Impostress (18 page)

'Twas over.

All her dreams turned to dust.

All her plans for naught.

She'd been a fool. A pathetic, love-sotted fool. Kiera had been right, she realized belatedly. There was no such thing as true love.

She climbed down from the horse, clambered over some rocks, and bent over. Her stomach contracted as she vomited. Over and over again until, weakened, she fell to her knees in the mud and stones.

She'd not even told him that she was carrying his babe, that though Wynnifrydd might indeed be pregnant with his child, so was she.

Brock and Wynnifrydd. Brock and Wynnifrydd. Brock and
... oh, Mother of God, she couldn't believe it. How could he do this to her? Had she not stood beside him, loved him with all of her heart, forgiven him when once before he'd lied and betrayed her? Her fingers curled in the wet grass and mud. Pain blistered through her heart.
Fool, fool, fool. He and that ... that skinny, smug worm of a woman.

"Bastard!" she cried, scooping up dirt to shake in one fist. "Bastard, bastard, bastard!"

'Twas too much to take all in one night. And the Judas hadn't told her on the first night at the Gamekeeper's Inn, oh, no. He'd waited. Bedding her at will for a full day. Waiting until she'd dragged the words from his cowardly lips.

He was worthless.

He always had been.

By the saints, she couldn't think of it, not now.

He deserved cold, hard Wynnifrydd with her icy eyes.

But he's the father of your child.

Fresh bile rose in her throat. Gritting her teeth and determined that no man would destroy her or her unborn babe, she pulled herself upright. Her mouth tasted foul. Her spirit was blackened, she was certain, beyond repair. The smell of the river filled her nostrils, the cool air of winter night pressing against her skin. Small sobs tore from her throat. Her life was ruined. She'd never been one to cry, but alone in this dark, cold night, she let loose all the pain and wailed, pounding her fist against her leg.
Ogre! Unfaithful, lying ogre!

Images of her time with him burned through her mind. Their secret trysts where they seemed the only two people in the world, their passionate lovemaking, stolen hours wrapped up in each other, their plans of defying their parents and rebelling against tradition ... all a lie. Because of Wynnifrydd. Skinny, pallid, whiny Wynnifrydd, who could not hunt, nor ride, nor even smile. Barely seventeen, she seemed already a shriveled prune. To think that Brock had taken her to his bed ... Elyn shuddered in the wintry forest, but vengeance burned bright in her heart.

Brock would rue the night he had seduced Wynnifrydd. They would both suffer. With the moon as her witness, Elyn vowed to make Wynnifrydd's life pure hell.

Holding on to the reins, she edged farther down the steep bank to the sandy loam by the river. There, between two rocks, she scratched a rune in the sand, a crude drawing she'd observed once while watching Hildy. It was the rune of separation, a sticklike image, an X with opposing straight lines.

In her mind she conjured up an image of Brock holding Wynnifrydd, kissing her, undressing her ... no! Not after what Elyn had gone through, what she'd sacrificed for her one true love. Angrily, she spit upon the rune and swore. "May you both bloody rot in hell," she muttered, and turned her back on her handiwork. She scrambled up the bank and started to swing into the saddle again just as she heard the sound of a horse approaching. From the direction in which Brock had disappeared. Damn!

Her mare snorted and pricked her ears.

"Shh." Elyn touched the animal's velvet-soft nose, but the anxious mare sidestepped and minced.

The hoofbeats grew louder. Horse and rider were fast approaching.

Elyn would have to hide under the span again. She pulled on the reins just as an owl hooted and flapped its great wings overhead.

The mare started.

"Whoa—" Too late, the frightened animal reared.

Elyn's arm jerked upward. Hard. One sharp hoof hit her chin with a hard crack. "Ow!" Pain splintered in her jaw. The reins slipped from her fingers. Her boots slid on the muddy ground. Elyn fell backward, tumbling down the steep bank toward the inky black water. Desperately, scrabbling with her fingers, she tried to gain purchase.

"Elyn!" Brock's voice cut through the night.

The mare neighed shrilly.

She caught hold of a root. Held fast.

"Elyn!"

Oh, Brock, you miserable cur of a man.
Her throat was thick, her arm aching as she tried hard to regain her footing. But her boots slipped in the slick mud. She tried to clutch harder, to hoist herself upward. But the root snapped and she tumbled backward, rolling upon the hard rocks, unable to stop herself, scraping and banging against stone and earth and roots. She scrabbled for a handhold, slid ever faster downward until she splashed into the icy, swift river.

Water as cold as demon's piss dragged her down, pulling at her clothes, carrying her into the swift current. Shivering and gasping screaming, she fought and flailed, stared back at the bridge as she bobbed in the frigid torrent of a river. Through a swirling raging blur, she saw him. The lone rider holding fast to the reins of his mount. Moonlight played upon his features and she recognized Brock, the traitor who had seduced her and turned against her.

I loved you. You pathetic bastard, I loved you!

Then she was pulled under.

Where the devil was Brock? Wynnifrydd tried to make conversation with Brock's father, but Nevyll of Oak Crest was half dead, a lord who should have long ago stepped down and let his son rule. She walked with the old man around the sorry excuse of a keep with its crumbling walls and overgrown gardens and pathetic workers. Oh, they were a miserable lot, and when she became Lady of Oak Crest, she intended to change things.

The first thing she planned was to find new servants who knew how to behave, who showed proper respect, who bowed and curtsied and
hurried
to do the tasks she commanded, instead of these lazy creatures who barely acknowledged her. Take that slovenly woman who tended to her while she was visiting. Daisy. A wretched beast with crooked teeth, ferretlike eyes, and a nose that twitched as if she could sense her own bad smell.

Wynnifrydd shuddered at the thought of the fat woman combing her hair or helping her into her dresses. She'd almost rather do the job herself.

As they made their way to the chapel through a thick mist, she noticed a few of the workers leering at her. Hideous idiots with ogling eyes, they seemed to undress her as she passed. Two men pretended to be thatching the roof of one of the dingy huts; another peered at her as he honed an ax against his whetstone. From beneath an overhanging brow and an uneven fringe of reddish hair, his eyes followed her, his thick lips curving evilly. She hastened her step along the stone path that curved toward the chapel.

Even the House of God appeared worn and eroded, the stone walls rough and covered in years of dust and dirt, the door hanging at an angle from its jamb. Nearby, pigs were rooting and grunting and a boy with a stick chased after a snarling speckled bitch and four scrawny, yipping whelps.

Baron Nevyll didn't seem to notice that the dogs nearly ran her over. He too was a useless, tired man. It was no wonder his servants were unfit; they had a pathetic example in Nevyll of Oak Crest. She wondered how this man could possibly have sired a strong, strapping son such as Brock. 'Twas like night to day. She could only think that Brock's mother was a strong woman, one with fire, one with passion, for she couldn't imagine Lord Nevyll having ever been a warrior or a leader.

Unlike his son. A tall, well-muscled man with snapping green eyes and a fierce, uncompromising countenance. A man who once he had touched her had branded her as forever his.

"Come along," Baron Nevyll whispered in his creaky, irritating voice. "Let us speak to the priest about the upcoming wedding."

"Yes, let's," she said with a smooth, comforting smile as she sidestepped a puddle. The old goat. Nevyll of Oak Crest had agreed to the wedding only because of the dowry attached to her. And even Brock had been swayed by the wealth of Fenn, though Wynnifrydd preferred to think that her bridegroom was marrying her because he loved her.

But there was Elyn to consider. Brock had always had an eye for that one. 'Twas lucky that Elyn had been pledged to Kelan of Penbrooke.

As she entered the chapel Wynnifrydd glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the stable, where a young boy was whittling and another dozed beneath the overhang of the building. Lazy, lazy curs. Wynnifrydd pondered how she would take care of them and all the other disgusting, useless creatures as soon as she was married.

Surely Brock would return today, as it had been a couple days since Elyn's wedding, if that was where he had been. That particular thought lodged painfully in her mind. His "hunting excursion" seemed like a weak excuse for something darker. Something nefarious. Perhaps he had tried to stop Elyn from marrying Penbrooke ... but if so, he'd failed, for already Wynnifrydd's spies had returned to Oak Crest, a mere day from Lawenydd, with the news that Elyn was married and on her way to Penbrooke.

Good.

The priest, a fat, shuffling man with a sickly smile stitched to his lips, was hurrying toward her, past the pews, the few candles flickering as he passed. He extended his fleshy hands, making her skin crawl.

"Welcome," he said, and she noticed the thin web of veins running from his bulbous nose to his cheeks. No doubt he drank more of the castle wine than he should have. Well, that would change, of course. He took her hand in both of his and she forced herself not to withdraw from him.

"Father Duncan," she whispered. "Please, tell us of the service for the wedding."

The priest glanced from her to the baron.

"Should we not wait for Sir Brock to return? Where is he?"

Good question, she thought, though she wouldn't voice her concerns. She couldn't help the suspicion that crept through her brain, the suspicion that he was, even at this moment, with another woman.

* * * * *

Kelan drove his men hard, and Kiera felt that she was going to die of exhaustion as she clung to the saddle pommel and guided her mount. The group bound for Penbrooke had not been able to leave Lawenydd until nigh midnight, though Kiera's father had pleaded with Kelan to await morning. But Kelan and Tadd would not hear of delaying their journey with their mother so perilously close to death's door.

They had not stopped until the following evening, when Kiera almost collapsed from fatigue.

Surviving on little food and with only a few hours' rest, Kiera's entire body ached. It had now been three days since she took her sister's place at the altar, and their journey was far from over.

The beasts were muddy and tired, the handful of men grumbling, especially the big, oafish Orvis, whom she sometimes caught staring at her—not leering, just looking at her as if she were some kind of puzzling creature. Throughout most of the journey the rain had been incessant, a steady cold drizzle that spat from a leaden sky.

Kiera was miserable. And weary. She'd had only one short night of sleep with Kelan. In their hastily pitched tent they had made love, sleeping only after they were both sated, and rising a scant three or four hours later to ride again. 'Twas but a few days since she'd donned Elyn's wedding dress and knelt at the altar to become Kelan's wife, but in that time she'd slept little.

Nor had she told him the truth. Each time she'd tried to explain about the vials, she had been interrupted. Kelan, preoccupied with his mother's health and the ride, had not mentioned them again. He'd become distant. Whenever he looked upon her there was a dark mistrust in his eyes. Worse yet, she thought as she rode her once-spirited mare, lying had become second nature to her. She'd deceived her father, insisting that she had to go with Elyn to help her "settle into" her new role as the Lady of Penbrooke. And she'd taken advantage of him by slipping away and then, astride her horse at Kelan's side, waving as if she were Elyn, knowing that with his feeble eyesight, in the darkness and the confusion of horses and men, he would not realize what she was doing. If he had any questions, Hildy would have explained that she could see Kiera on one horse and Elyn on another.

There was no doubt that her soul would burn in hell for all her deceptions. Someday, she would have to right her wrongs.

Then find your sister and tell the truth.

Bone tired, her hood pulled high enough to hide her eyes from the soldiers riding to her left and right, Kiera clucked encouragement to her weary gray palfrey and watched the drops of frigid rain drip from her nose. She'd spent the past two hours contemplating telling Kelan the truth as soon as they reached Penbrooke. Or should she wait until she'd found Elyn and avoid the confession? Would it be better to blurt out what had happened and beg his forgiveness, or should she bide her time until she was certain she knew what had happened to the woman he'd supposedly married?

A wagon creaked behind her, and the opinionated priest who had married them insisted upon trying to make conversation.

"You'll love Penbrooke," Father Barton said for what seemed the dozenth time that afternoon. " 'Tis a lovely keep. Larger than Lawenydd by twice, nay, thrice, and busy ... oh my, teeming with trade, it being on the main road and all. And the lord's chambers ..." He clucked his tongue at the magnificence of the baron's quarters. " 'Tis five rooms, all connected on the highest floor of the great hall. Tapestries and rush mats specially woven, the like of which ye've never seen, I'll wager." He waited as if expecting a response, as the horses slogged on through the mud.

She sensed him staring at her, wondering about this odd woman who was Kelan's bride. She continued to look straight ahead, hoping that only her nose, red from the cold and dripping rainwater, was visible.

"And it's not just the great hall," he added when she held her tongue. "The chapel, ah, 'tis a pleasure to hold mass there. A finely carved altar and gold vessels and ... well, you'll see soon enough, as we're near now ..."