Wraith

By Kate

The following is a work of fan-fiction, and is not intended to infringe on the copyrights held by ABC Television, Gil Grant Productions, or any other holder of Covington Cross Copyrights.  No profit is being made from this story–the author is simply continuing the saga of the Greys (particularly one curly-haired second son) in her own warped way.  

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This one is for Karen who waited patiently (a very, very long time) for a story I promised oh, so many moons ago.  Okay, so maybe this *isn’t* exactly the plot we discussed, but it’s still filled with lots and lots of scenes involving “that curly-haired guy”  ;-)  And to anyone who remembers Penelope Brandleford from “Chance Encounter” she makes a repeat visit.

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RATED: R (There is nothing explicit in this story . . . no sex, language or violence, but there’s plenty of innuendo, and some of the subject-matter left me a little uncomfortable tagging it with a PG-13.  The R rating is probably too strong, but I thought I’d play it safe.)  Comments welcome.

WHEW!  Now get busy reading!

Wraith

Thomas Grey raised his goblet, offering yet another ingratiating grin over the top of the ornate pewter object.  Beside him, his second eldest son, Richard uttered a half-vocal groan, bowing his head to avoid commenting on the latest witticism voiced by Sir Gervase Woodward, Lord of Glenchase.  With a reprimanding glare, Thomas nudged Richard in the ribs.  Woodward, who was too drunk to notice, guffawed loudly at his own crassness and bellowed for more wine. 

Seated at a long table carved from sturdy oak, Woodward, Thomas and Richard shared a sumptuous late-day feast with eighteen other guests in the Great Hall of Candlemyre Manor.  Home to Stanton Brandleford, the stately edifice was approximately four days ride from Covington Cross—a journey the Greys had completed only that morning.  Though Armus, and Lady Elizabeth Leland had accompanied Thomas and Richard on the trek, both were presently engaged in conversation at the opposite end of the table. 

“Ah, Brandleford, you throw a mighty fine Mayfest,” the brawny Woodward commented to his host, who was seated three chairs away at the head of the table.  Snatching the wine pitcher from a wary serving girl, the inebriated noble sloshed blood-red liquid into his heavy-footed goblet.  “I haven’t seen half your guests in much too long.” 

“Not long enough for my taste,” Richard muttered. 

Thomas, who heard, pressed his lips into a tight line.  Much to his chagrin, his twenty-two year old son was frequently disrespectful.  “I heartily agree, Gervase.  It’s far too long between visits.”  Dropping his hand in a seeming gesture of camaraderie, Thomas clapped Richard sharply on the leg.  “Not to overshadow our host, but my son was just commenting how pleased he’d be to have you provide a lesson in swordmanship.” 

“Father.”  Richard’s glance was quick-silver and sharp. 

“Would he now?”  Woodward puffed beneath the compliment.  Leaning heavily on the table, he stared directly at Richard, his deep-sunken eyes struggling to focus.  “I’ve heard about this whippet.  Quick and cunning with a blade, they say, but there’s always room for young knights to learn from old warmongers, eh Thomas?” 

“Well said.” Straightening his shoulders, Thomas paused.  His posture, annoyed and vaguely combative, made the flow of conversation slow around him.  “That’s the problem with our younger knights.” His eyes sidled to his son. “They lack respect.” 

Clearly perturbed, Richard tensed.  Ignoring Woodward, he stared at Thomas.  “Perhaps because respect needs to be earned, rather than assumed.” 

In the din of the room, Richard’s precisely enunciated words carried across the table, drawing all remaining conversation to an end.  Shocked by the tone of voice he’d taken with their father, Armus half-rose from his chair.  Placing her hand lightly over his wrist, Lady Elizabeth shook her head, drawing him to an immediate halt.  Mortified, he watched the embarrassing scene unfold.            

Thomas’s face darkened swiftly.  Woodward, banishing the edge of inebriation, narrowed his eyes on Richard.  “Perhaps you should give the boy a lesson in swordsmanship, Thomas.  He’s clearly forgotten the meaning of courtesy, not to mention the admiration a son should hold for his father.” 

Richard snorted.  “When there’s something to admire, I’ll reconsider.”  Pushing back his chair, he stood, oblivious to the sudden chorus of shocked gasps around him.            

Thomas gripped his arm before he could turn.  The older man’s face was white, his blue eyes dark with fury.  “Sit down!” the Lord of Covington Cross ordered between tightly clenched teeth.  Enraged, he struck Richard an open-handed blow. 

Painfully aware all eyes in the room were focused on him, Richard wrenched free. “I’ll do as I please,” he spat.  Face flushing with embarrassment and anger, he turned crisply and strode from the room.  Behind him the awkward silence was shattered by the savage fury of Thomas’s condemning curse. 

Richard never slowed as he strode down the stone corridor.  He felt heat on his face, a nervous trickle of sweat on the back of his neck.  His heart bumped against his ribs, sudden and furious as the after-effects of the ugly scene flowed through his body.  He hadn’t expected Thomas to strike him, but knew it was deserved.  Did I really say those things to my father?   Briefly closing his eyes, he relived Thomas’s departing curse.  Though he’d only caught part of it, it had been concise enough for Brandleford’s guests to realize  irreparable damage had been done.  There could be no doubt father and son had reached a crossroads. 

Breath quickening, Richard passed from the castle, into the outer courtyard.  A spring breeze caressed his face, drying cold sweat beneath the long fringe of his bangs.  To the east, the sun melted against the horizon, washing ground, trees and pitted gray stone with a veil of red and gold.  Richard followed a short path to the gardens.  He’d visited frequently enough over the years to know the twists and turns of Candlemyre.  Avoiding the large, sprawling haven where Lady Brandleford often entertained female guests, Richard entered a small box garden on the west side of the manor.  Brandleford had constructed it specifically for his daughter Penelope, hoping to soften her hard edges amid an oasis of heather, daylilies, and jasmine.  Knowing how much the younger Lady Brandleford detested anything construed to make her behave “properly” Richard deemed it the last place she or anyone else would visit. 

Feeling disoriented after the abominable scene in the Great Hall, he craved solace and privacy to examine his feelings without interruption.  Entering the garden through a narrow gate, Richard was surprised to find it in a state of disarray.   Weeds sprouted among wilted flowers and crawling vines, choking feeble life from once-thriving blossoms.  Bowers were untended and overgrown, infested with dried leaves and broken twigs.  It was as though a windstorm had ravaged the garden, and no one had bothered to remove the debris.   

Surprised, Richard walked slowly to a stone bench.  Once the focal point of the garden, it too had fallen victim to neglect.  Crowded by weeds, it’s pitted surface fouled with lichen and mold, the bench appeared uninviting and old.  As he bent to brush his hands over the cracked surface, the sharp tang of decay rose to Richard’s nostrils.  Grimacing, he glanced at the ground, expecting to find the remains of some small animal in the process of decomposition.  Though the soil was soft and spongy, sucking at the heels of his leather boots, there was no evidence of carrion. 

“Have you found my locket?” 

Richard jerked at the unexpected voice.  Startled, he realized a woman had slipped from the bower of vines and twining hedgerows behind him.  She was perhaps a few years older than Armus.  Long, blonde hair hung unbound about her shoulders, her face sharp and inquisitive, like that of a bird.  Though far from beautiful, the large pools of her black eyes and the sheer, almost alabaster cast of her skin made her oddly intoxicating.  Failing to recognize her, Richard guessed she was one of Brandleford’s many guests, come for the Mayfest. 

“I’m sorry.”  Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, something about her sudden appearance left him flustered.  “I didn’t realize anyone else was here.” 

As though transfixed, she stepped nearer, her eyes wide and engulfing.  A strange sense of alarm skittered along the edge of Richard’s nerves.  “I can’t find my locket,” she repeated.  “Will you help me?” 

Richard wet his lips.  Up close he could see fine blue veins under the near-white cast of her oval face.  Her blonde hair was pale, like milk and butter, her eyes black as midnight.  Frail, almost insubstantial, she seemed like something the wind would carry away.  For one strange, unbalanced moment he wanted to protect her—to shelter her from some unnamed force dancing mockingly beyond his grasp. His throat tightened, his mouth suddenly dry.  “What is your name?” he asked. 

Raising her hand, the woman stroked gentle fingers across his cheek.  Her touch was unnaturally cold, icy as morning air conjured from a high mountain lake.  Like her gaze, the brush of her fingers was riveting, and Richard found he could not move.  Every muscle in his body tensed as she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the lips.  “I am Rowena,” she whispered.  “Promise to help me, Richard of Covington Cross.” 

He didn’t remember telling her his name.  There was a sudden ache in his head—a twinge of pain, that scuttled down his neck with the feather-light legs of a spider.  “I—” But no words would come to his cumbersome tongue.  Her arms slipped behind his neck, her fingers tangling in the long strands of his hair.  Richard gasped, feeling the renewed infusion of cold in his body.  And then her lips were on his again, and all he wanted to do was kiss her—to surrender his warmth in the shattering influx of sensation she stirred.  Wrapping his arms about her, Richard drew her slender body closer, crushing her lips beneath his as he took control of the kiss.   

Abruptly she jerked away.  “Someone’s coming.”  

Confused, he grappled with the hollow sensation of emptiness her departure inspired.  “Rowena—” 

Her fingers slipped from his.  With a single glance over her shoulder, she vanished among the tangled trunks of interlocking trees.  

Richard swallowed, his throat dry.  The crunch of twigs and leaves echoed through the air as  footsteps approached behind him.  Whirling, he came face to face with Armus, as his brother emerged around a hedgerow.   

“There you are.”  Armus’s voice was flat, his expression unforgiving.  One glance at his set face, and Richard had little doubt as to his motive.  After the scene in the Great Hall, it was expected his brother would have a word or two of unwelcome advice. 

Sighing, surrendering to the inevitable, Richard laced a hand through his unruly curls.  “I’m not in the mood for a lecture, if that’s why you’re here.”   

Frowning, Armus crossed his arms over his chest.  Between his height, and the stony set of his features, his presence was intimidating.  Nettled by his stance, Richard began to pace, his own posture growing defensive.  Muscles tightened across his shoulders and neck.  “This doesn’t concern you, Armus.  It’s between me and father.” 

 “What is wrong with you?”  Incensed, Armus shook his head.  “You were at father’s throat even before we left Covington.  I know you’ve had moments in the past when you didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but Richard—” Spreading his hands wide, Armus groped for words  “If I hadn’t heard it with my own ears, I’d strangle any man crass enough to imply you’d degrade father in public.”  When the rebuff brought no response, Armus snagged his brother by the arm, wrenching him to an immediate halt.  “Richard, have you lost all sanity?” 

“Apparently.”  Irked, Richard pulled free.  Still disoriented over Rowena’s sudden appearance and hasty departure, he found it difficult to concentrate on anything.  Something unnamed gnawed at his insides, sending a prickle down his spine.  Frigid, damp air wafted across the back of his neck, prompting the sudden, irrational urge to leave the garden.  “Armus, I don’t want to argue about this.  Let’s just go back inside.” 

“You’re not welcome inside, Richard.” 

It was true.  Most of the nobles would shun him after the disparaging remarks he’d made to his father.  It was a wonder Armus was even speaking to him, but then Armus was the diplomat in the family, always trying to sow peace where there was discord.  “I don’t want to stay here, Armus.”  Chilled by the crisp air, Richard shivered.  “I’ll listen to what you have to say, if that’s what you want.  But not here.”   

Unaffected, Armus studied his brother.  He wanted to shout, to throttle him, to tell him his behavior had been nothing short of reprehensible, but the look on Richard’s face stopped him.  It was not the look of a man who only moments before had callously tossed insults with little regard.  

“Armus—”  

Lost in thought, the older man failed to respond.  Richard touched his arm, and he jerked, startled by the abnormally chill feel of his brother’s fingers.  Troubled without understanding why, Armus gave a terse nod.  “I think you know what I have to say.  An apology is in order, a public one.  For father to regain face, you must humble yourself.” 

Deciding he could say no more to sway his headstrong younger brother, Armus walked stiffly from the garden.  Almost simultaneously, the anxiety Richard had been experiencing faded.  Dismissing the encounter with Armus, he turned back into the garden, glancing in the direction Rowena had vanished.  Now that his brother had left, the unnatural urge to depart had also evaporated.   Though he scoured the area, looking for the soulful, blonde-haired woman, he found no trace.   

Eventually, he gave up and returned to the castle.  The reception he received was notably frigid, even curt.  Women snubbed their noses, while men openly glared.  He had little doubt each and every Lord present wanted a turn with him in the tlting field, sword in hand, if only to teach him manners.  Deciding it was safest in his room, Richard passed the time until nightfall, hoping to avoid confrontation.  It was one matter slighting his father, another having every attending knight wanting to take a swing at him.    

Slipping into the hallway, Richard moved quietly through the concealing shadows.  Night clung to the stone walls in soft whorls of black, broken now and again, by sputtering pools of torch-light. Candlemyre Manor was quiet, draped in the folds of a star-dusted night. Reaching the lower level, Richard stepped into the yawning outdoor blackness, drawing the folds of his burgundy cloak against the night air.  A crisp breeze teased his long hair, tumbling ragged curls against his brow and collar.  Creeping along the edge of the keep, Richard moved through the gloaming into the stable.  Within, the air was warmer, thick with the odors of horse, straw and leather.  As he stepped beneath the overhang, a hand slid onto his shoulder. 

Startled, Richard whirled.  “Father.” 

Sir Thomas’s face broke with a craggy smile.  “You’re a little jumpy, aren’t you, Richard?” 

The younger man exhaled, visibly relaxing.  “You would be too, if every yokel with a longsword wanted to take a whack at you.”   

The edge of Thomas’s smile dipped in a frown.  “Yes.  About that—” A crease appeared between his brows.  Extending his hand, he touched his son’s face.  “I’m sorry I hit you.  It seemed prudent at the time.” 

“As did the words I said.”  Catching Thomas’s wrist, Richard drew his arm down, smiling ever so slightly.. “You would have enjoyed the lecture Armus gave me.  He says I have to apologize to you.  Publicly.” 

Thomas chuckled.  “Ever the diplomat.  He doesn’t realize that would ruin everything. I detest having to deceive him and Lady Elizabeth with this ridiculous charade, but there’s no other way to flush Woodward to the fore.  After the incident we staged, he should be contacting you directly.” 

Richard nodded.  He’d known from the beginning, when the King had first contacted Thomas, requesting aid in flushing out a suspected traitor, matters would grow difficult.  Even Thomas had been reluctant in asking for his assistance, hoping to handle the situation on his own.  But Thomas’s credibility and his staunch loyalty to the King were well known, thus he wasn’t a likely candidate for treasonous involvement. Richard, on the other hand, had a reputation for willfulness and arrogance, and had been known to be at cross purposes with his father on more than one occasion. Over the last few weeks both men had fed that allusion, feigning bouts of short-temper and biting remarks. Word had spread they’d been increasingly at odds, even before departing Covington Cross.  By publically slurring his father, Richard hoped Woodward would view him as someone with little scruples, ready to do anything for the right price. 

Sighing, Richard sagged against the stable wall.  “I feel horrible when we argue.  This is no different, even if it is staged.”   

Quirking a grin, Thomas laced an affectionate hand through his son’s long hair.  Snagged in a beam of moonlight, bleeding through the overhang, Richard’s unruly curls were tinted with gold.  “What?  You mean you don’t like having a free hand to spout off at me, without fear of recrimination?” 

Amused, Richard glanced sideways through slitted lashes.  “I think it’s probably best I don’t answer that.”  

“A wise decision,” Thomas agreed.  Stepping away from the wall, he glanced outside.  Though their surroundings were dark and cloaked in shadow, cloud-filtered moonlight illuminated traces of ground, rock and tree.  Clasping his hands behind his back, Thomas glanced at his son.  “I don’t like having the whole castle ready to draw and quarter you, Richard.  As soon as Woodward makes any overture remotely treasonous, we’ll turn the matter over to the King’s Guards.  I’ll wait each night at this time, but don’t risk coming here, unless you have something to report.  Woodward isn’t a fool.  He was drunk tonight, but he might not be so willing to buy our quarrel come morning.  You’re going to have to convince him you’re without principle.” 

Richard grinned cockily.  “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”  

Disturbed, Thomas frowned.  “Don’t be so sure of yourself, Richard.  If the King is right about Woodward, he’s far more dangerous then he appears.  I didn’t want you involved in the first place.  It’s that damnable attitude of yours, that made you the likely choice.”  Frustrated, Thomas scraped a hand through his beard and began to pace.  “I’d feel better if our positions were reversed and it was my neck on the line, instead of yours.” 

Richard’s eyes dipped momentarily, a sensation of warmth spreading across his middle.  Despite the many times he’d truly been at odds with Sir Thomas, there was no question of his father’s loyalty or devotion.  As the older man paused, Richard slipped a hand onto his shoulder.  “I’ll be fine.  After today’s performance, we shouldn’t have to play-act much longer.  It should be over quickly.” 

Grim-faced, Thomas nodded.  “It has to end before the Mayfest at least.  After that, contact with Woodward would appear suspicious.” 

“Agreed.”  Richard’s smile was warm and reassuring.  Pausing, he bit his lip.  “Father . . . about the Mayfest . . . you wouldn’t happen to know if Brandleford has a guest named Lady Rowena?” 

Cautious, Thomas narrowed his eyes.  “Richard, you can’t afford the distraction of female companionship—” 

“I didn’t say—” 

“You didn’t have to.  I know you too well.  Get your mind back on Woodward.” 

“You misinterpret—” 

 “—nothing.”  Thomas’s voice was sharp.  Suddenly brusque, he hiked his cloak closer on his shoulders.  “We’ve dallied here too long.  I’ll leave and enter the castle by the east gate.  You wait a few minutes and go the opposite direction.  And Richard—” Thomas cast his son a pointed glance.  “—be careful.” 

With a silent nod, Richard watched his father depart.  Sighing, he braced a hip against the nearest stall.  It was empty; warm and heady with the scent of fresh straw.  Further away a horse snorted, stamping restlessly in the darkness.  Richard listened to the soft sound of its breath, the minute shuffling of its hooves, comforted by the familiarity.  It had been difficult concentrating on much of anything since his encounter with Rowena.  Something about the strange blonde-haired woman  nibbled at his subconscious, dancing just beyond the fringe of his thoughts.  She’d been unusually forward, while managing to project an aura of innocence and helplessness.  Was it possible a woman who acted so boldly, could also be naive?  She had obviously learned his name from one of the other guests at the castle, but why trouble to do so?  On another occasion he might have been flattered by her attention, but tonight it felt wrong. His father was right—he couldn’t afford the distraction. 

Shaken from his thoughts, Richard realized the clinging odors of stable, horse and straw had abruptly soured.  The air smelled loamy and damp, festering with mold at the edges.  The very atmosphere was weighted, trapped in a fragile prism without sound or motion.  Wrapped in eerie silence, the stable grew deathly still.  Richard tensed, the hair on his neck prickling as the scent of decay drifted to his nostrils.  An infusion of ice bled through his bones. 

“Richard.” 

He turned, finding Rowena standing just behind him.  As in the garden, her abrupt appearance left him oddly unbalanced.  She was dressed as she had been earlier, in a gown of soft blue with a foam-colored sash.  Her white-blonde hair, still unbound, flowed about her shoulders, the luxurious cascade of curls almost as pale as her milky flesh.  Her eyes, large and black, appeared to have no pupils at all.  Richard found he could not look away from her bottomless gaze.

Struggling for words, he wet his lips.  His mind felt slow and confused, his movements stiff.  “Rowena . . . what are you doing here?” 

She tilted her head, looking at him quizzically as though the answer were obvious.  “Looking for my locket, though I’m sure it’s in the garden.  I’d rather be in the garden, Richard, wouldn’t you?” 

“I—” The words stuck in his throat as she stepped nearer.  Her smile was winter-white with the promise of innocence and spring, lingering beneath.  When she raised a delicate hand, brushing icy  fingers across his cheek, Richard closed his eyes.   

“Your skin is so warm,” she whispered, leaning closer.  “You want to kiss me, don’t you?” 

 “Yes.”  He couldn’t say the word quickly enough.  Couldn’t move fast enough to hold her in his arms, claiming her pale lips beneath his.  He jerked at the contact—at the hungry intrusion of her tongue, the startling burst of cold invading his body. 

“Not here,” she whispered, drawing away, twining her fingers with his.  Riveted by her compelling black eyes, Richard followed mutely as she led him to the garden.  Buried deep in his mind, a nerve of warning screamed for him to leave.  But one whispering touch of her icy fingertips . . . one lash-veiled glance of her eyes, quelled the shrill insistence.  

Draped with the bloated shadows of deepest night, the abandoned garden seemed the fantastical creation of a twisted mind.  Trees and hedgerows twined in nightmarish contortions—groping silhouettes splattered with moonlight, like streamers of celestial blood.   The scent of decay was stronger than before, reeking of black earth, mold, and diseased flesh.  Overcome by the stench, Richard gagged. 

Rowena raised her hand, lightly touching his brow.  “It will pass,” she assured.  Her fingertips lingered, savoring the contact with his skin.  A sliver of yearning entered her eyes.  “You’re flesh is so warm,” she marveled again. 

Richard breathed easier, as the stench faded to vague distraction.  The prickling along his neck traveled down his spine, fanning alive every nerve of warning he possessed.  “I . . .I should leave,” he said with difficulty.   

“I want you to stay.”  Her fingers slipped behind his neck, feathering the moon-dusted curls on his collar.  Her eyes were engulfing as she gazed up at him.  “I’m so cold, Richard.  Lay with me and keep me warm.” 

His throat was dry.  He no longer questioned the otherworldliness of the situation, or that every touch of her fingers depleted the limited warmth in his body.  As wrong as he knew the circumstance to be, he hadn’t the will to refuse her.  Whatever spell she’d woven, it ensnared him completely.  Surrendering to the inevitable, he wrapped his arms about her, claiming her chill lips beneath the heat of his own. 

In the garish, decaying garden, Richard gave her his warmth. 

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Sunlight streamed across his face, bright and dazzling.  Richard groaned, awakening to the sting of light beneath his eyes.  Disoriented, he sat forward.  The movement induced a surprising barrage of aches, coupled with the strain of protesting muscles. He felt as though he’d spent a day in battle, his strength sapped to the point of near-exhaustion.  An image flickered to life on the edge of his mind—a woman with white-blonde hair and cold, bone-colored flesh.  A woman who had allowed him to make love to her with a passion he hadn’t thought he possessed.   

Half ashamed by his amoral actions, Richard bowed his head into his hands.  Belatedly, he realized he was still in the neglected garden, thoroughly naked, but for the cloak he’d wrapped around himself to ward off the night air.  Images and memories awakened groggily, vying for attention. 

Something deviant and unholy had touched him during the night.  Something with fish-cold lips and skeletal fingers.  The images in his mind blurred.  One moment he recalled an intoxicating woman with sun-white hair and mesmerizing eyes of shadow.  The next, an apparition draped in grave-clothes, with cold, groping hands. As that impression surfaced—powerful and repugnant—Richard sucked down a  horrified breath. 

“It was a dream.  Just a bloody dream,” he said aloud.  But the touch of cold lingered on his body, the feel of questing lips on his flesh.  She’d made his body respond in a way no woman  had before, nor was likely to again.  Disturbed by the memory, Richard gathered his scattered clothing and dressed quickly.  Though the morning air was strung with the early warmth of spring, he shivered.  Wanting to put the garden and its unsettling occupant behind him, Richard strode quickly for the castle.   

He hadn’t taken but a few steps from the neglected bower of trees and hedgerows, when a petulant voice drew him up short.  “Richard!  If you think sneaking into that wretched garden is going to keep you from crossing paths with me, you’re sadly mistaken.” 

Inwardly sighing, Richard drew to a halt.  The quick, agitated steps behind him alerted him to Penelope Brandleford’s presence moments before she appeared.  Her thin, pixieish face was drawn in disapproval as she stalked angrily to his side.  For a petite, sixteen-year-old, she had the presence of a battle-seasoned warlord.  “You’ve been avoiding me.” 

“I’ve been avoiding the castle, Pen.  In case you hadn’t noticed, half of your father’s guests want my head on a pole.” 

“That’s only the men,” Penelope countered saucily.  Folding her arms over her chest, she stared at him boldly.  “The other half—the women—want you in their bed.” 

Richard ground his teeth together.  “It’s no wonder your father hasn’t had any luck marrying you off,” he muttered.  It was routine for them—she, trying to shock him with her boldness, he, flustered by the advances of a child.  Only she wasn’t a child anymore.  Even irked, Richard couldn’t help notice the becoming fit of her embroidered, emerald gown, or the fact that her body had rounded in all the right places.  After the unsettling night he’d spent with Rowena, he felt dirty even thinking of her in such a manner.  Despite her jaded facade, Richard was quite sure Penelope Brandleford, was innocent in the ways of love. 

Smiling up at him, Penelope linked her arm through his.  “I heard that, My Lord.  The only reason Father hasn’t had any luck marrying me off is because I’m still waiting for one particular knight to ask.” 

Richard scowled.  “Pen—” 

She cracked a hand against his shoulder.  “Who said it was you—you puffed-up, vain peacock.” 

Richard raked a hand through his rumpled hair, dislodging bits of clinging grass.  “You sound like John Mullens.” 

“I’m much prettier.” 

“That’s a matter of opinion.” 

“Richard!”  Penelope shrieked. 

Satisfied he’d gained the upper hand, Richard smiled.  Although he’d always avoided her in the past, it was somehow comforting falling into a familiar exchange with Penelope.  The sight of her freckle-dusted nose crinkled in distaste, dispelled the memory of Rowena’s lips on his body.  Though he’d hungered for her touch last night, the recollection of it now, left him feeling slightly  nauseous.  

“You shouldn’t be seen with me,” Richard told the elfin-like girl at his elbow.  “People will talk.” 

“They’re already talking.  How could you be so rude to your father?” 

Richard frowned.  She was harder to shake then he thought.  “I’m arrogant and unscrupulous, or didn’t you know that?”  He started walking, hoping she would take the remark as a brush-off and leave.  Determined, she followed on his heels, her shorter strides double-timed to match his long-legged ones. 

“Arrogant yes, but you’re one of the most honorable men I know.” 

“Penelope.  Don’t do this.”   

“You’re an oaf, Richard Grey.”  She gave a short huff of air when he wouldn’t stop walking.  They were laboring up an incline, her gown flapping loudly about her ankles.  Dew-soaked grass clung to the hem, bleeding damp stains on the expensive material.  As they reached the inner courtyard, a number of servants stopped their work, casting curious glances in their direction. “You’re determined to make a spectacle of yourself, but I can’t fathom why.  By the looks of you, you’d be better off asking your father’s forgiveness than courting stubbornness. You look the role of drunkard, Richard.” 

He halted abruptly.  What she said probably wasn’t far from the truth.  He had a splitting headache, and his eyes were near slits against the glare of sunlight.  His mouth felt coated and dry,  his body violated.  “I had a rough night, Pen.” 

She snorted.  “Who with?”  

Annoyed, he started walking again.  “That’s none of your business.” 

Penelope made a face. “I wouldn’t care if you slept with the whole castle.” 

 “Perhaps I will.” 

She was losing patience.  “You’re such a harlot, Richard.” 

“Women are harlots,” he returned indifferently.  His glance however, was sharp.  “And sixteen-year-old busybodies with long noses, are unwelcome irritations best swept under the rug.” 

Penelope stopped short.  He didn’t realize it until he glanced over his shoulder and found her three steps behind.  Apparently his last remark was a little too much, even for her.  He’d scored a point, but more than that he’d wounded her.  The game they often played had gone from bantering flirtation to cruel disregard.  Perhaps he’d grown a little too adept with the role he adopted for his father. 

Her expression severe, Penelope turned wordlessly and walked away.  “Wonderful,” Richard muttered.  All the times he’d tried to make her leave, when he finally succeeded, he felt awful.  Cursing softly, he continued up the path to the castle.   

Though glances were cast in his direction, the servants steered clear of him.  He encountered two of Brandleford’s guests near the stairwell, but both merely looked down their noses contemptuously.  Shrugging aside the silent condemnation, Richard trudged up the steps to the upper corridor, seeking his chambers.  It was there he found himself faced with attention he couldn’t avoid.. 

“If it isn’t the snot from the previous eve,” a rankled voice intoned off to the side.  Richard heard the tread of boots as the man who addressed him emerged from an alcove.  Tall and bearded, with neatly trimmed red hair, he presented a refined and commanding image. Richard had a vague recollection of meeting him on arrival, and thought his name was Denlark.   

Pausing outside his chambers, Richard rested his hand on the latch.  “Was there something you wanted, Lord Denlark?” 

Eyeing him coldly, the older man considered.  “If you were my son, I’d have pinned you to that table and made you apologize until your throat was raw.” 

Richard cocked a brow.  “Pity your son.” 

Bristling, Denlark surged forward.  An irrate finger jabbed against Richard’s chest.  “Sir Thomas is a friend of mine, you uppity little stripling.”  Mouth twisting, Denlark glanced contemptuously at Richard’s sheathed sword.  “If you’re as cocksure with that blade as you profess to be, I’ll be glad to put you to the test.” 

Unflustered, Richard leaned indolently against the door. “If I want exercise, I’ll call a kitchen maid.  She’d likely outlast you, and when the bout was over, at least the spoils would be worth the fight.” 

Furious, Denlark balled his hands into fists.  With obvious effort he refrained from drawing his sword.  “It’s only my loyalty to your father that keeps me from spitting you head to toe.  As ungrateful as you are, Sir Thomas would mourn your miserable passing.” 

“Cleverly evaded,” Richard taunted.  He knew the words were strictly for show.  In all likelihood, Denlark probably detested his father.  Limited patience at an end, he popped the latch on the door.  Once inside, he closed the barrier.  Beyond the stout obstruction, Denlark spewed a string of curses.  Richard lowered the lock, just as the older man’s fist connected with the frame. Swearing savagely, Denlark battered the door. Grimacing, Richard wedged a shoulder against the wood, waiting for the eruption to play itself out.  Eventually the barrage stopped, and the nobleman’s clipped footsteps receded down the corridor. 

Sighing, Richard rolled his back to the door, staring at the ceiling.  The masquerade was growing too comfortable, his insolence almost effortless.  Though he’d tread the thin line of arrogance and poise in the past, he’d never blatantly invited the contempt of others.  Before the charade was over, he’d likely alienate any supporters he had.  Hopefully, that wouldn’t include his family. 

Trudging into the room, Richard collapsed face down on the bed.  He felt like he hadn’t slept in a week.  As his eyes drifted shut, he was unaware of the presence hovering on the other side of the door.   

+++++ 

Sir Gervase Woodward emerged from the shadowed alcove where he’d been sheltered throughout the exchange with Denlark.  Walking unhurriedly down the corridor, he turned the corner, coming face-to-face with the red-haired nobleman.  

“Well?”  Denlark asked.   

“He’s got no love of his father, that’s for sure,” Woodward returned.  “The question is—is he unethical enough to feel the same about his King?” 

Denlark rolled his shoulders.  “Perhaps we should ask.” 

The black-bearded man was thoughtful.  “All in good time,” he said.  “I want to be certain of his motives before I ask Richard Grey to commit treason.” 

+++++ 

Richard slept through most of the day, thoroughly exhausted, his body riddled with chills.  When afternoon faded to dusk, he summoned the servants and had them draw a scalding bath.  Despite the luxuriant heat of the water enveloping his flesh, Richard couldn’t banish the cold. It clung to his bones, resurrecting memories of Rowena, and the uncharacteristic loss of control he’d experienced in the garden.   

Resting his head against the rim of the tub, he let his eyes skim over the room.  Sunlight puddled through the windows, soaking the floor in scarlet and gold. One of the servants had left the window ajar, permitting the whispering intrusion of a scented breeze.  Richard shivered, sinking lower beneath the water.  Steam fondled his face with vaporous breath as heat from the tub  enveloped him.  The edges of his long hair trailed in the water, buoyed and weightless.   

Below, the nobles would be gathering, ready to feast, drink, and share war stories.   In a few days, games of chance and skill would commence on the castle grounds, along with festivities geared toward frivolity and merry-making.  On any other occasion Richard would have enjoyed the Mayfest.  Now he only wanted it to end.  He ached to return to Covington Cross and a life with some semblance of order. 

Groaning, he dragged himself from the tub, shivering as the water dripped from his naked flesh.  He dried hurriedly, then wrapped himself in a robe, pausing to sit on the edge of the bed.  Belatedly, he noticed the veins running on the underside of his forearms.  His flesh was paler than usual, almost sickly in appearance, the veins, dark blue by contrast.  Concerned, he turned his arms over.  His hands were fine, the rest of his skin normal in hue.  Deciding the abnormality was nothing to be concerned about, Richard shoved from the bed and gathered his clothing.   

He dressed slowly, taking his time with the well-tailored tunic and pants.  Hues of walnut and forest green blended in the garments, enhancing the intensity of his eyes, the rich highlights of his hair.  His sword belt followed, familiar and comforting, as the weight of the weapon settled against his hip.  His acceptance in the Great Hall was bound to be anything but cordial, but hopefully would not result in swordplay. 

Drawing a breath, Richard decided there was little to be gained by remaining in his room.  Setting his face in a bored, placid mask, he headed downstairs and made his way among the other guests. 

+++++ 

Sir Thomas felt a hush fall over the room the moment his son entered.  Conversation dwindled,  then stilled, as hostile, narrowed eyes turned toward Richard.  Thomas had to admire the younger man’s audacity as he sauntered through the crowd, unfazed by the bevy of bold stares.  Claiming a flagon of wine from a serving wench, Richard stopped to examine a platter of venison.  Removing his knife, he speared a piece of meat, then took a seat at the main table.  Gradually the din of conversation resumed.   

Thomas found he’d been unobtrusively holding his breath.  He knew he needed to play the role of outraged father, but looking at his son, he recognized subtle signs of fatigue.  Richard was all poise and polished arrogance on the outside, but Thomas could see beyond the facade to the heavy toll the masquerade exacted.   

Unaware he was scowling, he cleared his throat grumpily.  At his side, Lady Elizabeth Leland, placed a comforting hand on his arm.  “Don’t make a scene, Thomas,” she pleaded.  Unlike the other night, when dinner was a formal sit-down affair, tonight’s repast invited guests to mingle freely, visiting any number of serving stations scattered throughout the hall.  Thomas and Elizabeth lingered near the open fireplace, sharing wine with Lord Brandleford and Armus. 

“I’ll ask him to leave, if that’s your wish, Thomas,” Brandleford said directly. 

Coming to his senses, Thomas shook his head.  Whatever his inner thoughts, he’d apparently managed to project a sufficient aura of belligerence.  “Of course not, Stanton.  Richard and I can peacefully co-exist for the remainder of this Mayfest, even if he is a disgrace.” 

Elizabeth blanched.  “Thomas, you don’t mean that.” 

“Every word of it,” the Lord of Covington Cross snapped.  “Elizabeth, you heard what the boy said to me.  How can you question the legitimacy of my feelings after the other night?” 

“Perhaps this isn’t the best time to discuss it,” Armus interjected. 

“He’s right,” Brandleford agreed, hoping to maintain peace.  “Ignore the boy, Thomas.  Have more wine.  Enjoy the guests.”  Smiling brightly, he fanned his arm to encompass the room.  “These are your friends as well as mine.  There isn’t a person here who doesn’t sympathize with your situation, but it would be unseemly to draw attention to it now.  Especially with so many fair and gracious ladies present.”  Brandleford turned his smile solely on Elizabeth. 

She inclined her head at the compliment, but recognized the fawning praise for the ploy it was.  Still, it made Thomas grumble in agreement, his manner as dark as his face.  Recognizing the need for distance, Armus caught his father’s arm and steered him into the room.  Elizabeth hesitated only a moment before taking her leave of Brandleford, and moving to Richard’s side. 

Glancing up from his plate, he eyed her suspiciously.  The seats around him were empty.  “T’were I you, I’d think twice about being seen with me, Lady Elizabeth.” 

“I rather fancy a scandal now and again,” she returned dryly.  When Richard failed to comment she sat across from him.  Ignoring her, he continued to eat, jabbing the venison with his knife, then snatching the meat from the tip of the blade.  It occurred to her that he was being deliberately rude, something she’d never known him to do.  “You’re worse at play-acting then your father, Richard,” she informed him quietly. 

The insinuation produced the expected response.  Startled, Richard raised his head, a brief,  unguarded look passing through his eyes.  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said flatly. 

“I mean you can do all the posturing and strutting you want, but I know you too well.  You’re hotheaded and willful, but you love your father to a fault.  The two of you may argue and bicker, but you’d defend each other to the death.  Whatever this little charade is, you’ve chosen to enact, I hope it’s worth the discomfort it’s causing.” 

Richard stilled.  His eyes darted to the side, seeking eavesdroppers.  As before, the seats around him were vacant, Brandleford’s guests treating him like a plague-victim.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said tightly. 

Elizabeth examined the thick braid of her hair, effectively dismissing him.  “And you are a poor liar.” 

Richard drew back.  “Lady Elizabeth—” 

“I don’t want to know what you’re doing,” she said quickly, quietly.  “But I can tell your father’s worried.  He may have fooled Brandleford and Armus, but women are more intuitive.  He’s worried for you.” 

“He’s angry at me, or have you forgotten that?” 

“As you wish, Richard.”  Deciding the conversation was futile, Lady Elizabeth readied to stand.   

“Wait a moment.”  Richard lowered his head, pretending interest in his wine.  To the casual observer it looked simply that his rudeness extended to women.  “There’s something else,” he said in a subdued voice, keeping his eyes downcast.  “A guest of Brandleford’s.  A woman named Rowena.   Do you know her, Lady Elizabeth?  Anything about her?” 

Disturbed by the query, Elizabeth tilted her head.  She heard anxiety in Richard’s voice, coupled with something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.  “I don’t recall meeting her.”  Pausing, she studied his lowered lashes, the faint smudge of shadow beneath his eyes.  “Is it important?” 

“Perhaps.”  Richard’s eyes came up, green and luminous in the gilded glow of firelight.  He shivered.  “If you hear anything—”  Someone bumped into his shoulder, jostling his arm. Richard lurched forward, sloshing wine onto the table.  Immediately, a veil fell over his face.  His eyes grew slitted and cat-like as he swung around to confront the culprit.  “You clumsy, hoof-footed imbecile!” 

The transgressor, a tow-headed youth near his own age, smiled snidely.  “If you don’t like the company, you can always leave, worm-filth.” 

Richard rose to his feet, every nerve in his body strung for aggression.  From the corner of his eye, he saw his father move to the forefront of the crowd.  To his credit, Sir Thomas did not betray his feelings, but mutely watched the exchange, his face impassive.  The other man—Richard vaguely recalled hearing him addressed as Radcliffe—placed his hands on his hips, squaring his shoulders defiantly.  

Richard smiled thinly, his grin mocking and tart.  “If I left, who would point out your many inadequacies?”  His eyes dipped in a pointed glance for Radcliffe’s blade.  “Starting with that ridiculous toothpick you call a sword.  Didn’t I trounce you in a gaming match at Harvest Field in South Banbury?” 

Radcliffe purpled.  His face mottled with color, flushing white, then scarlet, then settling into livid plum.  Hissing like a enraged serpent, he groped for his blade.  Richard’s actions were sharper, honed with quick-silver edges and liquid speed.  The moment Radcliffe’s fingers flinched in the direction of his scabbard, Richard freed his own sword, knocking his opponent’s weapon aside. The crowd, which had gathered, hoping to see him humiliated, now hovered in tight-lipped silence.   

Richard tapped his blade beneath Radcliffe’s chin, sending a deeper stain of crimson rushing to the mortified youth’s cheeks.  “As I said—” Richard paused, waiting while the other squirmed.   “—inadequate.”  

Sheathing his sword, he turned his back and walked from the room.  Tension and exhilaration ran high in his body as he moved into the corridor.  Another day and somehow he’d miraculously survived a pummeling from men eager to tear him in half.  Walking blindly, he strode down the corridor, needing to put distance between himself and the Great Hall.  Seeking seclusion, he entered the armory where only a handful of candles had been lit to hold the night-time shadows at bay. Comfortable in the darkness, Richard stiff-armed the wall, bending his head as coiled tension flowed from his muscles. 

There was no sound.  Only the abrasive feel of a calloused hand, roughly covering his mouth.  Richard jerked upright, and was immediately wrenched backward.  His captor pulled, tugging him sharply against his own massive body.  Richard felt muscle and sinew; the coarse studding of metal and leather against his back.  The hand on his mouth was merciless, pressing silent his angry  protests.  A powerful arm folded over his ribs, pinning his arms to his side in a crushing grip. 

“Be still,” an angry voice hissed in his ear.  The man behind him was taller and broader, his voice pitched in a low rumble.  Because there was little else he could do, Richard complied.  His head was jerked backward, drawing his ear closer to the man’s lips.  “Your father treats you no better than a table-servant,” the throaty voice whispered.  “His lands and titles will pass to your brother Armus, and you’ll be left with nothing, after years of knock-kneed subservience.”  The hand pulled sharply, and Richard grunted, feeling the strain on his neck.  “Is that what you want, Richard Grey—to be a lapdog in your brother’s castle?” 

Allowed minute freedom, Richard shook his head.  His captor chuckled, soft and low. The scent of sour wine wafted past Richard’s nose.  “It’s good you feel that way.”  The restrictive grip suddenly loosened, allowing Richard room to breathe.  The work-roughened hand eased from his mouth, tightening instead on his neck, warning him still.  Though allowed to speak, he wasn’t permitted to turn his head. 

“What do you want?” he demanded. 

“It’s what you want,” the man countered.  “Wealth and position in your own right.” 

“That’s impossible.” 

 “I wouldn’t offer it otherwise,” the voice countered sharply.  “There’s vaulted status for a man with little conscience, but I’m not sure you fit that description.” 

Richard snorted, certain now, it was Woodward who restrained him.  “What would you have me do, to prove it?” 

A lengthy silence followed.  Richard swallowed when he felt the hand on his neck tighten marginally.  “There is something,” the man said slowly.  Leaning forward he whispered the directive in Richard’s ear. 

+++++   

Freed after the encounter in the armory, Richard headed to the upper level of the castle, and his chambers.  Most of Brandleford’s guests still lingered in the Great Hall, a fact easily confirmed by the mesh of voices drifting into the corridor.  Though his adrenalin level was high, Richard thought it wisest to avoid further contact for the evening.  Even the rendevous he had planned with Sir Thomas, at the stable, would have to wait.  In all likelihood, Woodward would be watching—especially after giving Richard a heinous task to fulfill.

The thought of that command left him uncertain how to proceed.  Unable to carry through on the directive, he had to find a means of negating it without appearing to fail.  He no longer questioned the identity of the man in the armory.  Even in the darkness he’d been observant enough to notice a three-inch scar on the back of the man’s left hand.  A scar, in exact dimension to one Woodward bore below the knuckles.  Though originally the one to bait the trap, Richard felt as though the roles had shifted and he’d become the prey. 

Deeming it wisest to retire, he gratefully sought the sanctuary of his room, moving into the dimly lit chamber with a sense of relief.  As he neared the bed, an unpleasant displacement rippled the air.  Turning, Richard caught the faint reek of decay.  His heart lurched in his chest as an insubstantial form moved from the shadows, into a cone of light.   

“Rowena.”  Though it didn’t surprise him to find her his room, her presence made him uneasy.  “How did you get in here?”  

She was still wearing the same blue gown from the day before, but it appeared faded and aged, as though surviving many seasons rather than a span of hours.  Her hair was wild and tangled, snagged with bits of bracken.  It flowed past her shoulders, pale as winter wheat, framing her oval face like a tattered veil.   

“What happened to you?”  Richard asked in alarm.  He raised his hand to touch her, then flinched away at the heated warmth of her skin.  Her flesh felt unnatural, as though it had soaked up heat with impossible alacrity.  Just as quickly, the abnormality faded and his fingers brushed cool white flesh, smooth as silk.  Disturbed, he wet his lips.  “What are you doing here?” 

Absently, Rowena brushed the snarled hair from her eyes, unconcerned by his distress.  Moving closer, she touched him lightly on the arm, scraping her fingers upward, until her hand settled on his shoulder.  Undone by the touch, Richard shuddered. 

“I came to see you,” she said simply.  “I’ve missed you.” 

Briefly he closed his eyes, hoping to deny the feelings she stirred.  A sense of hot urgency spread through his groin, forcing him to stifle a groan.  Images of their night together assaulted him with relentless intensity.  Breath quickening, he took a step backward.  A shred of rational thought made him tense. “I don’t know what you’ve done to me, but it can’t continue.” 

She appeared wounded.  “I’ve done nothing, Richard.  Don’t you enjoy what I have to offer?” 

Carnal desire returned, stronger this time.  The very touch of her eyes made his mouth go dry.  He struggled for some fragment of sanity.  “I know nothing about you, except your name.” 

“What does it matter?”  Stepping nearer, she sent his thoughts fluttering like ribbons from a maypole.  No woman in her right mind would give herself so freely to a virtual stranger, yet she carried little inhibition.  He might have enjoyed that recklessness, were it not for the doubts her behavior induced. 

“Rowena—” Still struggling for sanity, Richard gripped her shoulders.  His intention had been to hold her at arm’s length, but the feel of supple flesh beneath his fingertips, crumbled the last of his  resistance.  Tugging her forward, he kissed her urgently, driven by a need he didn’t understand.  She arched against him, both willing companion and beguiling nymph.  Before he knew what he was doing, he’d carried her to the bed, surrendering the role of controller for controlled.   

Blinded to everything but the need to possess her, Richard surrendered to the carnal urges driving his body.  She was satin and ice—a sylph-like creature, disturbingly lecherous, rather than loving.  Richard panted, barely rational, as their lovemaking exhausted itself in the early hours of morning.  Groaning, he rolled away from her, half-sick with what he’d done.  Groping for the bed linens, he tugged them over his naked body, scrunching his eyes closed.  Trembling, he tried to banish the sudden descent of frigid air.  Behind him, he heard the creak of the bed as Rowena stood. 

Go away, Richard thought.  Behind his closed lids, he relived an image of diseased flesh and spider-webbed hair.  The black ilk of decay lingered on his lips, the cold ice of winter, in his veins.  

Walking around the foot of the bed, Rowena approached his side.  Feeling her hesitate, he reluctantly opened his eyes.  Gone was the disheveled apparition who’d first entered his room, replaced by a woman of poise and elegance.  Her blue gown shimmered with newness, her hair immaculately groomed. 

Richard swallowed with difficulty, his tongue swollen.  “What have you done to me?” 

“Given what you desired; taken what I require.” 

 “I desired nothing.  You’ve taken unfairly.” 

Smiling softly, Rowena gazed down on him.  “I need to be warm, Richard, and your flesh has warmth to spare.”  Extending her hand, she moved to touch him, but he jerked away, shoving from the bed.   

Wrapping the bedsheet about his waist, Richard bent to gather his clothes. “I want nothing further to do with you, Rowena.  Get out of my room.”  Cold sweat lingered on his neck and brow, coaxing his snarled hair into tighter curls.  The air was plaited with frost, inciting supernatural tremors in his body.  Disbelieving, he dragged a hand over his face.  “This isn’t natural.  Nothing about it is natural.”  Pausing, he glared.  “You’re not bloody natural.  I don’t know what you are—demon, witch or spirit—but I’ll feed your lust no longer.” 

Denying nothing, she cocked her head.  “Find my locket.” 

Startled, Richard stared.  “Your locket?” 

“My husband gave it to me, and I will not leave this realm without it.” 

Appalled, Richard sat on the bed.  “Husband?”  The floor lurched beneath him, threatening to swallow him in a bottomless pit.  Groaning, he dropped his head into his hands. “You’re married?”  When silence was his only answer, he raised his eyes to find the room empty.  In a matter of mere seconds she had vanished.  Bewildered, Richard glanced behind him. She hadn’t had sufficient time to depart by the door, and he certainly would have heard it open.   Demon, witch or spirit.  

I will not leave this realm, she had said. 

Swallowing uneasily, he stared at the blue veins in his arms, the ivory-white flesh of his abominably cold skin.   

 . . . this realm . . . 

What manner of creature would say such a thing?  Briefly, he recalled the image of a woman with spider-webbed hair and fish-gray lips; the feel of cold hands on his body.  He remembered the heavy taint of decay each time Rowena was present.  Breathing unevenly, Richard dragged a nervous hand across the back of his neck.  He swore softly, fervently wishing the friar had come to Candlemyre Manor.  Matters of the supernatural were beyond his realm of understanding. 

Agitated, he pushed from the bed.  His stomach roiled dangerously as the events of the last few hours caught up with him.  She’d needed warmth.  She’d as much as said that.  If he’d refused her, might she have withered into something insubstantial—a spectral being native to the nether regions?  Surely he was deranged to even consider the possibility. 

Tossing the bedsheet aside, Richard pulled on his breeches.  The impossible thoughts pinging through his mind, made him itch to wash away her stain, but taking a bath twice in one day was ludicrous.  The servants would balk, and word would filter back to the nobles.  Tugging on his boots, he glanced out the window, noting the heavy curtain of darkness outside.   It would likely be cold, and he was already freezing.  He shrugged into his tunic, forsaking both belt and jerkin, then gathered his cloak from a nearby chair.                              

By the time he made it outside, he was breathing heavily, certain she had tainted him with some unmentionable disease.  Leaving the castle grounds, he jogged down an adjacent slope, intent on reaching a mid-sized lake on the border of Candlemyre.  Night-blackened and still, the water was unreflective, cut like a gaping hole in the darkness. 

Richard stripped beneath the sagging umbrella of a grizzled willow.  Teeth chattering, he plunged into the lake, savoring the cold shock that drove all thought of Rowena from his mind.  Ducking beneath the surface, he felt icy water close over his head.  Emerging, he sputtered, as trickling beads of moisture dripped from the ends of his soaked hair.  Sweeping the bangs straight back from his forehead, he drew a tremulous breath.  From the corner of his eye, he detected a flicker of movement beneath the tree cover on the bank.  A moment later, a heavy-handed breeze rippled  branches and leaves, and he realized the wind was at fault for the distortion.  Relaxing, he lingered in the lake, until the cold touch of enveloping water became a shiver-inducing affliction.  

Withdrawing, Richard dressed quickly, unmindful of the dampness soaking his clothes; the biting touch of cool air against his wet hair.  The memory of Rowena’s body twined with his, faded beneath the cleansing kiss of the lake.  Desiring the warmth and security of Candlemyre, Richard headed back to the castle.  Following a narrow footpath through a copse of bordering trees, he moved surefooted through the velvety darkness. 

Once again, a sense of movement came behind him, this time accompanied by the snap of a twig.  Certain Woodward had set a lackey to follow him, Richard slipped from the path, into the trees. Though he had no sword or knife, he crouched behind the sheltering trunk of an oak, waiting for the clumsy pursuer to draw abreast.  Within moments, a silhouette appeared. 

Launching himself from his hiding place, Richard grappled the intruder about the waist, bearing the light burden to the ground.  A startled squawk made him jerk unexpectedly as he felt soft flesh beneath him.  Before he could recover, a rolled fist pounded against his shoulder. 

“Oaf!  Get off of me!” 

Water from his wet hair, dripping into his eyes, Richard blinked.  “Penelope?” 

“Well it isn’t anyone you’re used to pawing,” a perturbed voice snapped.  Sprawled beneath him, his sixteen-year-old tormentor, glared.  “The next time you want to go swimming in the nude, I suggest you pick a different lake.” 

Appalled, Richard drew back.  “You saw?”

 “An eyeful,” she assured suggestively.  Moving free of him, Penelope stood, methodically brushing clinging bits of grass and dirt from her clothing.  Her sun-gold hair was unbound, flowing to her waist, in wave upon wave of shimmering silk.  She wore a white sleeping gown and a simple cloak of black, trimmed in forest green. 

Richard swallowed, thinking of Rowena.  “What are you doing out here?” he demanded.  “Do you know what time it is?” 

“You’re not my keeper, Richard Grey.” 

“Well obviously someone should be.” 

Straightening, Penelope tossed her hair.  Judging by her flippant manner, she’d obviously not forgiven him for his earlier rudeness.  Hands on hips, she jutted her chin defiantly.  “Someone is.” 

Richard stared, uncomprehending.  When she smiled at him smugly, he abruptly understood what she was doing in the darkness so far from the castle.  With a flush of anger, he realized her clothing was rumpled, not from their own encounter, but a previous one.  “You were meeting someone!  You little snippet—you were here for a late-night rendevous.” 

Rolling her eyes, Penelope started walking.  Infuriated, Richard fell in at her side.  “You make it sound licentious,” she told him, clearly enjoying his frustration.  “I am sixteen, you know.” 

“You’re a child.”  

“Radcliffe doesn’t think so.” 

“Radcliffe!”  Aghast, Richard bellowed the name.  Losing all rationally, he snagged her arm, wrenching her to a violent halt.  His green eyes flashed dangerously as he gazed down on her.  “Radcliffe is a toad.  No—” He shook his head, so angry, the words wouldn’t come.  “He’s lower than that.  He’s the excrement vultures leave after ingesting carrion; the filth plague-rats seek for their nests.  He’s—”                                     

“Your opinion is noted,” Penelope snapped.  “It’s also worthless.  You’re only protesting because of the altercation you had with him in the Great Hall.” 

Richard fumed.  Though he was freezing, standing in the night-frigid air, water dripping from his hair, anger kept him focused.  A surge of protective indignation raced through him as he glared at Penelope.  With her hair unbound, her sleeping gown open at the throat, she was more than a trifle bewitching.  The thought of Radcliffe kissing her, possibly touching her, made him bristle with rage.  “I trounced that upstart in South Banbury,” he retorted, biting off the words in white-knuckled anger.  “He’s an ego-inflated popinjay with a weakness for young girls.  I don’t want to see you hurt.” 

 “Ha!”  Tugging free, hair fanning in a luxurious arc, Penelope whirled and stalked away.  Despite her petite build, she set a clipped pace up the tree-lined path.   

Richard sprinted to catch up, easily matching her stride.  “What does that mean?” he demanded. 

Holding her skirts aloft, Penelope kept her eyes straight ahead.  “It means you’re jealous, because I’ve decided you’re no longer worth the effort.” 

“Jealous?”  Though Richard scoffed, inwardly he cringed.  Was it possible to be plagued by jealousy for a girl who’d annoyed him all his life?  “Don’t be ludicrous, Pen.  I just don’t want to see you hurt.  There’s nothing ethical about, Radcliffe.  If I had my guess, I’d say you’re only doing this because you want to get back at me.” 

Choking short laughter, Penelope stopped suddenly and faced him.  “You really are a conceited ass.  Do you think the whole world revolves around you, Richard Grey?”  Witch-light blazed in her eyes as she stared up at him.  Though her head barely reached the top of his shoulder, her presence was overpowering.   

Still hoping to banish the stain of Rowena, Richard found himself enthralled by Penelope’s forthrightness.  Moonlight dappled her face, enhancing her elfin-like features with a diaphanous veil.  For the first time in his life, Richard looked on her with the eyes of a man and found himself wanting.  Before he could shrug free of the spontaneity, he caught her about the wrist, tugging her close.  Slipping a hand into the thick curtain of her hair, he cradled the back of her head, pressing his mouth to hers.

She was heated warmth and clover-washed summer, all the whiteness and light that Rowena was not.  Gasping, she parted her lips, inviting him to taste the blossom-sweet nectar of innocence and youth.  Richard tugged her closer, surprised by the tender reaction her naivety induced in his body.  Just as abruptly, the kiss ended. 

Penelope wrenched free, her face flushing with rage.  “How dare you.”  Her fingers lashed across his cheek in a stinging slap. “Do you think you can just treat me like a common strumpet?”   

Confusion doused by ire, Richard seethed.  “I’m not the one who met some snotty, weasel-faced peacock in the trees.” 

Pressing her lips together, Penelope tilted her head, suddenly haughty.  “Don’t be so hard on yourself, Richard.  With your hair wet, mink-faced is a better description.  And I really have to say, after all those years of waiting—you kiss like a . . . a . . .duckling.” 

Whirling, she stalked up the path.  Richard stared after her.  “A duckling?  What the hell does that mean?”  A newly-birthed breeze blew through his wet hair and he shivered.  “Pen!”  She ignored him.  Richard ground his teeth together.  The girl was impossible—completely, utterly, ridiculously impossible.  “Penelope!”   

Disappearing around a bend, she vanished from sight.  Richard bent his head, rubbing at his temples.  “Bloody hell.”  He couldn’t think straight anymore.  Between the cold, Rowena, Penelope and Woodward, his sanity teetered on the edge of collapse.  He really needed to speak with someone—Armus or his father—but his role as upstart and loner made that impossible.  Worse, Woodward had given him a task he couldn’t possibly fulfill. 

Grimly, Richard hiked up the path. 

By tomorrow eve, he’d been instructed to kill Radcliffe. 

+++++   

Hurrying into her room, Penelope closed the door.  She was shaking, trembling with humiliation, rage, and . . . and . . .  

Frustrated, she plopped to a seat on the edge of her bed.  She didn’t want to think about the horrible tangle of feelings Richard had awakened with his kiss.  She could still feel the press of his cold lips on hers. His unusual night-time swim, coupled with the frigid air, had left his skin icy and chill.  Yet when he’d kissed her, she’d felt only sun-soaked warmth, and a delicious spiral of heat deep in her belly.  His kiss, coupled with the heavenly feel of his arms wrapped about her, had taken her breath away.  She’d waited so long for that moment, she would have willingly lingered for an eternity.  But his boldness, and cocky assurance that she’d respond to his touch had infuriated her.  She was a fool to think she’d be anything more than a conquest on his well-notched belt.  Thus she’d responded with anger and indignation, while secretly harboring tears. The kiss had obviously meant nothing to him, being just another dalliance in a long line of loveplay. 

Worse still, was what had happened with Radcliffe only moments before.  Upset over the way Richard had treated her when she’d come upon him exiting the garden, earlier that day, Penelope had responded to Radcliffe’s advances in the Great Hall.  Knowing how much Richard detested the man, she’d pegged him as the perfect means of exacting vengeance on the curly-haired object of her infatuation. 

They’d met secretly, far from the prying eyes of the castle.  While Penelope had envisioned stealing a few kisses with the tow-headed Radcliffe, he had far less noble ambitions in mind.  She’d ended up bruising his face as she fended him off.  When he’d slipped, falling down a short incline, she’d used the opportunity to flee.  A short distance away, she’d discovered Richard arriving at the lake. 

Slipping into the trees, she’d watched as he’d stripped off his clothes and dove into the lake.  Flushing to think of it, she could easily recall the sight of his naked flesh in the darkness, dusted with slivers of moonlight and contouring shadow.  His body was well-defined and perfectly sculpted.  A fact she’d often entertained in fantasy, but was now utterly certain of.  Lingering until he’d dressed and departed, she’d eventually followed him up the path. 

Which had led to their own encounter and her current frustrations.  She despised him.  She adored him.  She wanted the feel of his lips on hers again, full of sweet passion and promises.  She wanted something she knew Richard Grey was never likely to give.  

She wanted forever. 

Curling up on her bed, Penelope tugged the blankets close to her shoulders, and contented herself with a rare moment of tears. 

+++++ 

Richard dragged himself awake, feeling more abused then he had the day before.  The unnatural whiteness of his forearms had spread to his wrists and shoulders.  Concerned by the unhealthy pallor, he examined himself in the light.  It was as though the pigmentation had been sucked from his skin, leaving his flesh with the unwholesome appearance of a cadaver.  Rubbing at his eyes, he relived the events of the previous night. 

Rowena was responsible.   

He didn’t understand how, but was certain the enigmatic woman was at fault for the ailment.  Perhaps she’d drugged him when he was unaware.  He only knew he had to end any further association with her, not only for his physical well-being, but also his sanity.   

Groaning at the protesting aches of his body, he dressed slowly, selecting black breeches and boots, with a gray leather jerkin and white undertunic.  Combing his rumpled curls into place, Richard meandered downstairs into the Great Hall. 

Immediately upon entrance, he knew something was wrong.  Groups of nobles stood in tight little circles, whispering among themselves.  A brittle pall hung over the chamber, pudding-thick and near-tangible.  All hint of festivity had been struck from the air, replaced by somberness so severe, Richard felt it slither over his skin, with the cold-bellied caress of a snake.  As he entered, guarded glances were cast in his direction.   

A short distance away, his father conversed quietly with Armus and Lady Elizabeth.  Though Richard longed to approach them, contact with Sir Thomas was impossible.  Hesitating inside the doorway, he bumped shoulders with Woodward. 

The man glared as though offended, but his voice, pitched low, was intimately pleased.  “You’re fast boy,” he muttered.  “I don’t know how you got the Brandleford girl to vouch for you, but that’s a stroke of genius.” 

Richard wet his lips.  “Sir Gervase?” 

The other snorted.  “Don’t play coy.  You know it was me in the armory.   And you’ve proved your worth.”  Woodward’s lips curled with the slightest praise.  “We’ll talk again.” 

Before Richard could formulate a thought, the older man moved away, feigning annoyance at his presence.  Penelope appeared almost immediately, entering from a connecting hallway on the opposite side of the chamber.  Unusually nervous, she strode forward, her face pinched and white. 

“Sir Richard,” she said formally, “I need to speak with you, please.” 

Disquieted by her anxiety, Richard gave a brief nod.  Though her manner reeked of stiff protocol, Richard didn’t think that formality had anything to do with what had transpired between them the previous night. “Pen, what’s going on?” he demanded as they moved into the corridor. 

Her expression remained rigid.  “Not here,” she said in a tight voice.  It was only when they’d moved further away, into a rarely used alcove, that Penelope relaxed.  Exhaling, she sagged against the wall, pretense and bravery abandoning her.  “It’s horrible,” she muttered. 

Concerned, Richard gripped her elbow.  “What is?” 

Penelope’s eyes rounded on his, wide and doe-like.  She was clearly terrified.  “Radcliffe.  Richard, I think I killed him.” 

He balked.  Abruptly Woodward’s congratulatory praise made sense.  The bleak, staring eyes of the nobles, gazing on him with masked suspicion, settled with a semblance of purpose. Drawing Penelope down on a small, upholstered bench, Richard sat beside her.  In the narrow, tiny space, their knees bumped.  Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the girl trembling. 

“Penelope, tell me what’s happened.  From the beginning.” 

With a hesitant nod, she wet her lips.  “Y-yesterday, I was angry at you,” Her lashes dipped as she admitted the truth.  “I wanted to get back at you, for the way you treated me—for the way you’ve always treated my feelings . . .” 

He scowled, unsettled by the ugly, accusation.  It was true he’d been short, even callous, but he’d never been particularly endearing.  It was part of the game they played.  Grimacing, he realized her feelings might have altered as she’d grown older.  An infatuated child could toss aside a barbed remark, but a woman in love was likely to wound.  

Silently cursing, he compared himself to dirt. 

“When Radcliffe made an advance at me, I reciprocated,” Penelope continued.  “It seemed the ideal way to get back at you, knowing how much you despised him.  You see—” Tossing her braided hair, she strived for haughty disregard, “—other men do find me attractive.”  

Sighing, Richard took her hand.  “Pen, I never said—” 

 “So I agreed to meet him,” Penelope continued sharply, as though he hadn’t interrupted.  Growing uncomfortable, she shifted on the bench, pulling her fingers free.  “But . . . he was far from gentlemanly . . .”  Straightening her back, she folded her hands in her lap, trying not to show how much the admission hurt, “ . . . and I ended up having to fend him off.” 

Richard tensed, muttering low under his breath. 

“He didn’t put up much of a fight once I hit him.  He lost his footing and slipped down a bank, so I ran.  That’s when I saw you.” Pausing awkwardly, she glanced at him through slitted lashes, “At the lake.” 

Richard nodded, not wanting to dwell on exactly what she had seen.  “Go on.” 

“I came back to the castle after you and I quarreled, and spent the remainder of the night in my chambers.  Sometime early this morning, one of our grooms found Radcliffe, in the area where he and I met.”  Turning sideways, Penelope faced him.  “They said his head was bashed in.  Don’t you see, Richard—he must have struck his head when he slipped down that bank.”  Her eyes threatened sudden tears.  “I killed him.” 

“No,” Richard said quickly, disconcerted more by her tears, then the news.  “You don’t know that.” 

“What other explanation can there be?” 

Richard groped for words of reassurance.  “Numerous ones, Pen.  Radcliffe was not well-liked.”  Remembering Woodward’s comment about Brandleford’s daughter vouching for him, Richard cast her an arch glance.  “How am I involved in this?” 

“I told my father we spent the night together.” 

“You did what?”  Appalled, Richard surged to his feet. 

“Not like that,” Penelope said quickly.  “I told him we spent the evening talking, well into the dawn, and that afterwards we both retired to our chambers.  That gives us both an alibi—me because I was there, and you, because you are the most likely candidate to commit murder.” 

Realizing what she said was true, Richard raked nervous fingers through his hair.  

“You didn’t murder him, did you Richard?” 

Whirling on his heel, Richard glared.  “Shades and damnation, Pen, how can you ask such an thing?” 

Chastised, she nevertheless bristled.  “Well you haven’t exactly been yourself lately.  Look how you’ve treated your father.”  

“Woodward,” Richard muttered, as that truth sank deeper.  “Woodward thinks I killed him.”

 “What did you say?” 

“Nothing.”  Clearing his throat, Richard concentrated on Penelope.  Stepping to her side, he took her hand and tugged her to her feet.  “We’ll stick with your story.  In the meantime, I’ll do a little investigating on my own.  If Radcliffe did hit his head, it was an accident, Penelope, nothing more.  You’re not responsible.” 

“But I pushed him.”

“You were defending yourself.”  Prompted by irritation, his lips thinned in a white line.  The thought of Radcliffe pawing her, kindled a flare of anger.  He felt suddenly protective of her.  He wanted to shelter her, to guard her . . . to feel the exquisite blush of her soft lips against his, and solely his.  “You should go back to the other guests,” he managed with difficulty. 

Bleakly, she nodded.  As she started from the alcove, Richard caught her hand. 

“Pen.  I have to ask you something.”    

Puzzled, she waited. 

Richard stepped nearer, fearing the mention of a woman’s name might incite her wrath.  “I need to know about one of your father’s guests . . . a woman named Rowena.  She would be a little older than Armus, with very pale blonde hair.” 

An annoyed furrow darkened Penelope’s smooth brow.