Page 53 of Warrior’s Lady

"I have no idea. Why?"

How could she explain what she didn't understand herself? "'Tis nothing," she said as she lifted first one foot then the other, inspecting the soles that used to be covered in blisters. They were now only slightly red and the pain had vanished. Utterly astonished at how rapidly she had healed, Rhiannon placed her feet on the floor and stood, moving to the bedside. There, she smoothed the elegant fabric of the dress Mistress Faulkner had made her. The luxurious softness planted seeds of temptation in her chest. Could she wear the garment? Did she have a choice with no other clothing in her possession?

"Mistress Faulkner, do you promise me that this was not Violet's mother's gown?"

The older woman's face paled. "I know I've given you no reason to trust me." Her eyes filled with remorse. "But it's true I made the gown for you. I made one for Lady Violet as well."

Rhiannon believed her. In an uncharacteristic move, Rhiannon hugged the woman, bringing a startled gasp from the chatelaine's lips. "Thank you," Rhiannon said. "I have not had a new dress in ages."

"You're welcome, milady." An excited sparkle came into the older woman's eyes. "Let's try it on." When the task was complete, Mistress Faulkner stepped back, admiring her work. "You look lovely. Just as mistress of the castle should look."

Rhiannon inhaled sharply as a shiver ran through her. "I am not the mistress here. I am just Lady Violet's nursemaid," Rhiannon rattled on, suddenly nervous.

Knowing reflected in the older woman's tired gray eyes. "You are here. Make the most of it." She gave Rhiannon a squeeze on the arm and left the chamber.

Unsettled by the woman's words, Rhiannon paced the room. Dear heavens, is that how they saw her? An opportunist come to stake a claim?

Her legs became unsteady. She stumbled toward the bed and collapsed against its softness as a queer jolt of pain centered in her chest. Aye, the Ruthvens had been notorious for their unabashed attempts at advancement, through any means available. When proper and decent means slipped through their fingers, her family had become ruthless and unfeeling in the ways they chose to get ahead.

When she was young, her own father had abducted the king, and had sold Camden and Orrin into slavery, no doubt along with countless others. Her brothers had murdered so many of their neighbors that she had lost track. They'd raided, pillaged, and done anything to foster their own gains.

Why did she expect anyone to believe she was any different from her family? Rhiannon shut her eyes and leaned back on the bed, suddenly exhausted. She'd almost been burned alive because of her family name.

A startled gasp escaped her. She sat up, her body tense. That wasn't true. She'd almost been killed because she'd refused to be like her family. The man had asked her to betray Violet, and in turn Camden.

And she had refused.

"Wake up, ye bastard."

Bishop Berwick awoke with a start, his eyes wild and unfocused in the darkness of his little country bedroom. Where were his servants, the armed men he'd hired? He paid them handsomely to see that he remained safe.

He heard a rustle of movement from somewhere in the room.

His hand slid beneath his pillow. His fingers closed around the grip of a dagger.

"Yer Grace," the voice came again.

The bishop rolled off the bed, hitting the floor hard, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness. Then he saw it. The light of the moon revealed a solid silhouette near the window. The drapes billowed in the light breeze, creating undulating shadows in the now silent chamber.

The bishop got to his knees and crawled to the foot of the bed, his pristine nightshirt dragging on the floor. "Who's there?"

"Ye used me."

"Who the hell are you?"

"I hate bein' used."

The words came not from the window, but the opposite corner of the room. The bishop spun toward the corner. How had the man moved so quickly and silently?

There was no one there.

"What do you want? Money? An intercession? Just name it, and it is yours."

"I want out. I won't tell on 'em anymore."

The voice came from the direction of the window again, but nothing was there.

The bishop's heart thundered in his chest. "Who?"