Lamp Black, Wolf Grey (4 page)

“Which you would rather burn than give to anyone but your precious horses, Father.”

“True enough. Ah well, come inside and have a bowl of cawl at least. Will you join us, Dafydd?”

“Thank you, no, Twm. I shall stay with the horses.”

“As you will. Now, daughter, while you eat I shall tell you of my bay colt. You have never seen such a fine animal in your life,” he said as he led her indoors. “Though the silly creature tore his stifle on a briar. The wound is healing, but I fear the scar will be a bargaining point for a buyer come next spring. But I’ll wager you can work your magic on him for me.”

The thick walls of the old house kept the rooms wonderfully cool in the summer heat. Megan was always impressed at how clean and tidy her father kept his home, and a pot of cawl was always ready, hanging above the fire in the broad, low fireplace. He had had to be father and mother to her, and he had taken to his tasks with determination, seeking perfection in everything he did. Now, as an adult, she realized how hard her mother’s death had been for him, understood the enormity of his loss. The love that her parents had shared had been a beacon of light for her in a dark and dangerous world. She wondered if she would ever have the chance to find such a love herself. As her father talked excitedly about the latest young horse he had bred, Megan saw the years fall away from his face and the lingering sadness lift a little. She owed him everything—her resourcefulness, her skills as a horsewoman, her knowledge of medicinal herbs, as well as her undeniable stubbornness. Leaving him to take up her position at Castle Craig had been hard, but she had, in truth, had no choice in the matter. When Lord Geraint took an idea into his head it was not wise to go against him. It was he who, while inspecting a new courser one day at her father’s home, had seen Megan and suggested she would make a good nursemaid for his young sons. Lord Geraint was not only the most powerful noble for many miles, he was Twm’s landlord, and as such held great power over him. Twm had no sons to inherit the tenancy, but it was his wish, and Megan’s, that she be allowed to take it on, with her husband, should she be married by then. It was her dearest hope that she would one day be permitted to return to her true home and breed and train horses as her father had done. But she recognized this could only happen with their landlord’s goodwill, and she was worldly enough to see the precarious position in which her employer’s interest placed her. In the meanwhile, Twm paid his rent promptly and gave his landlord first pick of his best mounts, at a reduced price, naturally. Almost two years had passed since Megan had moved to Castle Craig. She had grown up quickly and had learned that her wits were all that stood between her and Lord Geraint’s baser desires.

As if the thought of the man had summoned him, the sound of approaching horses jolted Megan and her father from their precious moment together. Twm squinted out of the window.

“Riders. It is Lord Geraint.”

They hurried outside. The sunlight seemed harsh now, its glare illuminating Megan, leaving her no place to hide her awkwardness at being found visiting when she should be taking the children home.

Dafydd struggled to hold the horses and ponies as the entourage thundered into the little yard. Lord Geraint had been out hawking, and the mounts in his party were slick with sweat. They made a spectacular sight, a sudden carnival of color, jangling tack, and regal birds. He reined in his destrier a few feet from where Megan stood. He rode one of his favorites, Midnight, a colossal black stallion with arched neck and flowing mane. This was a mount built for speed and endurance, trained for sport and battle. It fidgeted as it stood, restless, ready to be off, listening for the slightest signal from its master. As it tossed its head foam from its mouth flecked Megan’s dress. She made no move to wipe it away but stayed still, waiting for Lord Geraint’s reaction to finding her there. He gazed down at her, a small smile playing on his lips, enjoying her discomfort. Even now, at his sport, he looked every inch the nobleman. His clothes were of the finest leather and wool. The saddle on which he sat so proudly and at ease would have taken a year to make and cost more than Megan’s father would earn in twice that time. The hawk on his gauntlet was one of a number kept for his amusement and trained to kill. He held out his arm and an aide took the bird from him. He shifted in his saddle, leaning back, reins in one hand, relaxed, taking no notice of the nervousness of his horse.

“Megan, I must say I am surprised to find you here. I understood you were taking my sons out riding. But then, you must have gained permission for your visit from Lady Rhiannon, am I right?”

Megan kept her voice level. “No, my Lord. That is, I did not think to ask for permission.”

“Oh. Is that so? Then you thought it of no account where you wandered with my children in your charge.”

“I would not have brought them here had I believed this to be in any way against their best interests, my Lord. We were passing on our return journey.”

“Indeed?” Lord Geraint dropped the reins and swung his leg forward, springing down from Midnight’s back with casual ease. He stepped forward until he was close enough to Megan for her to feel his breath on her face as he spoke. Although she was tall he loomed above her. She stood firm but lowered her eyes, not wishing to provoke him further.

“Have a care, my dear Megan. Liberties taken may one day have to be paid for,” he said. He placed a finger beneath her chin and tipped her face up. Now she looked at him, her defiance visible to no one else but clear to him.

Megan held her breath, letting the silence between them be her only answer. At that moment the children came running from the barn.

“Father! Father!” they cried as they ran to him.

His harsh features softened as he smiled down at them and ruffled their hair. “Ahh, my little princes, what have you been about?”

“We’ve been searching for eggs, Father, look,” said little Huw, holding out his finds.

“And there are swallows nesting in the roof. I climbed up to see them,” said Brychan.

“Did you now? Such courage deserves a reward, wouldn’t you say?” With that he swung the boy onto his saddle and sprang up behind him. Brychan’s face lit up with pleasure and excitement. Huw backed away as his father’s horse began to prance.

“Don’t look so disapproving, Megan. A son may ride with his father, may he not?” And with that, one arm clutched around the boy, he wheeled his horse around, dug his spurs into its flanks, and galloped away, his men charging after him.

Megan looked down at Huw, whose scowl and brimming tears gave away his hurt and jealousy. This was not the first time he had been overlooked by his father. Megan was certain the favoritism shown for his older brother would one day cause a serious rift between the boys.

Twm stepped forward and patted the boy on the shoulder.

“’Tis a pity your brother could not stay longer,” he said. “For I was just about to tell you of the kittens born in the woodshed last week.”

Huw’s face was transformed. “Kittens!” he breathed.

Megan watched them cross the yard together, trying to put from her mind the man who would be waiting for her back at Castle Craig.

2

M
EGAN HURRIED ALONG
the narrow passageway that led through the back of the castle and up the winding staircase toward the solar, which was Lady Rhiannon’s bedchamber. The candle she carried spluttered as she walked, caught in thin drafts from the narrow window in the north wall and the glassless loopholes in the stairwell. The castle had been built for strength and security, and there were few spaces within it that afforded comfort. The hour was late, and Megan had the sense she was the only person moving around the castle on this moonless night. She reached the top of the stairs and paused for a moment outside the ornately carved door. She could hear low laughter from inside the room. She knocked and the door was opened by a lady’s maid. Megan hesitated on the threshold, letting her eyes adjust to the further gloom. Candles and lanterns illuminated corners and decorative features, but the overall effect was one of dancing shadows and low light. A fresh layer of herbs had been strewn over the floor. In the center of the room was a magnificent bed, its four posts draped with elaborate tapestries and trimmings. More laughter drifted out from the curtains, which were half drawn around it. The maid stepped forward and informed her mistress of Megan’s presence.

“Ah, is she here at last? Come closer, Megan. I wish to talk to you.” Lady Rhiannon’s voice had a sharpness about it that was not softened even now.

Megan did as she was told. As she neared the bed, she was shocked to find her mistress was not alone. Lady Rhiannon reclined against a broad-shouldered young soldier. Both of them were naked, and their skin glistened with sweat. Megan recognized the youth as one of Lord Geraint’s soldiers. He seemed completely at ease with the situation, stroking Lady Rhiannon’s hair as he cradled her head on his chest. In his other hand he held a goblet of wine, which he drank from deeply before putting it gently to his lover’s lips.

Lady Rhiannon sipped, then smiled. “Llewelyn, darling, you see to my every need,” she cooed, stroking his face, seeming to forget Megan’s existence.

Megan could do nothing but stand and wait. She fixed her gaze on a detail of the tapestry behind Llewelyn and tried hard to ignore the unmissable smell of sex. At last Lady Rhiannon dragged her attention away from her lover.

“I hear you visited your father yesterday. Is this true?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Lord Geraint mentioned it before he was called away for a few days.” Still she ran her fingers along Llewelyn’s arm as she spoke, not bothering to look at Megan. “Don’t be frightened, girl—I care not where you take my boys for their riding, so long as you bring them back safe to me. Nor have I the slightest interest in your family. No, it is in another matter that I believe you might be of use to me. I have heard that there is a stranger recently moved in to the croft above your father’s house. What news does your father have of this man?”

“Why, none, my Lady.”

“He has not seen him?”

“He did not mention it. Our conversation was short.”

With an irritated sigh, Lady Rhiannon sat up and beckoned her maid. She slipped a silk robe around her shoulders and stepped from the bed. Behind her Llewelyn made no effort to cover himself up. Megan blushed at the sight of his nakedness and his obvious state of arousal. Lady Rhiannon saw her uneasiness but put a hand on her arm to prevent her turning away.

“I have not dismissed you,” she told her, wine and sexual languor slowing her words but not lessening their force. Lady Rhiannon was at least ten years Megan’s senior, but was still a strikingly beautiful woman. They differed from each other in so many ways. Lady Rhiannon was womanly and curvaceous, Megan was lean and angular. Her features were strong and stern, Megan’s were fine and delicate. Her hair was a black, straight veil, whereas Megan’s was a cascade of red waves. And her nature was cruel while Megan’s was compassionate.

Megan knew they were amusing themselves at her own expense, but there was little she could do about it.

“He is beautiful, don’t you agree?” Lady Rhiannon teased.

She looked at the floor, struggling for an answer.

“Why don’t you look at him, girl? Look at him!” the older woman snapped.

Megan raised her head and kept her face impassive as she was forced to look at Llewelyn. To her shame she felt sensations of excitement and arousal stirring inside her. She fought to think of other things, to at least place her mind in some other, better place. Lady Rhiannon stood behind her now, her hands firmly on her shoulders, banishing all chance of escape.

“I want you to do something for me, Megan. I want you to go back and visit your father once more. Ask him about the stranger. I have information that he is the seer Merlin. I wish to have this verified, and your father can do this for me. Discreetly, do you understand? No doubt my husband will have his own spies out the moment he returns and hears the news. However, I wish to conduct my own inquiries. Naturally, this is a private matter, and Lord Geraint does not need to be informed of my interest. It would be best you do as I bid before his return the day after tomorrow.” She leaned closer now, her voice a wine-fumed whisper uncomfortably close to Megan’s ear. “Fail me in this, and you may not see your father again until the spring.”

Megan opened her mouth to speak, but her mistress waved a hand in dismissal as she turned her attention back to her lover. Megan needed no further bidding, and hurried from the room.

*   *   *

L
AURA BRUSHED HER
hair from her face with her forearm. Her brow was damp with sweat, and she felt the grittiness of dirt rub over her skin. She straightened up and contemplated what progress she had made. The barn attached to the house had not been used for years. She and Dan had spent all the previous day clearing out ancient, rotting hay, broken bits of furniture, and rusting farm implements. Hours of toil had at last produced a clear space. Now, after a further morning’s work, she could begin to see her new studio taking shape. There was no floor in the upper part of the building, so the room was open to the roof. The rafters at the rear still retained old Welsh slate, but the front half had been replaced with see-through corrugated plastic. While unattractive, this did at least allow in plenty of light, making the barn the obvious place in which Laura could paint. It had been weeks since she had sat before a canvas, and she was impatient to start again. Laura had always painted and always known that was what she wanted to do with her life. She only ever felt truly herself when she was creating new images. And now that pictures seemed to be the only thing she would ever be capable of creating, they had become even more important to her. Too much time away from her art and she began to feel maudlin, restless, and unfulfilled. Even now, just the sight of her canvasses stacked against the wall cheered her. She could scarcely contain her excitement at the thought of squeezing out fresh paint onto her palette once again. She stepped over to one of the crates containing her artist’s materials. She pulled out a bottle of turpentine, running her thumb across the label. A dried smudge of ultramarine reminded her of her last picture. She leaned forward and sniffed the bottle and the smell took her to another place, another state of mind, where reality was what she created with her own skills and imagination.