He had sacrificed everything to that responsibility, and for naught. The treaty that rested unsigned in his treasury, the treaty that made his very blood boil, made a mockery of his sacrifice. It would cost him the remainder of all he held dear.
Tynan had been a thorn in the side of Archibald Douglas too many a time for that man to have any inclination to offer palatable terms. By the treaty’s terms, Ravensmuir would be left standing, but the lairdship would be stripped of authority. When Tynan had protested the terms, Douglas had made them worse.
The lairdship would continue if and only if Tynan got a son upon the Douglas bride to be chosen for him.
But Tynan had made his nephew Malcolm his legal heir to secure Ravensmuir’s succession. For Ravensmuir, he had been prepared to wed a Douglas bride, but he was not prepared to deny his nephew’s legacy for any price. He had surrendered Rosemunde for no gain.
He cursed his own folly and pivoted, marching back to his chamber. He could have used even the smallest measure of coin to mitigate the terms of this agreement, but thanks to Rosamunde, it was gone.
The caverns were silent, the source of the beguiling perfume fading with every moment. Tynan climbed the stairs back to his chamber. He closed the secret portal in his room, leaning back against it as he considered the fire in the brazier, the comfort of this chamber.
It was then that Tynan spied what he had missed earlier. Within the sanctuary of his curtained bed, something glimmered. It looked like a star, spinning captive within the shadows of the bed, but it could be no star.
Suspicious beyond all, Tynan stepped closer. He lifted his lantern higher and the object sparkled, as if tempting him onward. It was silver, it was round, it glimmered against the indigo silk.
It was a ring.
But not just any ring. It was the ring he had given to Rosamunde. It was the ring Tynan’s father had put upon his mother’s hand, the ring Merlyn had granted to Ysabella as a sign of his protection.
There could not be two rings such as this in existence. It was silver, large enough to fill a woman’s knuckle. It was graced with three stars and three names, the names of the three kings who had visited the babe Jesus in Bethlehem.
Rosamunde had worn it on her left index finger.
It was the sole gift Tynan had ever given to her. There had been precious little he could offer to a woman who roamed the seas and claimed the most elegant goods for herself, but he had given her this and he had believed that she had realized the import of his gesture.
Perhaps she had understood, for she had taken no small risk to return it to him thus, to spurn him thus.
Tynan swallowed and reached out to take the ring, letting its considerable weight settle into his palm. He fancied that it was still warm, though that was impossible. Only when he held it did he see that it hung suspended from a single long red-gold hair.
He stood, heart seared. Rosamunde had given back the only gift that he had granted her and in exchange had taken the legacy from the caverns that he had forbidden her to claim. In so doing, she ensured the end of Ravensmuir.
How dare she?
What else had she dared?
Tynan’s fist closed tightly around the cold silver of the ring as fury erupted within him and he snapped the hair loose of its mooring. He stormed back down the stairs to his dungeon on a suspicion and found his suspicion proven aright.
His prisoner, Erik Sinclair, was gone. Tynan would have wagered that his niece Vivienne was also gone, for Rosamunde could not have lost her ability to make trouble so readily as that. He ground his teeth in frustration. This was beyond revenge, this was beyond retaliation for his harsh words.
This was a taunt that could not pass unchallenged.
Tynan returned the ring the smallest finger of his left hand, where it had ridden for years until he had granted it to Rosamunde, feeling more alive than he had in weeks.
For all was not yet resolved between himself and Rosamunde. So long as she had the relics, there was a chance that he might retrieve them from her.
Tynan fairly walked into Elizabeth, so unexpected was her presence on the stairs. The maiden halted at the sight of him, flushed, and pivoted to run to the women’s chambers.
“Halt!” Tynan roared in a tone that brooked no disobedience. Elizabeth stopped, her expression wary. Tynan beckoned her with a single finger. “You will tell me what has happened in the labyrinth this night.” She opened her mouth to protest, but Tynan shook his head. “Do not deny that you know of it. You are afoot too late to be in ignorance of Rosamunde’s visit.”
An increasingly familiar defiance lit the eye of Tynan’s youngest and favored niece. “Darg is missing. I have to find her first.”
“The spriggan can see to her own welfare for the moment, as she has done for several hundred years.” Tynan glared at Elizabeth, knowing the power of his glance. “You, however, will come immediately with me and tell me all that you know.”
He turned and strode to the chamber he used to manage Ravensmuir’s affairs, knowing full well that his niece would follow. He heard Elizabeth’s sigh of annoyance, then halted suddenly when she called after him.
“I will not tell you about Rosamunde,” she said.
Tynan pivoted to find his niece looking stubborn. “Whyever not?”
“Because you have been cruel to her, and she has always been kind,” Elizabeth said with the blunt manner that was becoming characteristic. “She loves you and you said too much in anger. I do not blame her for vexing you, for she is due an apology.”
With that declaration and a toss of her hair, Elizabeth strode into the women’s chambers and shut the door fast behind herself.
She had never before defied him.
Tynan stared at the portal in shock as the tumblers fell and a door in his own abode was locked against him by a maiden who had seen only twelve summers.
Worse, he knew that Elizabeth was right.
* * *
Vivienne was still awake when Rosamunde climbed down into the hold, a fact which the older woman noted immediately. She beckoned to Vivienne, coaxing her up onto the deck.
To Vivienne’s surprise, it was morning. She had lost track of the passage of time in the darkened hold. The sky was still overcast, though the clouds had the smooth patina of a pewter platter, and the wind was light. There was a promise of rain, but for the moment there was none. The sea still churned, though she could not see the silhouette of land in any direction.
Rosamunde must have sensed her distress at that. “It is safer to be away from the rocks and shoals of an unfamiliar shore during a storm,” she said in a consoling tone, then smiled ruefully. Vivienne could see shadows beneath her aunt’s eyes, which were no surprise given the night they had experienced, though the faint lines of age on Rosamunde’s face revealed in this light shocked Vivienne.
Rosamunde had always seemed so young and vital, though now Vivienne realized that her aunt must be some thirty summers her senior. Age seemed to have settled suddenly upon Rosamunde’s features.
Rosamunde smiled ruefully. “Though I did not expect to be blown quite this far out to sea.”
“Where are we?”
“I am not entirely certain,” Rosamunde said, more untroubled than Vivienne could possibly be. “The North Sea is vast. We can chart a course after seeing the stars this night.”
Vivienne cast a glance at the clouds above. “What if they are obscured?”
“Then we shall wait until we can see them.” Rosamunde granted Vivienne a keen glance. “You do understand that it is better to be far from the shore, do you not?”
“I suppose there is sense in that.”
Rosamunde slipped an arm around Vivienne’s shoulders. “You must have been thinking of your parents last night, and their unfortunate demise. Recognize that I know the seas better than most who ply their trade upon them. I have survived a thousand storms, many far worse than what we endured last night, and I will survive a thousand more.” The gleam of determination in Rosamunde’s eyes persuaded Vivienne of the truth of that, as little else might have done.
She stood at the rail beside her aunt, soothed despite herself by the rhythm of the sea’s undulation. She was exhausted in truth, perhaps more so than Rosamunde might have been.
“I had thought I might find you abed with Tynan’s prisoner,” Rosamunde mused finally.
Vivienne shrugged. “As perhaps, did I.” She did not precisely know why Erik had spurned her. Vivienne suspected that there was a deeper root to his rejection than exhaustion, that he still did not trust her, and that given his choice, he would have left her at Ravensmuir.
So dejected was she by that possibility that she wondered whether her quest was doomed to failure. She had already promised her all to him, she had told him the truth, but apparently to no avail. The man had too many secrets for her to be certain.
On impulse, she pulled Erik’s dagger from her belt and offered it to Rosamunde. “What can you tell me of this blade? It has an inscription upon it.”
Rosamunde took the dagger and turned it in her hands, studying the hilt with care before she pulled the blade from the scabbard. The stone in the hilt seemed to command most of her interest, and she turned it in the light with apparent fascination.
“It is his?” she asked, though her tone indicated that she had concluded as much.
“A family heirloom.”
“Of course.” Rosamunde indicated the gem. “This is an old sapphire, for it has been cut with a remarkable ingenuity that could not be copied in our times. Did you note the inscription?”
“ABRAXAS?”
Rosamunde nodded. “Said to be the name of God, though there are many such names, most notably JHVH for Jehovah. This is a Greek word, claimed to be a charm for protection by many.” She glanced up. “The Greek letters that compose the word ABRAXAS have a sum of 365, which is said to be a mark of the potency of the word.”
“That is the number of days in a year,” Vivienne said, thinking of her handfast.
Rosamunde nodded again. “And the number of eons in God’s creation, the number of ranks of angels, the number of bones said to be in the human body.” She smiled. “It is said to be a strong number, represented time and again in the world shaped by God’s hands.” She shrugged. “Or it might merely be a number.” She tapped the stone again. “This gem was carved at least a thousand years ago, and has been reset time and again for its value.”
“Then it is older than the blade?”
“Of course. His family has had some wealth in their time, if they could afford to not only hold such a gem but to keep it.” Rosamunde smiled as she watched the light play in the gem. “But then, a sapphire is rumored to be a noble gem, suitable for kings and queens, one that can reputedly break the stoutest iron fetters.”
Her smile broadened when Vivienne said nothing. “How unfortunate that he did not hold it while in Ravensmuir’s dungeon, for he would have had no need of your aid then.”
Vivienne did not smile at that.
Rosamunde returned her attention to the blade. “And a sapphire is said to give great joy to any who gazes into it, though I would wager that greater joy is felt by one who possesses it.” She glanced up, her expression assessing. “I would grant a good price for this weapon.”
Vivienne was horrified. “No! I cannot sell it! It is not mine to surrender to another.”
“Yet it is in your possession.”
“Erik granted it to me in trust. It is rightfully his, all the same, for it is a legacy from his father.”
“Ah.” Rosamunde studied Vivienne, her gaze perceptive. “You think that you love this man,” she said, her amusement evident.
Vivienne bristled. “It would be no jest if I did.”
Rosamunde shook her head and gazed across the sea for a moment, then looked back at Vivienne. She returned the dagger. “You are young to be so certain of such matters, but then, perhaps you are certain because you are young.”
“What is that to mean?”
Rosamunde did not answer, merely granted Vivienne a piercing glance. “What you must resolve, Vivienne, is whether you love the tale of him or the truth of him. A man’s story is not his sum, and we both know well enough that you have a fondness for tales.”
“I know the difference between tales and truth,” Vivienne said with some pride. Rosamunde did not appear to be convinced, but she did not care. “It is of little import though.”
“Whyever not?”
“Because he loves another woman.” A slow drizzle of rain began then, enveloping the two women and the ship in a silvery mist. It was chilly, and Vivienne shivered slightly, though she was not yet prepared to leave her aunt’s side.
She chose her words with care, for if any soul knew the answer to her woes, it was Rosamunde. “Do you know a means to make a man love a woman, Rosamunde? Surely there is a way to encourage him to see what truth is before his own eyes?”
Rosamunde laughed at the very notion. “There is no philter to make a man love you, Vivienne, at least not one that I know. Do you not see the evidence of my ignorance all around you?” She indicated the ship and its cargo with a disparaging gesture.
“I thought you loved your life at sea.”
“I loved a man more, and I surrendered all that I was and all that I desired as evidence of that love.” Rosamunde sobered as she spoke. “But my regard was not returned. He felt compelled to choose between me and his property. It was a simple matter for him to chose a pile of stones over whatever merit I might possess. That would be a humbling lesson for any woman, though it was perhaps a harsher one for me.” Rosamunde seemed to note Vivienne’s disappointment, for she laid a consoling hand upon her niece’s shoulder. “If you wish for a man to desire you, however, that is readily achieved.”
“How?” Vivienne felt a sudden measure of hope. Surely Erik would have greater regard for her if she did bear his son? “Is there a potion for that?”
Rosamunde smiled sadly. “It is no sorcery, Vivienne. To compel a man to desire you, you have only to desire him.” She shrugged. “Whether that will sate you, if is his love that you desire in truth, is another matter altogether.”