Wolfsbane Page 2

  She did it for me? To protect me?

  That was the reason for her boldness? Of course it was! Bold, stupid, incredible Martha. The earl should have killed her on the spot for the insults she had given him, and had it not been for Anselm’s intervention, he might well have done so. Instead, they had done the next worst thing. They had taken her with them.

  Vadim pressed a hand to his chest, his heart aching for what it had lost. What would become of her? Would the earl imprison her purely for the crime of marrying a wolfshead?

  Or would he torture her? Vadim flinched from the sudden vivid images conjured by his imaginings, of all the ways in which Martha might now be suffering. Tormenting himself would not aid her. With effort, he closed and locked the doors to the darkest rooms of his mind. A method that had served him well enough in the past.

  “Thank you, Bren.” He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “You should return to your family.” With that, he turned to walk away.

  “What will you do, m’lord?” Bren’s voice halted him before he had taken three paces. “The castle is a fortress. How can you hope to rescue her?”

  “You forget, Bren. Edgeway was once my home too.” His mouth formed a grim smile. “Whatever happens, trust in this: I will find her again. Come what may, I will bring Martha back home.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Submerged in misery, Martha sat within the circle of Anselm’s arms as the thundering horse train cantered on through the night, carrying her closer and closer to Edgeway.

  Vadim. Vadim. Vadim. His name played in her head like a heartbeat. Would she ever see him again?

  They reached the outskirts of town, but the earl and his men pressed on, barely slackening their pace as they negotiated the winding, narrow streets. Martha had never visited this part of town during her stay in Edgeway. Her former landlady, Mistress Weaver, had warned her against it. It was reputed to be the haunt of thieves and drunkards, of ladies of the night and cold-blooded murderers, all living together in the tangle of stinking streets.

  The horses cantered on. In the still of the night, their hooves clattered noisily over the cobbles. Several late-night revelers were forced to dive out of the way, pressing their backs against the safety of the buildings as the earl’s cavalcade swept by. Dodgy part of town or not, no one shouted or swore at them. The earl was apparently as much feared in Edgeway as he was in Darumvale.

  A few minutes later, the riders finally reined in their steaming, snorting mounts. A steep incline lay before them. In the darkness, Martha made out the hulk of a hill, and the menacing outline of a sprawling castle perched on top.

  Any hopes she’d had of escaping died. Shit! It looked like Alcatraz. She’d never get out of there.

  “I will do what I can for you,” Anselm murmured, his breath brushing warmly against her ear. “But I fear you have angered his Lordship too greatly for my influence to hold much sway with him in this mood. Still, I will try.”

  For the first time since leaving Darumvale, Martha spoke. “Whatever.” Her voice sounded husky. “I really don’t care anymore.”

  Throughout the nightmare ride in the dark, she’d alternately cried then cursed herself for getting captured. Thinking about Vadim only increased her tears. Although she tried not to think about him, she couldn’t erase him from her mind. As she stared up at Edgeway Castle, she felt the warmth of emotion drain from her body.

  The present was bleak and empty. The future looked even worse.

  Why am I still alive?

  Back at the Great Hall, Martha hadn’t believed she might still have a tomorrow. She hadn’t banked on living. But now she was forced to consider a new reality, and in light of all the insults she’d hurled tonight, it looked pretty grim.

  The horses moved off, taking a slow zigzagging path up the hill. Even in the dark, the animals’ hooves never faltered. As they climbed higher, the castle vanished behind its immense outer walls.

  Back in the twenty-first century, Martha had visited many ruined castles. Memories of sunny Sunday afternoons spent walking the foundation lines of long-since tumbled stones, trying to imagine what the castle must have looked like at the height of its glory days.

  But nothing in her wildest dreams could have prepared her for this place. It was immense.

  The horses’ hooves made echoing ‘thunk-a-thunk’ sounds as they crossed a wooden structure. This close to the castle walls, it could only be one thing: a drawbridge. They rode through a dark archway that momentarily blocked out the stars. The horses feet clattered and skittered over a cobbled surface.

  Panic spiked in her heart. Did this place have a torture chamber? Didn’t all the best castles have one? Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!

  As the last rider cleared the drawbridge, she heard a steady tick-tick sound followed by a soft thump as the drawbridge rose and then closed behind them with a deafening, squealing crash. She jumped in fright, and might have fallen from the saddle had Anselm not tightened his arm about her waist.

  “Easy, sweeting. ’Twas only the portcullis being lowered for the night,” he said softly against her ear.

  Martha didn’t reply. She was trapped. Sealed in. Cut off from everything familiar. From all that she knew and loved.

  Her thoughts returned to Vadim, but his handsome face didn’t comfort her, and only made her feel more wretched. Uncaring whether anyone noticed, she broke into hiccupping sobs.

  The castle was in lockdown. It’s over. I’ll never see him again.

  Her dreams were full of sunshine and laughter, a happy escape from the nightmare of now. Sleep was a golden ticket because it transported her back to Vadim.

  Unfortunately, Martha couldn’t dream forever.

  Wincing at the burning, throbbing ache in her left hip, as she reluctantly opened her gritty eyes, the heaven of her dreams faded into the bleakness of her new reality: a narrow prison cell beneath Edgeway castle.

  Physically weary and emotionally wrecked, she’d slept sitting up with her back propped against a damp wall. Fortunately, she still had Anselm’s cloak. Huddling deeper into its woolen folds, she pulled it up to just beneath her nose. The fabric still smelled of him, but she was too miserable for principles, and much too cold to dump the garment.

  Prisoner comfort wasn’t a priority in Edgeway. She clenched her numb butt cheeks, her boots scuffing up the meager layer of straw that covered the packed-dirt floor. On the opposite wall, the rusting chains of a pair of manacles dripped down the stonework, hanging like a macabre Halloween decoration.

  On the plus side—if there was one—her cell wasn’t totally subterranean. A sullen sliver of daylight trickled through a narrow grill set high up on the wall. At least it provided her with a sense of day or night and, cold though it was, a little fresh air.

  Although the grill was too high to peer out of, if she tilted her head back, she could see the sky. Well, a fragment of it, anyway. And standing sentry just outside the rectangular opening was a solitary weed, its small yellow head bobbing occasionally in the breeze.

  In a few days’ time, you’ll have given it a name and be having conversations with it.

  Martha looked around at her miserable little room. How might a real estate agent describe her current lodgings, she wondered.

  A compact and bijou residence enjoying an isolated position in an enviable historic location. The property boasts cold running water, tasteful antique fixtures and fittings, and an excellent, if modest, view of the surrounding area.

  She felt herself smile. Day one, and her brain was already starting to addle. The next month should be very interesting.

  Then she heard chilling screams. Mother of God!

  She wasn’t alone in her tomb after all. The long, narrow passageways amplified the echoing cries of her fellow inmates. Clamping her hands over her ears, Martha screwed her eyes tight shut, willing the awful sounds away.

 
In a moment, I’ll wake up. I’ll be home again, safe and snug in my bed at Aunt Lulu’s house.

  But that would mean relegating Vadim to dream status, a subject to be related over the breakfast table.

  Her vision shimmered with tears. No. Grim as this new reality was, she loved him too much to wish him away. Folding her arms about herself, she rocked slowly back and forth as if by doing so she could ease the pain of his absence.

  Martha watched the ever changing strip of sky through the narrow wall grill, marking the passage of time.

  Day two in isolation.

  Although her accommodation wasn’t exactly a des-res, at least the meals were regular. True, they were stale, rancid, and inedible, but mealtimes told her she wasn’t completely forgotten. With the exception of her taciturn, skull-faced jailer, she hadn’t seen another soul since she’d arrived.

  What’s keeping Anselm?

  She hadn’t yet given up on him, despise him though she did. The night he’d escorted her to her cell, she’d sensed he genuinely wanted to help. He’d certainly told her as much, and for some reason she believed him. Why, though? A sick puppy like Anselm must have a very twisted reason indeed.

  Was he still hunting her even though she was now incarcerated? Was he still trying to steal her away from Vadim? As sure as God made little green apples, it’d have something to do with Vadim.

  Or maybe—just maybe—Anselm still had a shred of human decency left in him?

  Martha dismissed that last thought.

  With a sigh, she scrambled to her feet, her limbs stiff from cold and inactivity. She began pacing the tiny dimensions of her cell, carefully avoiding the bucket-toilet which stank only slightly worse than she did. Wrinkling her nose, she was just debating whether she dared to use it again when she heard footsteps in the world beyond her door.

  Two people?

  Straining her ears, she recognized the slithering footfalls of her jailer, but the other feet were louder, much more purposeful. Keys jangled, just like her nerves. She took a hasty step back from the door. A heavy key clanked in the lock, and the wooden door of her cell creaked open.

  “Martha!”

  Anselm. Her heart felt slightly less leaden. At least it wasn’t the earl.

  “Oh, this will not do.” Anselm looked around, grimacing as if he’d never seen the inside of a prison cell before. “My poor sweet girl. How you must have suffered.”

  Martha stared. He was still trying to play the friends card? Really? She watched him in silence, not yet sure of the card she wanted to play.

  He looked fresh and clean, all golden hair and shiny buckles.

  “I have good news.” Anselm’s gray eyes shone like polished silver as he smiled at her. “My master has surrendered you to my care.”

  What? She took another step back.

  Anslem’s smile dimmed. “You do understand what that means, sweeting? You can leave this place. Now.”

  And exchange it for what? Martha shook her head, suddenly reluctant to leave her little piece of hell. “I’m fine here, thanks all the same.”

  “You cannot mean it.” Anselm frowned. “You would actually prefer to remain… here?” He glanced around, his distaste apparent.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It has a certain charm.” She narrowed her eyes, all pretense of humor gone. “Unlike some people, at least my stinking cell wears its warts on the outside. Get real, Anselm. I don’t want to be anywhere near you. Now feck off.”

  There followed a brief uncomfortable silence during which Anselm, Martha, and the jailer exchanged glances. Anselm was the first to speak.

  “Let me put it another way, m’lady.”

  Martha smirked. M’lady? He was finally getting it.

  “If you do not come with me, his lordship might proceed with his original plan.”

  “Death doesn’t scare me, Anselm.” It was the escape she’d been hoping for.

  “I realize that. And, unfortunately for you, so does the earl.”

  Martha shivered as her friend suddenly forgot himself and momentarily de-cloaked, dropping his guard. When he smiled at her, she glimpsed a cold predator staring out through his merry eyes.

  “For both our sakes, Martha, I beg you to reconsider. Lord Edgeway has a unique gift for torture. I should not enjoy seeing you… broken.” He held out his hand to her. “Please.”

  Martha exhaled. Although Anselm’s friendly mask was back in place, fear had transformed her insides to mush. “Just tell me why.” Her voice trembled. “Vadim’s dead. What do you want me for?”

  Anselm shrugged, lowering the hand she’d refused to take. “My informant says otherwise, and she was most convincing.”

  Fecking Orla! “Your informant is a vindictive bitch out to cause trouble.”

  “Perhaps.” Anselm smiled. “If so, she will be… punished. But if Vadim is alive, he will come to claim you. Just think of it,” he said with a bright smile. “After all this time, he will finally come to us.”

  Martha’s simmering temper flashed, overriding her fear. “You’re using me as bait to catch a ghost? Brilliant! And when Vadim doesn’t come, what then, fuckwit? How long before you realize I’m telling you the truth and turn me loose, hmm?”

  “By that time,” he said gently, taking her by the arm, “you may want to stay.” There was no mistaking the meaning in his eyes.

  Her flesh crawled. “Oh, please tell me you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking? I’d never—”

  “Never is a long and lonely time away, m’lady,” he said, leading her from the cell. “And, as you will discover, my dear, I am a very patient man.”

  Martha bit her lip. What was the point in hurling insults at him? Let Anselm believe what he wanted. She’d play along for a while. At least if she was out of here, she might find a way to escape or to send a message.

  As much as she longed for Vadim, she hoped he wasn’t planning a heroic, and ultimately suicidal, rescue attempt. If the earl ever got his evil hands on him—No. Vadim loved her, but he was much too wily for that. How else had he stayed alive for so long? Anselm wasn’t the only one with a predator’s blood flowing in his veins.

  If the earl didn’t kill her first, Vadim would eventually come for her. Until then, all she had to do was be patient. Even now, he’d probably be hatching some cunning plan or other to spring her from Castle Evil. In the meantime, she’d play the role of a wife in mourning, topped with a few sprinkles of madness. Starting now.

  “Did I ever tell you I see dead people, Anselm?”

  Anselm arched his eyebrows, but he didn’t speak.

  As they walked swiftly along the narrow, twisting passageway, Martha smiled to herself. By the time she was done, Anselm would be sorry he’d ever met her.

  ***

  A stout-figured woman came into view, slowly puffing her way up the steep trail that led to the cave.

  Finally. Vadim ceased his endless pacing and sprang down the slope to meet her, almost stumbling over Forge in his haste. The middle-aged matron was an unlikely looking angel.

  “Well?” Vadim relieved the woman of her heavy hand basket. “Do you have news, Agatha?”

  The woman held up her hand to ward off his words, her breathing much too labored for speech. Her cheeks were flushed with the exertion of her mountain walk. Sweat dripped in beads from the tip of her wide nose.

  “At least give her time to catch her breath, m’lord.” Reynard appeared at Vadim’s side, his approach, as always, as stealthy as a mountain cat. “Greetings, sister,” he said, addressing the red-faced woman.

  Vadim cast an irritated glance at him. Only Reynard’s vigilance had prevented him from hastening to Edgeway in search of Martha. The older man had become his constant shadow, from dawn until dusk, Vadim was aware of Reynard’s watchful eyes on his back.

  “Patience, my friend,�
�� Reynard was fond of saying. “An early death will benefit neither you nor your lady wife.”

  Patience. ’Tis too small a word to quell the hot tide within my breast.

  For now, Reynard was diverted by Agatha’s hand basket, still balanced on the crook of Vadim’s arm. “Let us see what little treats you have brought us today.” He lifted the cover and began rifling through the contents. “Mmm… this bread looks delicious—”

  “Get your… filthy hands out of there.” Agatha recovered enough to swat Reynard’s fingers. “You will wait for supper like everyone else.”

  Reynard chuckled. “Edgeway has not yet robbed you of your sweet disposition, I am glad to see.” Agatha squeaked in protest as he hugged her, one arm about her plump shoulders.

  Vadim forced a tight-lipped smile, though he had little patience for such horseplay. Agatha must have seen it and took pity on him.

  “Your lady is alive and well, m’lord. Anselm removed her from the cells two days ago—”

  Vadim exhaled and briefly closed his eyes. Thank the Spirits!

  “Do not rejoice quite yet.” Agatha’s eyes flicked between Reynard and him. “He has installed her in his private chambers.”

  Vadim’s jaw dropped, and a blast of jealous rage ripped through him, urging him to punch something. He shall not claim her for his own. Never!

  Or perhaps he already had?

  The thought of Anselm despoiling Martha’s exquisite body with his foul touch made Vadim feel sick to his stomach.

  “I see.” Not without difficulty, he managed to speak calmly, betraying none of the emotion that was tearing him apart on the inside. “And do you think he has…” He swallowed, unable to voice his fears out loud.

  It was fortunate that Agatha understood him so well. “Oh, no, m’lord! No.”

  The speed of her denial enabled him to draw breath again. Vadim looked into the darkening sky so that his companions would not read the relief in his eyes. The low canopy of thick cloud held the promise of another downpour, and far off in the distance, a dancing ribbon of geese battled to stay in formation. Their melancholy calls were a poignant reminder of autumn’s advance. But, for him, summer had already gone.