Page 12 of Forgotten Secrets (Secrets of the Heart 4)

“Oh, I dinna ken. I just wondered.” She bit her lip, almost spilling Mazelina’s secret.

“I don’t know since they were covered by a hooded cape. Perhaps it was a woman, but the person was tall so mayhap it was a man.”

“A man?” Suddenly, Morag became frightened and moved closer to Branton. “Who could it have been?” she asked.

“I don’t know. When I entered the garden, the person seemed to disappear.”

Morag quickly blew out the candle, not wanting to be there any longer. She felt an odd chill run up her spine like the last time she was here. Something wasn’t right and she found herself thankful now that she had Branton with her for protection.

“Let’s get back to the castle at once,” she said, heading out the door of the cottage.

“But I thought you wanted to visit Imanie’s grave.”

“Later,” was all she said, hurrying to her horse with Branton on her heels. She took one last look over her shoulder as she left the garden, wondering if something had happened to Mazelina or if, perhaps, she was in hiding. Was it Mazelina that Branton saw in the garden or perhaps another intruder? The thought frightened her. Quickly mounting her horse, she rode like the wind back to the castle, wondering if she’d made a mistake in coming to the secret garden or even coming to Rothbury as well.

* * *

Bedivere satin front of the fire in the hearth in his chamber, polishing his array of weapons. He bided his time, waiting to be contacted. He used a soft rag against the side of his best sword, seeing his reflection in the metal. Around his face were the colors of glowing red and orange from the flames. It made him look like the devil, and he felt like it, too.

He thought of the innocent Morag and the way she had all but melted in his embrace. Didn’t the fool girl realize how dangerous he was? Of course she didn’t. If she had, she would have done more than just slap him. She was too curious for her own good and too pretty for a woman who was naught but a wagging tongue. Loose tongues in his profession were a liability. Everything he did had to be in secret. He didn’t even know who his contact would be since the person changed every time, just to keep from being caught.

He would have to stay far away from Morag because he couldn’t risk her finding out why he was here or what he was about to do. Protecting the king was admirable, but not in the way he was asked to do it. He would much rather duel with an armed man face to face instead of slitting a man’s throat from behind. But he’d only been doing as instructed, even if it didn’t feel right. His victims never had a chance to defend themselves.

He stopped polishing the blade to run his fingers over the notches carved into the hilt. Eleven notches stood for eleven kills. One more to go and he could leave his tarnished past behind him. One more job and the person he loved would be free from an imprisonment she didn’t deserve. Even still, he would never be free from the mark on his soul for who he was and the things he did. This bothered him immensely.

Anxiety coursed through him, causing him to stand up and pace the floor. He thought his emotions had died through the years but, lately, they seemed to be coming back to life. He now felt turmoil within him before finding out his next kill. Like the darkness of the night, he lived imprisoned by his past and knew he would find no happiness in this lifetime, nor did he deserve it.

A knock at the door caused him to stand upright, his heart skipping a beat. It was late and most everyone had already gone to sleep for the night. It must be his contact. But just in case, he had to hide the evidence of his actions.

“Just a moment,” he called out, quickly scooping up his weapons and wrapping them in a blanket to hide them. Hurrying over to the door, he pulled a dagger from his weapon belt, holding it steady as he stood to the side, reaching over and flinging open the door.

To his surprise, it wasn’t his contact, but rather the meddlesome girl and her sidekick, the young boy he saw in the courtyard earlier.

“What do you want?” he growled.

She looked at him oddly, most likely expecting him to be standing at the door and not off to the side, half-hidden.

“Sir Bedivere, is that any way to greet a lady?” sniffed Morag. Her gaze fell to his hand and her eyes opened wide. “Why are ye grippin’ yer dagger?” She took a step back, closer to the boy.

“Stand back, Morag,” said the boy, pushing her behind him and drawing his sword. “I’ll protect you.”

“Branton, I dinna want trouble,” she told him.

“Mayhap not, but it looks like he does.” The boy was ready for a fight.

Bedivere groaned inwardly. Could he ever get a break? He was tired and weary and all he wanted was one good night’s sleep. That was something he hadn’t had in years now.

“Oh, excuse me,” he said, faking a laugh and pushing his dagger back through his belt. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I was polishing my dagger when I heard the knock, that’s all.

“Oh,” said Morag, eyeing him up as if she almost believed him.

“Was there something you wanted, Lady Morag? After all, it is late for a woman to be coming to my door.” He scanned the hallway, watching for anyone who might be his contact.

“Well, that is why I brought Branton with me,” she told him. “I dinna want to be seen as a strumpet, knockin’ at yer door at all hours of the night.”

“Then why are you here?” he asked, wanting her gone.

“I couldna sleep after what ye said about me. I had to talk to ye about it.”

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