“Be careful, Anne. I have spoken to a messenger from the house of Derwen. Someone is asking for your hand.”
“No … there is no one at Derwen save Lord Spader …” She felt the color drain from her face.
“His last wife, poor thing, died in childbirth, and he’s looking for a new mate.”
Anne’s lips curled in disgust. “Lord Spader—by the gods, the man’s near eighty and can barely walk. Surely you are joking.” But the gravity in his eyes caused her blood to congeal.
“Spader only wants a young wife for his amusement. And he needs an heir; none of his five wives gave him a son. He has spoken to me of you.”
“No.”
Darton smiled without a trace of warmth. Rain dripped from his nose.
“You would not,” she whispered, but knew it to be true. Had he not tried to kill their brother? “All of Lord Spader’s wives are dead—either by their hands or his, I suspect—and if you think I’ll marry that old man, you’re wrong,” she said.
“You forget, sister, Hagan is no longer running the castle. If I make an arrangement for you to wed Lord Spader, you’ll damn well marry him.” Darton managed a sneer, and she felt her blood begin to boil. As Darton had always resented being treated as the second-born, she had resented both her brothers treating her with less respect because she was born a woman—as if her womanhood were her fault. Not that she wanted to be a man, but it galled her to think that just because she had not male parts dangling between her legs, she was considered less able to think for herself. As if the man’s sex and brain were connected. She dared not voice her feelings, however, for it seemed that most noblewomen were perfectly satisfied with their lot in life. They would not want to ride off to war, or worry about the thievery or quarrels in the fiefdom, or take part in jousts or have to answer to the king, but Anne felt differently. A part of her resented the fact that she was never asked her opinion. As if her thoughts didn’t matter. Neither Hagan nor Darton considered her ideas worth much, and she had spent years trying to keep the family name away from scandal, trying to fit the part of the baron’s sister.
No longer. Not if Darton could strike her and make her appear a fool to the peasants and then insult her by suggesting that he’d marry her off to a man who might be buried within the week. If Darton thought she would meekly accept his edict, he had better think again.
Darton was still glaring at her, and she had the urge to kick him between the legs and let him feel how important his member really was. “You can’t treat people this way,” she said, her body shaking with rage.
“Of course I can.” His voice was even and smooth, though hatred burned like hot embers in his eyes. “I’m the baron.”
“Not unless Hagan’s dead.”
“Believe me, sister, our brother will never return, and unless you obey me and recognize me as the new baron, I will have to consider you a tra
itor.” He glanced meaningfully toward a grassy knoll near the well where the carpenters were busy building a gallows.
“You cannot do this, Darton,” she said wretchedly, and swallowed over a sudden knot of fear. “You cannot hang Bjorn for helping Sorcha—”
“Just watch me, Anne. And be careful that you obey me as well. For if you cross me, I will see that your life is a living hell. Lord Spader is an impatient man.” He strode across the yard, and geese and hens flew out of his path.
Anne, her cheeks flaming in embarrassment, was left standing near the fishpond as work in the castle resumed. The carpenters were busy building their death trap, the tanner was scraping hides near the door of his hut, and the silversmith tooled a new platter, but even as they began working again, they cast curious glances in her direction, and she knew they had overheard some parts of her horrid conversation with her brother. Most of the men had stopped working at their tasks until Darton had slapped Anne, but now, as if embarrassed for her, they gladly resumed their labors.
Gathering the frayed strands of her dignity, she tossed her hood over her head and turned back to the great hall. She’d always been loyal to her brothers and felt that, above all else, she should show her allegiance to her castle and the man who ruled Erbyn. She’d believed in family honor and keeping personal squabbles hidden. Pride and honor and the preservation of Erbyn above all else.
But that was before Darton had become a murderer and declared himself baron.
Splashing through the puddles, she realized that all the stories she’d heard about him had been true. She had turned a blind eye and a deaf ear in his direction whenever there had been gossip. More often than not she’d chosen to ignore the rumors that had swarmed around him. There had always been gossip—about his taste in women and his sexual pleasures that had bordered on the perverse or his farsighted ambitions—but she’d been stalwart in her belief that the treacherous stories had been grossly exaggerated, that this was her brother, for God’s sake, and he would never, never do anything so ruthless and wicked as plot the murder of Hagan.
Her stomach wrenched painfully.
Now it appeared as if he’d ordered their own brother slain!
“Oh, Hagan,” she whispered, staring at the ground as tears ran from her eyes, “forgive me.” She had been a fool where Darton had been concerned, and her elder brother had probably paid for her foolishness with his life.
Biting her lip, she vowed that she would never make the same mistake twice. Now that she knew the depths to which Darton had sunk, she’d find a way to save those he planned to harm. The list was long, but it started with Sorcha of Prydd.
By the gods, he could walk! One leg didn’t work very well and he was still stiff and sore, but whatever that bitter concoction was that old Isolde had forced down his throat, it seemed to have worked. He’d drunk the stuff, coughing and spitting, for two days while she’d applied an ointment to his wounds. Now Hagan was able to stand and walk with no assistance, though his back and legs still throbbed.
He’d been lucky, Isolde had told him. None of the arrows, save the one in his forearm, had pierced deep. Even his old wounds throbbed. His thigh muscle ached, and his back, near the shoulder, burned, but the pain was not great enough to keep him lying on the pallet in Wolf’s tent.
Too much was at stake.
He couldn’t wait another minute, for the dull ache from his wounds was nothing when compared to his tortured thoughts of Sorcha. He’d been tormented for three days with the sickening image of her standing before a priest and swearing to honor and obey Darton. Guts roiling, Hagan had tried to push himself to his feet, demanded that Wolf find a way to free her, ranted, raved, and cursed until he was hoarse and could speak no more. But it seemed Wolf had his own plans and was in no hurry.
Grinding his teeth, Hagan walked stiffly out of the tent, and with each stride his sore muscles began to respond. He found Wolf near the embers of the fire. ’Twas twilight and the forest was beginning to shadow.