

He smiled, some of the tension leaving his face. "Perhaps you are right," he admitted.

"Am I not your soldier?" she asked him, pressing the moment. "Have I not proven time and time again that I am strong, that I can do what must be done to win our cause?"

"Yes," he answered. "Too often." A strange shadow seemed to pa.s.s over his eyes. "I have asked too much."

"Never," she insisted.

"Yes." He touched a lock of her hair that had escaped her braid, drawing it down along her jaw. "I should have taken you away from here when you were still a child, moved heaven and earth to give you the life you deserve."

"You have given me all that I wanted." She took his hand and clasped it tightly. "You gave us both our revenge."

"But at what cost?" He's frightened, she suddenly realized, a horrifying thought. She had never seen Sean look worried. Even in their earliest days as brigands in the forest with a hundred Norman soldiers riding hot upon their heels, he had always seemed so certain they would escape, that somehow they would win. But now he seemed haunted, even desperate. Could he fear this baron of Callard? But why? "I know you think I am a fool to try to hold this castle," he said.

"No," she promised. "Not a fool-"

"But if we don't, what then?" He looked down at her hand, still clasped in his. "I would gladly hang from a gibbet to avenge our father's death and make his people free, even for a moment." He looked up again with tears in his eyes, a terrible, heart-rending shock. "But not you." He framed her face in his hands as their father might have done. "I cannot let you die."

"Sean, no one will hang from a gibbet," she insisted. "We can leave this place, disappear into the forest-"

"It's too late for that, Siobhan." He let her go. "We killed the king's cousin, or have you forgotten?"

"No," she answered. "I have not forgotten."

"If we should try to run, we will be admitting our guilt." He turned away from her, going back to the window. "We have to stay here, stay with the plan. We must make them believe that DuMaine died in an accident, that you were his wife in truth."

"And so we will," she promised. "We have the sheets, and the people will say whatever we ask them to say-"

"The word of peasants will not sway the crown," he cut her off. "And who knows what they will say come winter, when Henry finally finds the time to make his inquiry?"

"They are our people," she protested. "They hated DuMaine." But was that true? her mutinous mind seemed to whisper. Since they had come to the castle, she had heard no one say they regretted the death of DuMaine. But no one had said they had hated him, either. She had found no evidence of his oppression, heard no tales of cruelty or torture. In truth, he had apparently been quite tolerant for a Norman lord. "We have freed them," she finished, pushing those thoughts away. "And ruined their crops in the process," he answered. "Have you seen the stores, little sister? We will be hungry, come Christmas.

DuMaine and his rule might not seem like such a hardship then." A bitter smile twisted the corner of his mouth. "A slave can be contented if his belly is kept full."

"You don't believe that," she said.

"Do I not?" He looked down on the courtyard. "We need help, Siobhan. Someone with a n.o.ble t.i.tle who can vouch for your claim to the king, someone who can help us feed our people."

"The baron of Callard." A cold despair seemed to cover her like a wet blanket. If Sean was losing hope, what chance did she have of keeping hers?

"Gaston is a villain and a toady besides," he said, turning back to her. "But his master is not. The baron's father was a Norman, but his mother was English, a child of these forests like our own. He was born here and has never been to court."

"Then how can he help us?" she said, trying not to sound sullen.

"His father was a powerful ally of King Henry's father," he explained. "The king has often offered the baron his favor, lands in France, even, but the baron has no wish to leave his home. He hates the Normans almost as much as we do, for all his father was one of them. He believes as we do that the people of these forests are not born to be serfs but free men."

"He has no serfs of his own?" Sean sounded so hopeful, she hated to dispute him. But his patron sounded a bit too good to be true. Particularly when his own man, Gaston, seemed to be terrified of him.

"Yes, but not as DuMaine and his ilk would have them, not as slaves to be exploited and abandoned," he answered. "They serve him because he protects them, and no man is forced to stay. He treats them with justice, and they are loyal in return, just as the people here once were loyal to our father." Her doubt must have shown on her face. "What did you think would happen, Siobhan? If we had simply done away with DuMaine and abandoned these people, what do you think would have happened to them?"

"I don't know," she admitted. She had often wondered just that, but she had never allowed herself to dwell on it. She had always just a.s.sumed that Sean knew what he was doing, that he would have a plan that would make good on all his promises. Was this alliance the plan? she wondered now. She had always known the baron was Sean's ally, that they had met together in secret even from her, but she had never realized how important his brother believed his help really was.

"The king would have sent another courtier just like DuMaine to take his place, a Norman lord who would likely have punished them for DuMaine's death by burning every cottage he could find and hanging every able-bodied man he could catch," he went on. "Is that what our father would have wanted?"

"Of course not." The sun was setting, painting the walls of DuMaine's white castle shades of purple and red. In the courtyard below, she could see Master Silas and his masons gathering their tools to put them away for the night. The wooden palisade she and the others had burned so easily with their flaming arrows was almost completely gone, replaced with stone. By the first snowfall, the castle would be finished, just as Sean wanted. "If Tristan's castle is finished when the king's man comes, he will be more likely to believe he died by chance," she said, understanding at last.

"Exactly so." She turned to find Sean smiling. "Now do you see I am not mad?"

She still wasn't so sure. "If this baron of Callard is the man you say, of course we are glad to have his help," she said. "But why should he come here?"

"To be here when the king's man comes, I hope," he answered. He seemed to hesitate, as if deciding just how much he should tell her. "But even if he is not..."

"What?" she prompted. "The baron is not married." He cradled her cheek in his hand. "He is a young man, and handsome, and you are beautiful. If you were to marry the baron; if you could make him love you-"

"You mean to marry me off again?" she demanded, recoiling.

"Only for love," he insisted. "If he loved you, he would use all of his power, all of his influence to keep our people safe, and he could do it, Siobhan. I'm a brigand, a criminal; what can I do? But he could."

"Sean, this is madness." He couldn't be saying these things; surely she must be dreaming. He could not want to use her as a woman-p.a.w.n again, a thing to be bartered away.

"He could keep you safe, you and our people," he said. "If you were his wife, no one would dare to threaten you, not even King Henry himself."

"You can't be serious," she scoffed. "Why should the baron want to marry me? My last groom was bound and gagged at the altar, you'll recall."

"This would be completely different." He drew her over to a mirror that was propped against the wall. "Look at yourself, Siobhan. Even dressed as a brigand, you are fair. Imagine how beautiful you could be if you let Emma or one of the other women help you-"

"Shall I paint my face as well?" she demanded, jerking free. "Shall I wear bells upon my feet and gambol like a monkey?" She could gladly have slapped him silly; her palm was fairly itching to do it. "If you need a wh.o.r.e, brother, the camp outside the castle walls is full of them, all more than willing to do as you bid. I am a soldier-"

"You are a woman," he retorted. "A lady born of n.o.ble blood, fair to look upon. As a soldier, you will never be better than adequate, another bow to fill the gaps, expendable. As a lady, you might rule the world."

"That's a lie!" Tears stung her eyelids, but she would not let them fall. "I am the best archer you have, and you know it."

"I have no more need of archers." He softened his tone. "Yes, little sister, you have fought well, much better than I ever could have hoped. But I should never have put you in such a position; I should never have risked your life. What would our father say if he should know it?"

"He would be proud," she insisted. "We have avenged him and our mother. We have saved their people."

"Not yet, we have not," he answered. "But you can."

"No," she said, shaking her head.

"Listen to me." The desperate fear she hated had come back into his eyes. "I do not ask you to play the wh.o.r.e for Callard or any other man. If you do not like him when he comes, leave him be, and I will not dispute you. But what harm could there be in thinking on the match? What will it cost you to wear a proper gown and be a proper woman for once in your life?"

"You don't know," she answered. What perversity made you wear that gown? Tristan had asked her. Bound to the bed, knowing she meant to see him dead, her enemy had known her. He had wanted her, not as a p.a.w.n, not dressed up like some pretty painted doll, but as herself. As much as he had despised her, he had died to kiss her lips. "You could never understand," she told this brother that she loved with all her heart. "And I could never tell you." Before he could answer, she had turned and run away, pushing past a line of servants on the stairs to escape the tower.

CHAPTER 7

Tristan stood at the edge of the woods as twilight fell, not certain he believed his eyes. He had expected to find his castle a broken ruin, the villagers scattered to the winds as they had been when he first came here. But if he hadn't known better, he would have sworn the events of a fortnight before had never happened. The castle was perfectly intact, the only sign of damage a freshly thatched roof on the gatehouse. Guards patrolled the high stone wall-his guards, many of them. The drawbridge was closed, but a boy waded at the edge of the moat, catching fish or tadpoles in a little net. Where was Clare? he thought. Was she still inside?

From behind him came the bay of hounds and rumble of hooves-a hunting party. He faded back into the thicker shadows as they pa.s.sed, the leader blowing his horn to signal the guardsmen above. The dogs snuffed the ground, catching his scent, perhaps.

He smiled, baring his teeth at them. Now he had a plan.

The sun was gone by the time Silas had finished shutting down construction for the night, its last light fading above the castle walls.

As he gathered up his plans and the money box, he heard the portcullis opening. Turning, he saw a party of hunters coming over the drawbridge, raucous with success. Of the half a dozen men, only two had come to the castle with Sean Lebuin, he noticed. A month ago the others had been soldiers of Tristan DuMaine and had seemed, to him at least, to be happy to be so. But now they hunted with their master's killers. With a sigh, he turned away, willing himself to think on it no more. He was a scholar, not a n.o.ble; the vagaries of politics should not be his concern.

But for some reason, he found his eyes drawn to the dogs. Most of them trotted behind the hunting party toward the kennels, their tongues lolling out from the long day's hunt. But one, a great golden mastiff, barely seemed to be winded, and it did not follow the others. As the hunters dismounted and the other dogs danced around their feet, eager for attention, this one ignored them, slipping fearlessly between their horses to disappear into the shadows near the wall.

A dog, he thought, shaking his head again. Now I am fretting over a dog. Tucking his scrolls under his arm, he followed his crew into the hall.

As Silas disappeared from the courtyard, Tristan rose up in his human form in the shadowed corner of the high stone wall. Inside the castle was even more at ease. The courtyard buzzed with perfectly normal activity, the household settling in for the night. He might still have been master here for all the difference his absence had apparently made.

"h.e.l.lo!" he heard a woman's voice cry out, and he shrank back against the wall, his hand half-consciously clenched into a fist.

Siobhan was coming toward the hunting party. "Did you find success?"

"Aye, my lady," one of the hunters answered-Donnell, Tristan's own master of the kennels, he realized with a painful shudder of rage. Had they all betrayed him?

" 'Tis amazing how much easier it is to find game when you're not being hunted yourself," another one laughed-one of Lebuin's brigands. Siobhan laughed with him and clasped his hand in greeting. "Where is Sean?" the brigand asked her now.

"In his precious tower." She was dressed like a ragam.u.f.fin squire again, her glossy black hair braided down her back. But in the dim light of the torches, her skin glowed like pale gold, and her wide blue eyes looked black. Even now, Tristan found himself remembering the way her skin had felt beneath his hands, the taste of her tongue in his mouth.

"Come, love," the brigand said to her, putting an arm around her shoulders. "Join us in the hall." He led her away toward the manor house, and Tristan took a half-conscious step forward before he could stop himself. No, he thought. Not yet. Fading back into the shadows, he turned and headed for the tower.

He moved between two mounds of broken stone that had been heaped behind the castle chapel-pagan cairns for the traitors he had executed. The brigands had honored their own kin, but the chapel itself was still a half-burned ruin. The bailey wall was finished, as was the second drawbridge leading to the motte-the fatal flaw that had finished him corrected. Sean meant to make a defense. But what of Silas? He had caught a glimpse of him as he'd come in with the dogs, so he was still alive, and the progress on the construction showed he was still working. But under what sort of duress? The master mason knew the truth of what had happened at this place, and Tristan couldn't believe Lebuin could have swayed his loyalty. He might not be a warrior, but Silas had honor, nonetheless. If Lebuin truly meant to rule these lands as lord, he couldn't mean to leave Silas alive for long.

Luckily, he thought, Lebuin would soon be dead himself.

s.p.a.ce"You there!" A man was coming across the bridge to the motte. "Where are you supposed to be?" he demanded.

Tristan smiled, recognizing him. This was the captain who had put his knights to the axe. "Right here," he answered, moving into the light.

Recognition flashed in the brigand captain's eyes, and his face went pale. "You..." He turned as if to flee, and Tristan lunged, driving him flat to the ground. "Help!" the brigand tried to cry out, but it was too late. In a single moment, Tristan's fangs tore open his throat, silencing him forever.

He let the empty husk fall to the ground and straightened up again. Above him on the motte, the tower windows flickered with candlelight. Licking the last of the blood from his lips, he waited, watching the guards on the other side of the drawbridge. They were relaxed, pa.s.sing a bottle back and forth-easy duty. The guards on the castle wall were the ones who had to be watchful.

Any fool could see the tower was safe.

Tristan looked down into the rocky ditch that separated the spot where he stood from the motte. A man could never have crossed it without the drawbridge, not without being cut to ribbons by archers from the tower above. But a dog could do it.

He leapt into a crouch, changing his form as he went. The steep bank crumbled under his paws as he scrambled to the bottom, but the ground below was solid, as was the motte. It was a natural cliff, a steep-sided hill that he and Silas had hardly believed could be real when they had found it, so perfect was it for their purpose. He bounded fast around the foot of the cliff, darting in and out of the th.o.r.n.y brush. Anyone watching from above would think he was chasing a rabbit.

But when he had reached the back of the tower, he stood up again as a man. Looking up once more to make certain no one saw him, he began to climb.

Siobhan caught the bottle that was being pa.s.sed around the hearth and took a long swallow before she pa.s.sed it on again.

"Careful, my lady," Michael warned.

"Aye, love, be careful." Sam, the leader of the hunting party, laughed. He had been with Sean from the beginning, had served their father years ago. "You don't want to get yourself so drunk you bruise your pretty a.r.s.e."

"It wouldn't be the first time," she retorted, laughing with him. But very few in the circle seemed happy to join them, she noticed.

"Yes, but things are different now," another of the men protested, glancing at the new ones, the men who had once served DuMaine. "You are the widowed lady of DuMaine." The girl in his lap pressed a kiss to his cheek, and he turned from the discussion to squeeze her close.

"And what is that?" Siobhan scoffed, blushing in spite of herself at this display. In the woods, no man would have dared bring his doxy to the fire for fear of putting the la.s.s in danger. But now, she supposed, they were safe.

"Leave my lady be, ye milksop," Sam ordered, drinking again himself. "What is it to you what she might do? Nothing, that's what."

"Exactly," Siobhan said, taking back the bottle. She had always been fond of Sam.

"Nothing now," Michael said quietly. "But when the king's man comes to hear what happened to his cousin, it might mean a great deal." His eyes met hers in warning. "To all of us."

"G.o.d's might!" she swore, leaping to her feet. "Will you not leave me in peace?" Did of all them know more of her brother's plans for her than she did? she thought. She looked at the peasant girl, so pretty in her kirtle, and her stomach writhed in horror. Was that what she was meant to be, some pretty pet for a n.o.ble instead of a brigand? She thought again of Tristan, his bitter but beautiful smile as he'd called her "little wife." But Tristan was dead. He had despised her for a lowborn brigand, but he had s.p.a.cewanted her. Would the baron be the same? "I can't," she said aloud. Her eyes met Michael's for a moment as she turned and fled the hall.

Tristan climbed the iron ladder hidden in a fold of the tower to the narrow escape door above. With luck, the brigands wouldn't have discovered it yet.

Slipping inside, he found himself in the narrow gallery above the first floor hall-unguarded, he noted with an inward sigh of relief.

Lebuin apparently meant to make his great hall here. The room that had been little more than bare walls during Tristan's residence was now fully if haphazardly furnished with tapestries and trestle tables. But it was all but empty. Lebuin was standing near the dais, with one other man seated on a chair before him. "Get out," he ordered, obviously angry. "Get out, Gaston."

"Are you certain?" the stranger said. "We still have much to discuss."