to another viewing post, a spot that would allow him to look down upon the prisoner, who lay motionless upon his bed.
Alone.
Yes!
Relief slipped through the Redeemer. Mayhap the fascination he sensed Morwenna had for the prisoner was only his own fear getting the better of him.
Then where is she?
A good question, he thought. A very good question.
One that bothered him.
He could search the castle, but he didn’t have the time. There was a chance that he would be missed.
It was a chance he dared not take.
CHAPTER FIVE
“ W ho are you?” Morwenna whispered as she slipped into the room and stared down at the beaten man. Biting her lip, she ran a fingertip along his bruised cheek as she gazed upon him. The room was dark, only the glow from the firelight allowing her to view his distorted features. Swollen eyes, discolored skin, and a beard covering his jaw. Was he really Carrick?
Her throat constricted at the thought.
Don’t believe it. This man could be anyone. A thief who stole the ring with its crest of Wybren. A man with hair as dark as Carrick’s. An imposter who happens to be of the same height.
But why would he pretend to be Carrick of Wybren, a man who was thought to be either dead or a traitor to his family, even a murderer?
Murderer . She shrank from the thought. Surely not Carrick. Aye, he was a blackheart. True, he took her virtue along with her heart, but a killer? Nay. She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Looking intently at the stranger, she attempted to see Carrick’s face beneath the bruised features, imagine the man she’d loved so recklessly lying upon this bed, his eyes shut, his chest barely rising and falling with his shallow breaths.
Over the past ten days, he’d begun to heal, yet the scabbing and swelling destroyed the natural contours of his face.
Think, Morwenna, think. You saw him naked. Were there not old scars or marks upon his skin that would confirm that he is Carrick? She closed her eyes for a second, envisioned the rogue she remembered.
Tall, with a chiseled jaw and a nose that wasn’t quite straight, teeth that flashed in sarcastic humor, eyes that seemed to see to the far reaches of her soul. His hair had been black, with a bit of a wave, his muscles taut and close to the skin, not an ounce of fat upon his frame. Scars? Had there been evidence of an old wound upon his body? A birthmark or mole upon his skin?
For the past three years she’d tried to forget him, to force her mind away from the vibrant images of a man who had so heartlessly left her, a man who everyone had warned her was a callous rogue, a man to whom she’d so recklessly offered her heart.
Now, looking down at him, studying the battered lines of his face, she knew not who he was.
So her efforts had been wasted.
Unable to sleep, she had risked leaving her chamber and made her way to the latrine and then waited until the guard himself had gone to relieve himself before slipping inside the prisoner’s chamber. She would be found out, of course, but at least she wouldn’t have to have the discussion or argument at the door. And, truth be known, the guard, Isa, Alexander, even the sheriff himself could complain mightily about her conduct, but there was little anyone could do about it. She was the lady of the castle. Her word was law.
Again she glanced down at the man, studying him intently. Could it be? She cleared her throat and then whispered, “Carrick?”
No response. Not even the slightest movement of an eyeball beneath his discolored eyelids. She bit her lip. Carrick had blue eyes. She wondered as she stared down at the wounded man just what color his were.
There was one certain way to find out. Carefully, her finger trembling, she touched his eyelid. Some of the swelling had decreased over the past week, and she was able to force his eyelid upward. The bloody orb beneath made her cringe. The white part was bright red but the iris was as blue as a morning sky.
Like Carrick’s.
Her heart
Alone.
Yes!
Relief slipped through the Redeemer. Mayhap the fascination he sensed Morwenna had for the prisoner was only his own fear getting the better of him.
Then where is she?
A good question, he thought. A very good question.
One that bothered him.
He could search the castle, but he didn’t have the time. There was a chance that he would be missed.
It was a chance he dared not take.
CHAPTER FIVE
“ W ho are you?” Morwenna whispered as she slipped into the room and stared down at the beaten man. Biting her lip, she ran a fingertip along his bruised cheek as she gazed upon him. The room was dark, only the glow from the firelight allowing her to view his distorted features. Swollen eyes, discolored skin, and a beard covering his jaw. Was he really Carrick?
Her throat constricted at the thought.
Don’t believe it. This man could be anyone. A thief who stole the ring with its crest of Wybren. A man with hair as dark as Carrick’s. An imposter who happens to be of the same height.
But why would he pretend to be Carrick of Wybren, a man who was thought to be either dead or a traitor to his family, even a murderer?
Murderer . She shrank from the thought. Surely not Carrick. Aye, he was a blackheart. True, he took her virtue along with her heart, but a killer? Nay. She couldn’t believe it. Wouldn’t. Looking intently at the stranger, she attempted to see Carrick’s face beneath the bruised features, imagine the man she’d loved so recklessly lying upon this bed, his eyes shut, his chest barely rising and falling with his shallow breaths.
Over the past ten days, he’d begun to heal, yet the scabbing and swelling destroyed the natural contours of his face.
Think, Morwenna, think. You saw him naked. Were there not old scars or marks upon his skin that would confirm that he is Carrick? She closed her eyes for a second, envisioned the rogue she remembered.
Tall, with a chiseled jaw and a nose that wasn’t quite straight, teeth that flashed in sarcastic humor, eyes that seemed to see to the far reaches of her soul. His hair had been black, with a bit of a wave, his muscles taut and close to the skin, not an ounce of fat upon his frame. Scars? Had there been evidence of an old wound upon his body? A birthmark or mole upon his skin?
For the past three years she’d tried to forget him, to force her mind away from the vibrant images of a man who had so heartlessly left her, a man who everyone had warned her was a callous rogue, a man to whom she’d so recklessly offered her heart.
Now, looking down at him, studying the battered lines of his face, she knew not who he was.
So her efforts had been wasted.
Unable to sleep, she had risked leaving her chamber and made her way to the latrine and then waited until the guard himself had gone to relieve himself before slipping inside the prisoner’s chamber. She would be found out, of course, but at least she wouldn’t have to have the discussion or argument at the door. And, truth be known, the guard, Isa, Alexander, even the sheriff himself could complain mightily about her conduct, but there was little anyone could do about it. She was the lady of the castle. Her word was law.
Again she glanced down at the man, studying him intently. Could it be? She cleared her throat and then whispered, “Carrick?”
No response. Not even the slightest movement of an eyeball beneath his discolored eyelids. She bit her lip. Carrick had blue eyes. She wondered as she stared down at the wounded man just what color his were.
There was one certain way to find out. Carefully, her finger trembling, she touched his eyelid. Some of the swelling had decreased over the past week, and she was able to force his eyelid upward. The bloody orb beneath made her cringe. The white part was bright red but the iris was as blue as a morning sky.
Like Carrick’s.
Her heart
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