My Lady’s Treasure

by

Catherine Kean

Dedication:

For Megan. You are an exceptional treasure.

I’m so very proud to be your mother.

Published by Catherine Kean

P.O. Box 917624

Longwood, FL 32791-7624

Visit Catherine’s website at

www.catherinekean.com

Copyright © 2011 by Catherine Kean

All elements of this book are fictional.

The author reserves all rights to this ebook.

This ebook may not be re-sold or reproduced in any way.

This novel is a reissue and was previously published in mass market paperback.

Cover design by Kimberly Killion, Hot Damn Designs

Acknowledgements:

Many times over, I must thank my wonderful critique partners—Nancy Robards Thompson, Elizabeth Grainger, and Teresa Elliott Brown—who helped me forge the rough metal of my words into gold. Your friendship is very special to me.

And, as always, I thank my husband, Mike. My hero.

Contents

Preface

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

More from Catherine Kean

Chapter One

England, Early December, 1192

The kidnapper had not yet come.

Had something unforeseen happened?

Oh, God. Oh, God.

With trembling hands, Lady Faye Rivellaux pulled her hooded mantle closer about her body. Still, the afternoon gale, hissing over the gray, mist-wreathed lake before her, slipped icy fingers inside the garment. Even the skeletal trees at the water’s edge shuddered.

Faye hugged her arms to her chest, for the cold seeped beyond flesh and blood into the aching place in her soul. Oh, please. She could not bear this waiting. Any longer, and the strain would shatter her from the inside out.

Her pulse gave a sudden jolt. Did she wait at the wrong lakeshore? Nay. There was only one lake in this county with a string of rocks rising out of its depths like a mythical serpent. She had made no mistake.

Faye forced herself to inhale and then slowly exhale. The cold did not matter, nor did her tattered nerves.

Naught mattered, except Angeline.

The little girl was only eighteen months old. How cruel the circumstances that her life depended upon the outcome of today’s meeting. Faye shivered again, for the moment of exchange loomed with all the menace of the gathering storm clouds which smothered any last glimmers of sunlight.

If she failed to sway Angeline’s abductor—

Faye’s jaw tightened. She must not.

She would not.

Her numb fingers brushed over the lump beneath her mantle. Thank the saints the object had not come untied from her belt during her journey from Caldstowe Keep to the meeting site. Something about the bold, controlled handwriting of the missive, delivered to her two days past, warned she dealt with ruffians who would never yield—or would do Angeline grave harm—unless Faye met their demands.

With a shaky sigh, she walked nearer the inky water. In the buffeting wind she caught the tang of impending rain. Behind her, the wind moaned through jagged boulders, the sound so eerily human, her belly twisted.

And then she saw him.

The rider, garbed in a flowing black cloak, sat astride a huge black destrier. He approached from the brush-fringed trees several yards away. An iron helm, of the older Norman style with a broad nasal guard, covered his head. Not only did it secure his cloak’s hood against the buffeting wind, but it hid his hair and a good portion of his face. A deliberate attempt to conceal his features.

He gripped his mount’s reins in one hand. His other hand rested upon his sword’s pommel, the weapon revealed by swept-back folds of his cloak. The horse’s bridle chimed like a handful of coins as the animal clopped toward her.

Faye felt the man’s gaze raking over her, from her mantle’s voluminous hood to its hem brushing her ankles. Thorough, deliberate, his assessing stare told her he was well aware of the painful emotions tangling up inside her, yet he would run this meeting as he wished.

Despite the gale, the thud of the approaching horse’s hooves seemed terribly loud. Her hand flew to her throat. Sleepless nights, along with days of worrying about Angeline and being unable to swallow even one mouthful of food, weighed upon her like a stone blanket. The lake blurred before Faye’s eyes. Blinking hard, she fought the urge to swoon.

Never would she reveal her fear to this knave. Fear, she had once been told, was a sign of weakness. Courage would steel her like armor, for she must not fail to secure the child’s freedom. She would never forget her tearful vow, pledged to Angeline’s dying mother, to protect the little girl.

Forcing her hand down to her side, Faye looked at the approaching rider. “Where is Angeline?”

He did not answer. His head tilted with undisguised arrogance. Then, she sensed his attention shifting from her to the rocks and trees behind her. Her bay mare, she remembered, was tethered there in the shelter of a gnarled willow.

Mayhap he suspected she had not come alone, as the missive ordered. The boulders were large enough for men to crouch behind. The clumps of brush, too, grew thick enough to conceal assailants. As though attuned to her perilous thoughts, his fingers slid down to his sword’s grip, preparing to draw the weapon from its scabbard if he sensed a threat.

Panic raced through Faye. She had done as the missive demanded. Aye, after she read it, anguish almost convinced her to ignore the note’s warnings. She longed to run to Torr, show him the parchment, and beg for a contingent of men-at-arms to arrest his daughter’s kidnapper at the arranged meeting. However, concern for Angeline’s well-being had stopped Faye like iron chains clamped around her ankles.

Worry again sluiced through her, but she fought the urge to raise pleading hands and swear she had obeyed his demands. This man would think such desperation foolish. Amusing, even.

Through chattering teeth, Faye said, “Where is she?”  Despite the hood protecting her face, the wind snatched the words from her lips, but she refused to be deterred. “Why is Angeline not with you? The missive said she would be.”

The man halted his destrier barely an arm’s length away. The scents of leather and horse wafted to her. The lathered animal snorted a breath of white mist as the rider looked down at her.

This close, she saw dark brown hair had worked free of his hood. The strands were long enough to brush his neck. His lips were wide and full, his chin slightly squared. His taut jaw embellished her impression of angular features, as did the scar slashing across his right cheek. Her gaze traveled upward, to lock with eyes so cold and blue, she gasped. By the meeting’s end, would she see compassion in his gaze or the ruthlessness of a murderer?

He seemed to enjoy her scrutiny, for his lips curled up at the corner.

“Answer me,” she choked out. “Where is Angeline?”

“First, the silver.”

His voice sounded deep and velvety, akin to the softened ripple of thunder. Although he did not raise his voice, each word rang with command. From the roiling clouds overhead came an answering rumble, as if to warn her she must do as he bade.

Faye fought the desperate rage clawing up inside her. Of course such a knave would disregard the rules he had written in black ink. He did not care for the welfare of children, only his payment. Revulsion flooded her mouth with a vile taste as she bit out, “I have no silver.”

“Nay?”  The hard smile that tilted his mouth vanished. “Why did you come, then?”

“Because—”

“Do not think to sway me with your beauty, woman’s charms, or tears. The agreement was clear. You chose not to obey it. No silver,” he growled, “no child.”

His tone held the frozen chill of a January blizzard. How ruthless he sounded. Images of such heartlessness had slipped into her dreams, transforming her snatched moments of slumber into nightmares. To think of Angeline held captive by such a man . . .

Lightning sizzled overhead, followed by thunder. The first drops of rain spattered on the lake’s surface as Faye’s fingers curled into fists. Equally vile to imprisoning a child, this knave thought she might ply her “woman’s charms” on him. Fie! She would rather eat mud.

The bridle chimed as the rider pulled on the horse’s reins, turning it to ride away. “Farewell, milady.”

“Wait!”  Blood pounded hard at her temples. “We have not finished.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Indeed, we have.”

“You have, mayhap,” she said, proud of her strong voice, “but I have not.”

A laugh broke from him. He sounded astonished by her audacity. As her hands slid down to her waist, parting the edges of her mantle to expose her green woolen gown beneath, his laughter darkened with distrust. “I warned you, I will not be swayed by charms or tears—”

“—and I offer none.” With stiff fingers, she unfastened the cord tied to her belt, and the stem of the gold cup melded into her palm. Arching an eyebrow, she raised the vessel into the grayed light. “I do not have silver, but gold.”

***

Brant Meslarches fought to hold back a startled cry. Gold? God’s holy blood. Of all the outcomes he had anticipated from the meeting, he never imagined this one.

Fighting the misgiving that knotted his gut, scrambling to decide how to proceed, he swung his mount back to face her.

As he did so, his meeting with Lord Torr Lorvais, two days ago in the snarl of woods by The Spitting Hen Tavern, raced through his mind. Pulling a shriveled leaf from a tree branch, Torr had told him, “Lady Faye Rivellaux is a penniless widow. Her husband died and after the sale of his estate and settling of debts, there was naught left. Since she had nowhere to go, I let her stay at Caldstowe Keep. I know she has no silver to bring.”

Brant could not resist a frown. Since his return to England a few months ago, he had deliberately stayed away from Torr’s controlling grasp. Using battle skills honed on crusade, which had seen him knighted on the desert sands by King Richard himself, he had competed in county fair archery contests and jousting tournaments to feed himself, his destrier, and his dog. Not rich living, but his life was his own.

Until the rainy morning, weeks ago, when he had raised his drunken head from a tavern table to receive Elayne’s letter. It had taken the messenger a week to find him.

Instantly sober, he rode to Caldstowe, only to learn she had died. Whatever Torr’s wife had wanted to tell Brant remained a secret.

Regret, splintered by forbidden fragments of longing, still pained him, but he had forced the emotions aside. “Why send the missive to Lady Rivellaux?” he had asked.

Torr laughed as if Brant had told a ridiculous jest. “You are to frighten her. Scare her. Bring her to screaming tears, if need be. Then you will ride away.”

Torr had spoken of deceiving the lady as though he discussed the lack of clouds in the wintry sky. With effort, Brant suppressed a surge of temper. “Who is this Angeline who has been kidnapped?”  Torr had a young daughter of that name, borne to him and Elayne. Yet, despite Torr’s eccentricities, no father would abduct his own child.

Torr had waved a lazy hand. “Angeline is someone Faye knows.”

A vague, deceptive answer. “A relative? Friend?”

An irritated scowl twisted Torr’s brow. “It does not matter. You know what to do.”  His mouth eased into a thin, smug smile. “You will not refuse.”

All warmth had suddenly vanished from the unseasonably mild day. Threaded through Torr’s words was the blatant reminder of what had transpired on crusade.

The murder.

The vow Brant had choked out while, wracked with horror and guilt, he stood by his brother Royce’s body, the bloody knife still in his hand. The lie which had long ago strangled the life from his soul and bound him for the remainder of his hellish existence into Torr’s service.

A shudder, cold as death, now rippled down Brant’s spine. Hardening his jaw, he halted his destrier beside the lady, so close to her his scuffed boot almost touched her raised hands.

He stared down at her holding up the gold vessel like it offered salvation. Triumph gleamed in her green eyes the color of spring leaves. The wind had tugged her hood back a fraction, revealing her pale brow swept with coppery red hair. High cheekbones, more pronounced than he liked in his women, framed her slim face. His gaze slid down to her mouth. A captivating innocence defined the curve of her lips, although Torr had named her a widow.

Widow or not, she was a beauty. With the right smile, she could enchant any man.

Raindrops pelted Brant. A blunt reminder that here, now, he must do Torr’s bidding.

Perspiration beaded on Brant’s forehead, chilling where his skin pressed against the metal helm. Yet, he ignored the urge to yank off the helm and wipe away the discomfort, for to do so would fully reveal his face. In this disgraceful mission, he wanted a measure of anonymity. “Where did you come upon this gold, milady?”

Her victorious smile wavered. “A friend . . . found it.”

“You mean, stole it. From whom?”

As she wiped rainwater from her cheek, her lips flattened. “’Tis not stolen. ’Twas a gift . . . from the earth.”

He snorted. “A likely tale.”

“I speak true.”  Her determined gaze did not waver. Not a trace of pricking conscience clouded her eyes, even when he folded his arms across his chest.

The droplets clinging to her damp hood shimmered like pearls. How luminous her skin looked against the drab gray wool better suited for a matron than a young woman. She must have interpreted his silence as disbelief, for she said, “I do not lie.” She turned the vessel in her slender fingers. “See? There is the dent where it lay crushed against a rock.”

A hot-cold tingle of anticipation ran through him. “You found it near here?”

She gnawed her bottom lip, then nodded.

Brant’s hand shook as he curled it into a fist. His older brother had believed a vast treasure lay hidden in the earth, riches of an ancient king named Arthur whose feats were immortalized in legend. The quest to find the hoard had consumed Royce’s every waking moment, forged into a passion which outshone his duties as the first born son who would one day become lord of his father’s lands. He had skipped mornings in the tiltyard to talk to villagers with tales of long ago, sprawled in the long grass and daydreamed of the find, while keeping detailed notes in a leather-bound journal.

If she had found the riches Royce sought . . .

If Royce’s dream, lost with his last dying breath, could still come true . . .

“What else did you find?” Brant demanded.

“Naught.”  As though sensing she had trapped him with her golden lure, she gave a sly smile. “That does not mean there is no more.”

Reaching out his hand, he said, “Give me the cup.”

She shook her head. “I am no fool. You will ride away with it.”

“I wish only to see it.”  He could not keep the excitement from his voice.

Pressing the vessel against her rain-soaked mantle, she said, “Come down from your horse. Then you may inspect it.”

An admiring chuckle welled in his throat. She was cunning, this Lady Rivellaux. Dismounting put him at her eye level, at a disadvantage to his current position. Yet, he had already determined she had come alone, and a willowy young woman posed him no threat.

“Very well.” Swinging his leg over, he dropped to the ground.

Standing a hand’s span away from her, he caught her faint, floral scent. A combination of lavender, rose and . . . woman. Memories of Elayne, curled in his arms in a flower-strewn meadow, her golden hair shimmering in the sunlight, teased their way into his thoughts.

He hardened his heart to the echo of Elayne’s coy laughter and reached for the vessel.

With a hint of reluctance, Lady Rivellaux slipped it into his hands. The gold was warm where her fingers had touched. He traced the dent in the smooth metal with his thumb. Raising the cup to his mouth, he pressed it to his teeth.

Gold, indeed.

In his hand lay proof of Royce’s dream.

Ah, God. This cup was salvation indeed.

“I will trade you this vessel,” the lady said, “for Angeline.”

His head jerked up. This close, her heavily-lashed eyes looked even greener, her mouth more enticing. Yet, there were dark smudges under her eyes, suggesting she had not slept in days. There was a strained harshness to her delicate features.

Worry, no doubt, for her friend, Angeline.

Guilt ate at his conscience, even as he squared his shoulders. The rain was falling in a steady stream now, and he raised his voice to be heard. “This gold pleases me. However, the decision to release her is not mine.”

She stiffened. “What?”

The shock in her eyes struck him like a slap. Yet, he would not admit he was unprepared for this situation. Neither would he confess that she, a mere woman, had bested him.

Her surprised gaze sharpened with fury. Rain beat on her cloak, plastering her sodden hood to her head, but she made no move to brush away the water running down her face.

Brant held her furious stare. He had surveyed the meeting site before she arrived, and after he watched her ride down to the lakeshore. While he had not seen anyone else, ’twas possible Torr had sent one of his men-at-arms to ensure Brant followed through with his part of the arrangement. If this lackey had seen her with the gold, her life could be in grave danger.

No way in blazing hellfire would he have another death on his conscience.

Forcing the words through his teeth, Brant said, “I will take the gold, and you will be informed of the decision.” He turned to drop the vessel into his saddlebag.

Her white-knuckled hand clamped on his arm. “Nay!”

“’Tis the only way.”

“Thief! You will ride off with the cup. I will never see it—or you—again!”

What a wretchedly tempting thought. However, he could not break his vow to Torr. To do so would obliterate the last tattered threads of knightly honor by which he lived his life.

With a gentle but firm shove, Brant broke free of her hold. The leather ties of his saddlebag were soaked, the knot tight beneath his rain-wet fingers. Drops splashed on the gold, making it slippery in his grasp.

“The agreement demanded silver. I brought gold!” she shrieked over a wailing gust of wind. “I did as you asked.”

She had. Curse Torr. She did not deserve such torment.

Unable to shield the bitterness from his tone, Brant said, “If you wish to see Angeline again, you will obey.” At last, the saddlebag’s ties slipped loose. He dropped in the vessel, then cinched the bag shut.

He swung back to face her. She stood with her arms folded across her stomach, despair etched into her ashen face. A violent tremor racked her. She moaned, a sound which seemed dragged from her very soul. The hair on his nape prickled.

He could not stop himself reaching for her.

She recoiled as though he handed her a hissing adder. Her voice painfully thin, she said, “The missive was a trick, wasn’t it? Why? To get the gold? How did you learn of it? ’Twas our sworn secret. No one else knew.”

Her anxiety gouged like jagged steel. “Milady—”

As though the last of her resolve snapped, she lunged at him, sobbing, her desperate hands clawing at his cloak. “Where is Angeline? Please, where is she?”

The lady careened into him. The force of the impact knocked him backward two steps. His arms closed instinctively around her, even as his left boot connected with a slick stone. His horse, the rocky lakeshore, the sky suddenly blurred. With a startled grunt, he shifted sideways and managed to break his fall.

Still struggling, the lady slid from his arms.

Swiping rainwater from his jaw and chin, Brant straightened.

Stones clattered.

A shrill scream echoed.

The sound abruptly stopped, as though snatched in mid-air.

Brant spun on his heel. The lady sprawled face-down amongst the rocks, the fingers of both hands splayed as though to keep from hitting the ground.

“Lady Rivellaux?”

She did not answer. She did not stir. Water pooled in the folds of her mantle.

Brant dropped to one knee, then pushed her wet hood from her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. She had fallen against a rock. He pressed his shaking hand against her mouth. Thank God, she still breathed.

Through the soaked wool of her mantle, he felt along her arms and legs. On crusade, he had learned much about broken bones and how to splint them. When his fingers slipped down to her right ankle, relief coursed through him. No limbs broken. But he could not say for her ribs or pelvis.

He carefully lifted her, turned her over, then rested her head back against the stone. With awkward fingers, he nudged aside the hair stuck to her face. Blood, oozing from a gash on her cheekbone, smeared her right cheek and ran into a thin line, as stark as his own scar, across her delicate skin. His mouth twisted on an oath.

Under his breath, he prayed her loveliness would not be permanently disfigured. He deserved the ugly mark on his right cheek, a reminder of his sin he must live with for the rest of his life. She did not deserve such a blemish.

Pressing his hands to her belly, he began to search for obvious injuries. Her mantle, of fine quality yet obviously much worn, hindered his efforts. He well knew all the enticing dips and swells of a woman’s physique, but, as his fingers crept lower in a thorough yet impartial examination, a strange tension plagued him. For one unsettling moment, he felt like a clumsy, green youth, venturing into forbidden territory.

Aye, forbidden indeed. If the lady awoke to find his hands upon her, she would no doubt scream to raise the dead in the graveyard four leagues away.

His gaze flicked up to her face. Her mouth remained slack, her eyelids closed and still above the sweep of her lashes.

By now, she should have stirred. Even a tiny, pained sigh.

Concern kindled the unease burning in his gut like red-hot embers. Focusing again on his task, tilting his head down to better see past the nasal guard, he moved his hands over the curve of her hips, the slim expanse of her waist, up to the base of her ribcage.

A scowl knitted his brow, for even through the added layer of her gown beneath, his fingertips traced the bump of her ribs. Too slender by far, this lady. His hands edged higher, toward her breasts, but before his thumbs grazed their rounded softness, he drew away.

Shaking rainwater from his hands, he sat back on his haunches. No broken bones that he could tell, but only by taking her to a warm, dry place and stripping off her garments could he examine her body properly and know for certain—a liberty he had no desire to take.

He did not want the burden of a wounded woman. Not when by morn, with the gold cup safely in his bag, he aimed to be hunting for the rest of the treasure. Anticipation of the quest whispered inside him with wondrous enticement.

He could not leave her here, however, alone and unconscious. Ruffians might prey upon her. She could die of a chill. Torr would blame him for her murder, and her death would mire Brant into even deeper servitude to the manipulative bastard.

Nudging her shoulder, he made one last attempt to rouse her. “Lady Rivellaux.”

Her head lolled from side to side like a cloth doll’s. Her eyelids fluttered before her face contorted on a whimper.

She was waking. “Milady, can you—?”

Her body tensed, then went slack.

“—hear me.”

Bowing his head, he stared at his hands. Damnation.

The wind shrieked, sounding like a frightened old crone. Rain slammed against him. As he wiped water from his eyes, a flash of lightning preceded the distant, terrified whinny of her mare that had become untethered. Tossing her head, reins dangling, she disappeared into the deluge.

There was only one choice left to him.

Brant slid one arm under the lady’s torso, the other under her legs. He lifted her into his arms. The mass of her wet hair tumbled back over his arm, while her head listed back to expose the creamy smoothness of her throat. Her scent rose to him, sweet against the storm’s earthy tang.

“Damnation,” he muttered through clenched teeth. Drawing her closer against his chest, his mouth a grim line, he strode toward his horse.

Chapter Two

Through a dark fog of pain, Faye became aware of a rocking motion. The shadows in her mind shifted, swirled, and she struggled to surface from the blackness pulling at her consciousness with ghostly hands. She vaguely felt rain on her face, heard the gritty clop of hooves plodding through mud, realized she was being supported by strong arms. Then, distorted fingers of memory tugged her back down toward the darkness that tempted her with an oblivion free of anguish and nightmares.

Recollections of that stifling hell of emptiness and torment cried out inside her, shrill as a lost child. She tried to block the shadows. Fie, but they stole in through every patched seam of her resistance. They battered down every fragile wall protecting her resolve.

Naaayyy!

She wanted to fight, to break free, but the hands caught her consciousness and would not let go. A moan echoed inside her as she was sucked down, down, down, and the familiar images crowded her mind.

She lay on her back in the river’s shallows, propped up on her elbows. Swift, vicious, the agony had knocked the strength out of her limbs while she waded in the sun-sparkled water, waiting for her servants to finish their meal before they all continued on to the village. Gasping, she had crumpled into the river. Her body trembled in a surge of pain.

“Lady Rivellaux!” her lady-in-waiting cried from behind her, her hand smoothing Faye’s sweat-streaked hair. Stones rattled on the shore as a man-at-arms paced. On a strangled breath, Faye prayed that the other man-at-arms would return soon with Greya, the healer from the village.

Greya would know what to do.

The cold water lapped against Faye’s legs and waist, gently rocking her, even as her terrified gaze shot to the bloodied gown twisted up between her thighs. Through cresting anguish, she recalled the sharp cramps from earlier that morn which had rippled through her rounded belly as well as her lower back. Shame, that she had paid them no heed.

“A bit of discomfort is common in women with child, milady,” the serving women at the castle had assured her sennights ago. “Do not worry. You will make Lord Rivellaux very proud. You will bear him the strong, healthy heir he has desired for so many years.”

Tears burned Faye’s eyes, and her fingers dug into the mud and stones beneath her hands. How foolish that she had not postponed her journey to have her chatelaine’s chain repaired.

Oh, God, how—

Twisting pain again lashed at Faye’s innards. She cried out. Her shaking hand clawed at her belly, fisting into the wet, muddied fabric as the agony came again. Warm blood gushed between her legs.

“Nay,” she moaned. “Naaayyy!”

A terrible weight crushed Faye’s abdomen. Pain ripped from the inside out, so intense it seared the very core of her soul. Darkness exploded around her, and from it came the echoes of splashing water, the sensation of being half lifted, half pulled to the shore.

A sob racked Faye, even as her lady-in-waiting crouched beside her, murmuring comforting words.

Footfalls intruded on her waning consciousness. Greya’s voice. Urgent hands pushed up Faye’s bloodied gown, then pressed on her bare belly. Cool air brushed between her legs.

Shocked whispers.

“Greya?” Faye moaned.

“Hush, now,” the old woman soothed, her hands probing again. Then she gasped. “Mercy!”

Faye struggled to form words past the blackness clouding her mind. “Please,” she said, “my babe—”

A ripping sound, then a long silence. The gurgle of the slow-moving river, the drone of bumblebees in the sunlit meadow, the trill of birdsong seemed to fade into that awful moment which said so much, without a single spoken word.

“A girl,” Greya finally said.

Faye forced her watery eyes open. Greya’s lined face softened with tenderness. She cradled a little bundle wrapped in a length of cloth. A swatch torn from her own woolen gown. Her moist gaze locked with Faye’s, before she laid the motionless bundle against Faye’s breast.

A perfect little girl with the face of a cherub. Plump cheeks. Dark eyelashes sweeping against fair skin. A rounded nose above perfect . . . blue . . . lips.

Anguish squeezed Faye’s heart as she caught one of the baby’s tiny hands. “Oh, please—”

“I am sorry, milady,” Greya whispered. “She was too small.”

“Naaayyy!” The scream burst from deep inside Faye. Shrill, desperate, it flowed from the raw, gaping hole in her soul—the part of her which had communed with, nurtured, and cherished the new life growing inside her.

Now gone.

Faye’s throat hurt from screaming. The emptiness inside her devoured like a massive, distorted beast.

Suffocating blackness crept into her mind. She welcomed it. Let it overshadow her body’s pain and her last, fading glimmers of consciousness.

Closing her mind to the concerned voices around her, the gentle rocking of hands trying to nudge her awake, Faye prayed that the darkness dragged her down into an oblivion from which she would never awake.

***

Bowing his head against the driving rain, Brant splashed through the muddy water swirling across the dirt path between the run-down stable and the door of The Spitting Hen Tavern. Rowdy laughter and off-key singing came from the building’s lower level, while water dripped down from the thatched, second story roof with a steady tick, tick.

As he strode to the doorway, guided by the light streaming out into the darkness, he tilted the unconscious lady in his arms so her face remained concealed by her mantle’s hood. Best to keep her identity hidden from any curious onlookers inside. Water ran off his helm and trailed down the back of his neck, sticking his wet garments to his chilled skin. Clenching his teeth against his discomfort, he kicked open the rough-hewn door.

The wooden panel flew in on its hinges. It smacked into the arse of a drunken sot leaning over to shout in a friend’s ear.

“Oof!” The drunkard pitched forward. He landed belly-first on a table, sending ale mugs crashing onto the dirt floor. The earthy smell of spilled drink carried on the breeze that howled into the smoky room.

Brant slammed the door shut with his heel.

All laughter and singing stopped.

The men at the disrupted table rose to glare at Brant. He glared back at them. The scruffy farmers and travelers grumbled amongst themselves, then slumped back down in their chairs.

A low buzz of conversation resumed.

Brant’s boots creaked as he strode to the tavern’s wooden counter. A heavy-set man with oily skin—the tavern owner whom Brant had met earlier that day when he arranged for a night’s lodging—stood there, holding a burning tallow candle to another one that had been extinguished by the blast of wind. His mouth at a faintly apprehensive slant, the owner watched Brant approach.

“I need a hot meal sent up to my room,” Brant said, adjusting the lady’s weight in his arms. “Also, boiled water and drying cloths.”

The man’s gaze traveled over the lady’s motionless form before he touched the flickering taper to another unlit candle. “I will see to it, milord.”

“Be quick about it, and I will pay you twice the silver.”

The innkeeper’s eyes brightened. With a brisk dip of his head, he pushed aside the candles and hurried through a crooked door off the main room.

Shrugging to ease the growing strain of the woman’s weight, Brant strode toward the planked staircase that led up to the second floor. His boots sounded a hollow thud on the scarred wood. The strumpets reclining on the bottom stairs preened as he passed by. “Oy,” cooed a brunette with painted red lips. “Can I join ye in a bit o’ fun?”

Further up, he encountered a busty wench with rouged cheeks, her skin pocked from a past illness, her brown hair escaping from her braid. She pulled her tattered skirt up to her thighs. “Deane’s me name. Will ye choose me?”

Sweeping past the whores pawing at his wet cloak, he plodded up the stairs. He had not told the innkeeper he wanted a lusty strumpet in his bed, but mayhap they had overheard his comment about the silver. Opportunists, all of them, wanting a bit of his hard-won coin.

On any other night, he would welcome a willing wench to his bed, but tonight . . . His gaze dropped to the ashen, blood-streaked face of the lady in his arms. Tonight, he already had a woman to attend.

He reached the top of the stairs, lit by some candles on a battered table, then turned right, toward the door at the end of the hallway. The uneven floor creaked with each of his strides. Shifting the lady slightly, he reached for the room’s iron door handle and pushed the panel inward.

The click, click of tiny clawed paws, then happy whimpers of greeting, came from the shadowed chamber. Brant stepped inside, noting that servants had lit the fire, per his prior agreement with the owner, but it had burned down.

A warm muzzle brushed Brant’s calf. “Out of the way, Valor,” he muttered to the little dog squirming at his heels. Elbowing his way into the room, Brant lowered the lady onto the low, straw pallet against the wall. Locating the chamber’s unlit tapers in metal holders, he strode to the hall candles to light them, then returned. Brant nudged the chamber door closed behind him and drew the bolt.

He set the candles on the oak table beside the bed. The flames’ warm glow reached out into the shadows as he slid his saddlebag strap over his head and set the bag by the chair turned toward the hearth. He removed his dripping cloak and slung it over the chair back. With a relieved groan, he pulled off his helm.

Another whimper, then a howl.

“I hear you, Val.” Brant placed the helm on the chair and dropped down on one knee. He reached out to the little dog, whose fur looked honey-gold in the firelight. His tail wagging at a furious pace, Val scooted closer and licked Brant’s hand.

He scratched the wavy fur between the mongrel’s shoulders and patted the small head. Val’s pink tongue lolled out of his mouth. Brant couldn’t resist a wry grin. Those brown eyes, fringed with unruly tufts of fur, stared up at him with such adoration and trust. As if Brant held the power to make everything right—or, at least, fetch some fare.

He rubbed Val’s muzzle, while his gaze dropped to the scarred stump where the dog’s right front leg should have been. Months ago, he had made everything right for Val. A terrible choice, to have to take an animal’s leg, yet Val had quickly adapted to his infirmity. He ran as fast on three legs as most dogs on four.

Behind him on the pallet, the lady stirred. Her hands fluttered, as though she tried to protect or defend herself, before she muttered incoherent words. Then she fell silent.

Giving Val one last pat, Brant pushed to his feet. “Our meal is on the way. I have work to do now,” he said, crossing to the hearth. Crouching before the glazed tiles, he piled more logs on the fire’s dwindling flames.

Warmth crackled in the strengthening blaze. Never had Brant been more aware of his soggy boots and damp garments. But he could not linger in the soothing heat.

Val trotted at his heels as Brant returned to the bed. He crouched beside the lady. Her face looked very pale against the dun woolen blanket covering the pallet, her lips almost blue. Leaning over, he carefully removed her soaked leather shoes. Water trickled from her mantle onto the floorboards, so he carefully lifted her to slide the outer garment from her shoulders. The bedding beneath her was damp. He must remember to ask the tavern owner for more blankets when the man brought the meal.

Pressing her torso against him for support, Brant shifted her lower body to work the mantle free. With a little sigh, she tucked her head into the crook between his jaw and shoulder. Her breath warmed his neck, coaxing him to wrap his arms around her, to savor her enticing scent. Frowning, he ignored the temptation and pushed the mantle to the floor.

Val nuzzled the wet garment. He sneezed.

Brant gently laid the lady down again. She wore a grass green gown belted at the waist. A simple garment. However, the lines of the soaked wool hugged her curves and valleys, confirming all that had been suggested by his clumsy, earlier exploration—firm breasts, a narrow waist, tapered hips, and long legs.

Dryness parched his mouth. He unfastened the leather belt around her waist, slid it out from under her, then dropped it on the floor. That simple task, in which his fingers brushed against her garments, confirmed the thought teasing the back of his mind. He must remove her gown and shift. Not only were they soaked, but he must be sure she did not have other wounds.

He reached for the ties at the side of her gown and hesitated. Aye, ’twould be best to unfasten them, then lift her up to draw her garments over her head. Simplest. Quickest.

How many hundreds of times he had undressed a woman, yet now, of all idiocy, he had to pause and think.

With a grumpy whimper, Val squeezed between him and the pallet to nudge his hand.

“Not now,” Brant said. “Go lie by the fire.”

With a shy wiggle, Val nuzzled again.

“Go,” Brant ordered. The little dog scurried away, but only to the other side of the table, where he sat watching.

With skilled tugs, Brant worked her gown’s ties free. As the two edges separated, they revealed her white linen shift, pulled taut against her ribs and breasts. Dragging his gaze away, he fisted his hands into the fabric about her legs and gave a swift yank.

A shuddering gasp broke from her. The sound seemed wrenched from deep within. It held such terrible anguish, he froze.

Her breathing quickened. The space between them seemed to compress with an acute awareness. Brant drew his gaze from her shapely calves, exposed by her gown bunched about her knees. He glanced at her face. Her eyes were open. She blinked up at him, confusion as well as wariness clouding her gaze. She seemed to be trying to remember how she came to be lying in this room, with him hovering over her.

Her gaze moved to his scar, and her breathing became a shocked rasp. Fear, now, marked the distance between them.

Brant could not blame her for being terrified. Every morning, when he splashed water over his face, he felt as well as saw the grisly reminder. “Milady,” he said in the gentlest tone he could muster.

“Who . . . are you?” With a strangled shriek, she shoved her hands against him. “Do not touch me.”

He released her gown. Raising his palms in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, he said, “I will do you no harm.”

She scrambled up to a sitting position, her legs curled under her. Blinking hard, as if to clear away sudden dizziness, she pressed back against the wall.

“I prom—”

Before he guessed her intentions, her hips swiveled. Her feet slammed into his chest.

Grunting in shock, Brant catapulted backward. His arm knocked the table. The rickety legs wobbled. With a thud, thud, thud, the candles in their metal holders clattered to the floorboards, accompanied by the sound of Val’s scrabbling claws and a startled yelp.

Brant landed on his arse. As he jerked hair out of his face to level the lady with a glare, a knock pounded on the chamber door.

“Milord,” came the tavern owner’s voice. “Yer dinner.”

***

The man pushed to his feet with lithe, angry grace. Faye twisted her fingers into the front of her gown—wet for some strange reason. Pain spiked across her cheek. The agony seared up the side of her face to join the headache which threatened to pummel away her consciousness. Choking back a moan, pressing her hand to her brow, she squinted at the stranger who looked about to throttle her.

He was a very imposing man—tall, broad shouldered, and, from the snug fit of his garments, well-muscled like a seasoned knight. Muttering an oath, he raked his hand through his shoulder-length hair, then snatched up the candles which had landed on a garment on the floor—her mantle, she realized dully—and begun to smolder.

“When I open the door, keep your head down. Do not say a word.”

She blinked to chase away the reddish shadows encroaching on her line of vision. How perplexing that his voice sounded familiar.

He glanced at her, as though to be sure she understood him. His eyes were a stunning blue, framed by dark lashes. Her belly did a peculiar little flip. How could she not remember a man with such fascinating eyes, or such uncommon features? Strong bones marked the aristocratic lines of his face, a proud nose, a squared chin with full lips. Half of his face was exceedingly beautiful, while the other half—

Impossible, not to recall a man with such a brutal scar.

Why could she not remember?

A knock rattled the door near her. “Milord?” a male voice called from outside, the sound muffled through the wood panel.

The stranger set the extinguished candles on the table. Hands on his hips, he said again, “Do not show your face or speak.”

Worry nibbled its way into her hazy mind. “W-why not?”

His expansive chest, outlined by a clinging, dark blue tunic, rose and fell on a sigh. She vaguely remembered the cold, soggy feel of his clothing from when she kicked him. “’Tis best for both of us, especially you,” he said, “if your identity remains secret.”

Secret? Why? What clandestine situation had she become drawn into, but could not remember? What if he were holding her against her will? What if he had hit her about the head in order to bring her here? Panic shivered its way into her thoughts.

Giving her a last, pointed look, the man strode to the door, drew the bolt, and pulled open the wooden panel. Holding it close to his body, he spoke in hushed tones to the man beyond.

Pressing her palms to the straw pallet beneath her, Faye scooted her body forward. Her head swam, causing an answering roil in her belly. She was going to be sick!

Nay! Sucking in a determined breath, she eased her feet onto the cold floor, then reached for the table for support. She must walk to the door. Regardless of the stranger’s commands, she would ask the man outside to send a message to Caldstowe. Torr would come to fetch her.

As her shaking hand met the table, she sensed someone watching her. A scruffy face with huge, round eyes peeked at her from behind the table legs. A dog, only a little bigger than the big-boned tom cat that hunted mice in Caldstowe’s stable.

The mongrel blinked behind its mop of fuzzy fur before its tail began a hesitant thump against the planks.

“—and a few more blankets,” the stranger said, stepping back into the room to close the door. He held a tray laden with food. The aromas of pottage and freshly-baked bread carried to Faye as he strode toward her, his boots rapping on the floorboards.

Wiggling all over, the mongrel scooted out from behind the table. Rising up on two legs, it walked over to the man.

Faye gasped. The dog only had three legs. Where one of its front ones should be was a scarred lump of fur.

Juggling the tray, trying not to step on the little dog, the stranger cursed. “Val!”

He bumped into the chair by the hearth and cursed again. “Sit. Now.”

With a miffed growl, the dog sat.

An object on the chair caught the flickering firelight. A Norman-style helm. The shadows either side of the nasal guard seemed blacker than midnight, empty yet full of secrets.

Memories careened through Faye’s mind.

Angeline’s abduction.

The meeting.

Handing over the gold goblet.

His refusal to give her the child.

“Oh, God!”  Faye rose on unsteady legs.

Approaching the straw bed, the man’s gaze sharpened. “Lady Rivellaux—”

“How did I come to be here with you? Where are we, you cruel, despicable thief?”

His face darkened with a scowl. “Milady, you slipped on the rocks at the lakeshore and hit your head. I carried you through the storm on my horse. We are at an inn.”

She remembered waking to see him leaning over her, his hands upon her. Revulsion ran as hot as fire in her blood, more intense even than the pain in her cheek. “Give me back the gold.”

“First, we will eat. The innkeeper is bringing heated water to bathe your wound, and there are matters to discuss—”

“Now.”

With careful movements, he set the tray of food on the pallet. He straightened to meet her stare, and a silent, warning cry shrilled inside her.

“You are in no position to threaten me,” he said.

“And you will not stop me.” She stiffened her spine. “I shall walk to the door and shout to the man beyond that you hold an innocent child hostage.”

The little dog whined.

The stranger shook his head. “Unwise, milady.”

Her head whirled, but she shook the dizziness away. “Try to stop me, knave, and I shall shout as if you meant to draw and quarter me.”

Chapter Three

Spinning on her heel, the lady took one step toward the door.

Brant sensed the moment she was about to crumple. Lunging forward, he linked his arms around her waist, right as her legs seemed to fold beneath her.

Her weight fell against him. Her back connected with his chest and belly, knocking his breath from his lungs with an awkward grunt. Her bottom brushed his loins, an entirely innocent contact caused by the circumstances, but a sluggish, irreverent interest stirred in his blood. An interest that, despite the many women he had taken to his bed, he had not felt for years.

Not since Elayne.

Long-buried hurt, a bitter sense of betrayal, taunted him like the damning memories he had shut away long ago. Those remembrances were too humiliating to drag out and fully remember. Just the glimmer of a memory of how Elayne had betrayed his youthful trust and idealistic conceptions of love brought a sickly flush crawling over his skin.

And, yet, of all stupid follies, he had not been able to refuse her plea when he had received her letter.

With a bleat of protest, Lady Rivellaux squirmed in his arms. Scowling, he dismissed the swell of old memories—as, gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the enticing perfume of the woman so close to him, he could dip his head to nuzzle the creamy-pale curve of her neck, right there where a wanton lock of hair curled like a silken ribbon against her skin.

The odd sense of enchantment which drew him to this stubborn, lovely woman was no more than an illusion, evoked by the intimacy of firelight and gilded shadow, enhanced by his own carnal need. No more.

The sooner he was rid of Lady Rivellaux, the better.

Brant loosened his hold, intending to release her and cross the room to put much needed distance between them. Her body shook. She wavered. Cursing under his breath, he slid supporting arms around her once more, hoping she would not lose consciousness again. If so, it meant the knock to her head was more severe than he thought, thus he would need to find a healer. One who would not ask a slew of questions.

The lady listed slightly forward, her belly pressing against his forearms as she drew in deep breaths. Then, with a choked huff, she swatted at his arms.

“Unhand me,” she bit out.

“I will, if you can stand on your own.”

“Of course I can.”

Brant’s eyebrows rose at her defiant tone. “Very well.”  Drawing his arms away from her, he stepped back. She squared her shoulders, an attempt at elegant pride despite her bedraggled state, before she winced. Her hand flew to her cheek, swollen and purplish even in the dim light. “Oh!” The smooth line of her jaw tightened with pain.

Before her legs buckled again, he looped one arm around her waist and guided her back to the pallet. “Nay,” she groaned.

“Aye,” he said, his tone ordering immediate compliance.

With an indignant sigh, she sat. Tilting her face away from him, she massaged her brow. With her other hand, she smoothed her gown with jerky swipes.

Sitting a short space away from her on the pallet—close enough to catch her if she fainted, but far enough to allow her a sense of her own space—he moved the tray of food closer. The fare’s aroma made his stomach gurgle. “Eat. ’Twill improve your strength.”

Her hand dropped away from her forehead. Her green eyes, hard with frustration and wariness, studied him.

“While you eat, we will talk.”

“I have naught to say to you.”

Little claws clicked on the floorboards. With tentative steps, Val crossed to Brant, sat, and nuzzled his leg.

Her gaze on the little dog, she said, “Why does he only have three legs?”

Brant’s mouth flattened. He imagined the wretched thoughts racing through her mind. If he were vile enough to help abduct her friend Angeline, he could also harm a helpless animal.

Disgust coiled up inside him. He scratched the back of his neck where his linen shirt stuck to his skin, and inwardly groaned that he could not simply stand and strip off his garments. Let her think what she liked. He did not owe her the truth. Mayhap ’twould be easier for both of them if she thought him a depraved beast.

“What happened to the dog?” she pressed.

Ignoring her question that seemed to hover in the air between them like a grisly specter, Brant took the bowl of pottage from the tray and offered it to her along with a spoon.

Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I told you—”

“To regain your strength, as well as reach the door the next time, you must eat.”

Hands clasped in her lap, she looked at the fare. She gnawed her bottom lip. “You might have told the innkeeper to poison it.”

“Milady, if I wanted you dead, I would have left you at the lakeshore. I would not have bothered to save you.”

Her brow knit with a contemplative frown. “True.”

Doubt still lingered in her gaze, so he tipped the bowl to his mouth, sipped the disappointingly bland broth, then wiped his lips with his thumb. “No poison.”

Her head dipped in cautious acknowledgement before she said quietly, “I still do not understand. Why did you save me? You had the gold.”

The reasons tangled up inside him, complex and dangerous. A log shifted in the hearth, scattering glowing red embers. He watched them swirl, then fade, before he forced a careless shrug. “I have no grievances with you.”

“You mean, you would receive less payment for abducting Angeline if I came to harm.”

Brant exhaled a weary sigh. He would accomplish naught by telling her his payment did not depend at all on her welfare. Holding out the pottage one last time, he said, “I will not offer it again, milady.”

Her gaze slid to Val, licking his mouth, before a faint smile tugged at her lips.

“Is this your dog’s dinner, too?”

“Val will not let food go to waste.”

At last, she took the bowl as well as the spoon. Her slender fingers brushed his in the exchange, and he sensed her little jolt when she drew away, splashing broth onto her lap. She cursed under her breath.

He pretended not to notice. Breaking off two pieces of the dense brown bread, he popped one into his mouth. He tossed the other to Val, who jumped into the air and caught it before landing back on all three legs and chewing noisily.

A wry chuckle came from the lady.

Brant glanced over at her. She sat with the bowl cradled in one hand, the spoon poised over the vegetable-laden broth. Moisture shimmered on her bottom lip. Before he could stop the thought, he imagined the lush softness of her mouth. Softer even than the long strands of hair that had begun to dry in shiny, copper-red waves about her shoulders.

She dipped the spoon, then parted her lips to take the mouthful. He could not drag his attention away. As though beguiled by a fey spell, he stared, aware, in that moment, of the muted snap of burning wood, the rasp of his own breath, the thickening beat of his pulse.

The lady hesitated before her wary gaze flicked to him. Bright with uncertainty, her emerald eyes seemed to mirror the same emotions coursing through his body. An odd sense of longing pulled at him.

Bewitchment!

He wanted no part of it.

Brant snatched another hunk of bread, rose, and strode to the hearth. Val trotted at his heels. From behind him came a ragged exhalation followed by the clink of the spoon against the earthenware bowl. He refused to let his errant thoughts imagine her eating. Breaking off another morsel, he tossed it to Val, who again snatched it out of the air, swallowed it down, and sat waiting for more.

Brant bent, picked up his saddlebag, then worked the ties, hoping as he did so that the leather was not wet all the way through and his spare clothes would be dry enough to wear.

He sensed her keen gaze upon him, watching his hands’ movements. He jerked the ties free and flipped open the bag. In the shadowed depths, gold glinted against the wool of his folded brown tunic.

“Do you still have the goblet?” she asked, her voice intruding over the fire’s crackle.

He squeezed his rumpled hose in his palm. A bit damp, but better than the garments he wore. “’Tis in a safe place,” he said. Better she thought he did not have the vessel, than for her to try and cross the room to get it. She might hurt herself. He did not want to be responsible for yet another injury.

“Is the goblet in your bag?”

He rubbed his cold lips together and yanked out his tunic before flipping the bag’s flap down again. “Do not worry your lovely head about it, milady. At the moment, your well-being is more important.”

She gave a little snort, as if she could not believe he cared one whit about her. “Since I cannot remember coming here, you could well have met with the kidnappers while I was unconscious.”

“True.”

“Is that what happened? Did you hand the gold cup over to them? Or did you hide it away, somewhere I do not know, so when you are finished with me you can sell it?”

Before he could answer, another knock rattled the door. She started and looked toward the wooden panel.

“Remember,” he muttered to her as he dropped his tunic on the chair. “Not a word.”

She shot him a frosty glare. He sensed, however, she would obey. She, too, must have realized the wisdom of no one knowing she was with him, alone, in this seedy tavern room. Moreover, she likely believed that if she did not heed him, she would lose any chance to rescue Angeline.

Brant crossed to the door and drew it part way open to find the innkeeper holding a steaming bowl of water.

“Nice an’ hot,” the innkeeper said, his gaze sliding past Brant into the chamber. Draped over his arm were more blankets, cloths and a gown, which he passed to Brant. “Anythin’ else, milord?”

“Nay, thank you.”  Brant abruptly shut the door, curtailing the man’s curious stare.

The lady watched him from her perch on the bed’s edge as he placed the water bowl down on the hearth tiles. When he walked to the table near her, she tensed, but he paid her no heed as he set the candles on the floor, picked up the table, and moved it close to the fire’s warmth. He carefully placed the bowl on the tabletop.

After moving his tunic and helm, he drew over the chair. “There. Not quite the luxurious arrangements you are used to, I imagine, but ’tis the best I can do. At least you can sit while you are bathing.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the spoon. “Bathing?”

“The innkeeper brought a gown.”  Brant draped the plain woolen garment over the chair back, along with the cloths. “’Tis a servant’s garb, but ’twill do until the fire dries your other clothes.”

The lady’s lips pursed.

“We both need to remove our wet garments,” he went on, trying to temper his impatience. “You will get a chill. I will guide you over here, and then you will wash—”

“I will not bathe with you in the room.”

“’Tis the only way, milady. If we are to preserve your anonymity, I cannot ask one of the other women in the tavern to tend you. Nor can you stand unassisted. If you fell—”

“Fie! You cannot force me to bathe.”

He set his hands on his hips. The fire’s warmth at his back felt gloriously good. One more moment, and he would strip off his clothes, here and now, regardless of her sensibilities.

“Lady Rivellaux, we can remove your garments one of two ways. You remove them yourself and”—he gestured to the gown the innkeeper had brought—“put this on, or I will remove them and dress you myself.”

“The nerve. The—!”

His eyebrow arched. “We have an agreement?”

She set the bowl of pottage on the floor with a thunk, then folded her arms across her bosom. He tried not to notice the way her indignant posture framed her breasts.

“I do not bargain with knaves,” she said.

How wicked that he found pleasure in her refusal. “Ah. So I am undressing you myself.” He started toward her.

With a little squeak, she pushed herself up, wobbling like a twig in a storm. “I will bathe myself.”

“Are you certain you can manage?”

Her eyes glinted like gemstones. “I will manage.”

Still, he took her arm and led her to the fire. Her stiff, angry steps were stronger this time, but he heard her muffled groan of relief when she reached the chair and dropped down on it.

Her chin raised to a stubborn tilt. “You will turn your back.”

Brant shook his head. “You may need assistance.”

“I am not a witless child.”  She paused. Her tongue darted out over her bottom lip. “If I need help, I . . . shall ask.”

He tore his gaze from the dewy shimmer of her mouth. The way his blood heated, he should immediately accept her concession. With a curt nod, he said, “Very well.”

Crossing his arms, he turned to stare at the fire’s shadows dancing on the opposite wall. They shifted on the rough wooden wall . . . and the blanket-strewn pallet.

From behind him came the rustle of fabric.

He stared at the wall, but his vivid imagination conjured images of her drawing the clinging gown up her legs. Up her pale thighs. Up to her waist, as she prepared to pull it over her head—

More hushed rustling.

He blew out a breath and forced himself to count to ten.

Water trickled. She must have dipped a cloth into the bowl. A whisper followed. Fabric gliding over bare skin.

He swept a hand through his snarled hair, the faint hiss astonishingly loud. Sheer torture, this was. A fierce enchantment of sound. He would have to control his imagination before it corrupted all of his noble intentions.

Closing his eyes, he fought to mold his thoughts in a fashion far less tantalizing.

Ten toothless, wart-spotted old hags.

Nine toothless, wart-spotted old hags—

Val nuzzled his leg, then sank his teeth into his hose.

“Ow!” he snapped, and half turned to scowl down at the little mongrel. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the lady with her eyes shut, holding her hair atop her head with one hand, sweeping the cloth over her neck with the other. She had pushed her bodice down to expose more skin, but had not slid it past her breasts. Before he could look away, his shameful gaze snapped to her legs, to see she had not drawn up her gown, after all.

Yet.

He snapped his attention back to the wall. Balled his hands into fists.

Tried to imagine incredibly foul-looking hags.

Water splashed. Another rustle.

“I . . . I am going to remove my gown now.”

Argh!

A silent cry for mercy welled up inside him. “You . . . need me to help you?”

“Nay!  I . . . Do not turn around.”

“Fine.”

“Swear that you will not!”

He almost smiled at her panicked voice, but she sounded like she might faint with distress. “I swear, upon my honor.”  What shreds remained of his honor, anyway. Brant tried to block out the betraying slide of cloth, even as Val butted against his leg. He crossed to the tray on the pallet, snatched up more bread and fed it to the dog.

Even Val’s chewing did not disguise the rasp of fabric. Devilish anticipation niggled inside him, tempting him to turn his head. To spy upon her in this vulnerable moment, despite his vow.

She could hardly stop him. And he was quite sure her body looked nothing like an old hag’s.

Tension pervaded the room, thick as invisible smoke. He had to block out the noise, stop his mind turning the shifting shadows into two lovers locked in an intimate embrace, shifting and rolling. He had only one recourse left: conversation.

“You asked before what happened to Val,” Brant said.

“Aye.”  She sounded a little breathless, but also grateful he had offered to break the strained silence.

“I was on my way to a tournament near Glastonbury,” he said, his voice sounding like someone else’s. “I found him lying on the roadside. His front leg was twisted at an odd angle and bleeding.”

“Mercy!”

“I vow he ran under the wheels of a cart. Rather than have to care for him, his owner left him to die.” Brant frowned down at the little dog, sitting beside his feet, looking up at him with expectant brown eyes. “As clever as he is, Val has a habit of getting into mischief.”

“Why did you name him ‘Val’?”

“’Tis short for Valor. No one deserves the name more.”

A frustrated huff came from behind him, then more rustling.

“Milady, are you managing—?”

“I am fine!” she shot back, before the last words had even left his lips. “W-what happened next with Val?”

“I thought at first he was dead. When I rode past, he struggled to raise his head. His whole body shook when he looked up at me. In his gaze, I saw his agony. However, I also glimpsed something more . . .”

The room had fallen strangely silent. Even the fire seemed to pause its greedy crackle. “What?” she asked, the word a wisp of sound that prickled the hairs on his skin like a lover’s caress.

He could not quite explain exactly what he had seen in the suffering animal’s eyes. A haunted acknowledgment of abandonment, mayhap. An acceptance that death was inevitable. Yet, also a compelling will to live. Whatever he’d seen, it had touched him and refused to let him ride away.

“I could not leave him. I got down off my horse, wrapped him in a blanket and rode to the nearest town, where I paid a surgeon to remove, then seal, his leg.”  He swallowed, trying not to remember those horrific moments when he had shuddered through every yelped cry of Val’s agony. “There was no other option, if I was to save his life.”

Still, she said nothing.

“I bandaged the stump, bought salve from a healer to mend his flesh. At first, Val could not walk, but he soon learned. He adapted to his new condition. One does, when one has no choice.”

“Mmm,” she said softly, as though she understood—and agreed.

He swallowed down the keen ache of a rare, common bond shared by strangers. His imagination, again, that he was coming to resent. He had not spoken of Val with anyone else. Now he had, and the sense of emotional vulnerability was as uncomfortable as his soggy boots.

“Are you finished, milady?”

“Almost.”

The slight catch in her voice made him turn. She had cleansed her wound, judging by the water’s crimson tint. She had also donned the dry gown. While the bodice gaped at the neck and the hem dragged on the floorboards, it adequately covered her. Her damp clothes lay in a heap on the floor.

She sat on the chair, one hand gripping the table’s edge as she stretched forward. Her other hand was poised to open his saddle bag.

Rage flared inside him. He stormed toward her.

Eyes widening, she nonetheless flipped back the leather flap. Her fingers had just brushed his spare pair of hose when he reached her, snatched the bag away, and glowered down at her.

“My possessions are forbidden to you.”

“You have the gold cup in there, do you not?” she said, pushing up from the table. Discomfort flickered across her features, but she stood firm. He narrowed his eyes even more, lowering his face until it was a mere breath away from hers. Her parted lips quivered, but she did not step back.

Foolish, foolish woman.

He tossed the bag onto the chair. It landed with a thump, the sound ominously loud.

“Answer me,” she demanded. Her bodice gaped a little more. Refusing to deny his voyeuristic inclinations any longer, determined to warn her in a primitive way she would never forget, he allowed his hungry gaze to slide down her face, down over her lips, down to the drooping fabric barely concealing her cleavage.

She gasped and clutched the front of her gown.

“Be forewarned, milady,” he rasped like a man ruled by lust. “Touch my saddlebag again, and there will be consequences.”

Her face paled.

“If you forsake my privacy, I will forsake yours.”

Indignation sparked in her gaze. “How ridiculous to speak of privacy when in this small room there is none.”

A slow, daring grin curved his mouth. “Ah, but I turned my back, did I not, as you bathed and changed your garments? I respected your womanly modesty. I gave you what solitude lay within my power. I could as easily take it away.”

“You would not dare.”

He said nothing, just stared at her. Long enough for the shrieking wind and rain lashing against the tavern to accentuate the tense silence.

“There you are wrong. I would dare.”

Her lips tightened with disdain. “Indeed?”

Her blatant provocation broke the remnants of his restraint. Here, now, this lady would learn her lesson. He was not a man to concede to any woman.

Holding her defiant stare, Brant grabbed his tunic’s hem and yanked the garment up and over his head to reveal the linen shirt plastered to his torso. He tossed the tunic on top of his saddlebag.

Her gaze fixed to his chest. Then, blinking hard, her gaze snapped back to his.

She stood resolute.

A silent, admiring laugh welled inside him. Stubborn, was she? Well, he could be equally so.

He unfastened the ties at the top of his shirt.

Sliding his hands down to the hem, he slowly pulled the garment up over his head, a groan breaking in his throat as the fabric peeled away from his body. Cool air brushed his naked belly and chest.

Wadding the shirt into a ball, he met the lady’s shocked stare. Her face reddened before she jerked her attention away. Her body as rigid as a wooden post, she turned. With careful, unsteady steps, she started back to the pallet.

A hint of remorse stung him. “Wait. I will help you.”

She flicked her hand in dismissal. “I do not want your help. Do not fear. I will not misjudge you again.”

***

Faye lay on the lumpy pallet, covered by a musty-smelling blanket, listening to the wind beat against the tavern’s outer walls. Every now and again, the closed shutters at the window rattled and an icy gust invaded, as though the storm might indeed break past the barriers locking it out.

Strange, that she thought she knew how the raging tempest felt. For in the cloistered chamber in her heart, a storm raged too—a maelstrom of relentless, conflicting emotions that refused to let her exhausted body succumb to sleep.

Only slightly muted by the wailing wind, voices carried up from the tavern room downstairs. Laughter erupted, followed by women’s shrill giggles. With a heavy sigh, Faye tugged the blanket up over her head, careful not to touch the painful gash on her cheek. She rolled over on her side to face the fire.

The pallet rustled when she moved. Lying beside the man—Angeline’s wretched kidnapper—on a makeshift bed of blankets, Val’s little ears pricked up. He gave her a curious glance before his eyes drifted closed again. With a sigh of his own, he went back to sleep.

Faye tried to ignore the supine figure of the knave who had taunted her earlier with his brazen masculinity. Anger still prickled in her veins from his crude threat. Yet, shame upon her, she could not keep her gaze from drifting over him.

He lay on his back, eyes closed, his dark, tousled head pillowed on his saddlebag. A patched blanket covered him from mid-waist to the tip of his bare feet poking out from the blanket’s hem. Before stretching out on the floor, he had donned clean garments. His others lay spread out on the hearth tiles beside her shift, gown, and mantle. The arrangement of rumpled clothing looked oddly intimate.

A tingly flush skittered over Faye’s skin. She snapped her gaze away. Far wiser to look at something else. Anything else.

The firelight dancing on the walls.

The light gleaming on the stoneware bowl on the table pushed into the corner.

The texture of the door panel.

How shameful that her gaze returned to him.

Beneath the blanket, his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. One broad arm lay draped across his abdomen. The other stretched out alongside his body, within grabbing reach of a dagger. He had told her the weapon was for their protection, in case a drunkard decided to climb the stairs and challenge the door’s rickety bolt.

How tempting to believe the knave really was concerned about her safety. In truth, she doubted he cared for much more than the gold she felt quite certain he had stowed in his bag, and his little dog who looked upon his scarred countenance with such doting adoration. The rogue had no doubt chosen to rest his thick skull upon the wretched bag so she could not search it during the night while he dozed.

Faye glowered at him, the embodiment of cold-hearted, treasure-seeking selfishness. The body of a ruthless ruffian.

A magnificent body, though, ’twas.

A betraying awareness warmed her belly when she remembered the muscled perfection of his torso kissed by firelight. Very different to Hubert’s flaccid softness. Unfair, mayhap, to compare her aged husband’s physique to this warrior knave’s. Yet, where Hubert’s belly was rounded with age as well as indulgence, this man’s looked as firm as polished stone. Where Hubert’s skin was ashen from lack of physical exertion in the sun, this rogue’s glowed with a bronze luster.

If she squinted, just a little, against the fire’s light, she could again imagine him standing there, bold as sin—

“You are not able to sleep, milady?”

Shock raced through her. His eyes were open.

His keen gaze fixed upon her face. His hair shifted across the saddlebag while his head tilted slightly to one side. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. Did he know the traitorous thoughts that had almost materialized in breath-snatching glory in her imagination?

Heat burned her cheeks. Inwardly scolding herself for blushing, she said, “The storm is fierce tonight.”

“Aye.”

His assessing stare did not waver. Across the expanse of floorboards, his gaze seemed to hold a silent command, compelling her with its brilliant intensity to stare back.

Never would she let herself fall under this insolent knave’s sway.

Nudging the blanket farther up under her chin, she said, “You cannot sleep either.”

His shoulders moved in a faint shrug. “I do not sleep much, even when the heavens are quiet.”

“Why not?” A rather personal question, but any insight into this knave’s mind was certain to come in useful.

Even before her words faded, a hint of danger, of a tortuous, soul-deep secret, shadowed his features. Then it vanished, and his mouth eased into a crooked grin. “Milady, there are far more interesting ways to spend the night hours than sleeping.”

His husky tone left little doubt as to what he was referring.

The intimate, physical joining of a man and a woman.

What Hubert, too, had sought in the darkness, with awkward fumbles and almost apologetic gropes. A chill shivered through Faye, followed by the crushing need to press her palm to her belly. To remember the cherished joy that had been good about her marriage.

Her hand trembled.

The knave’s voice cut through the haze that seemed to have crept into her mind. “I have shocked you.”

Shaking her head, she curled her fingers into her gown, over her abdomen. “I am not a maiden. I know of what you speak.”

“Of course you do. You are a widow.”

Faye frowned. Her head might pound like a blacksmith’s anvil, but she could not remember telling him she was once married. She did not discuss such matters with strangers.

Had she rambled on about her private life after the blow to her head? How utterly mortifying. “How  . . . do you know I am widowed?” she asked.

For the faintest moment, self-condemnation deepened the lines around his mouth, as though he realized he had made a grievous error. Then his hand drifted in a lazy wave. “A man can tell if a woman is a virgin.”

Ha! Did he now try to thwart her suspicions with such an outrageous statement? Curiosity nagged. Mayhap she had not been utterly witless after her injury, after all. “How, pray tell? Surely there is only one way”—she ignored her burning face—“to determine a woman’s innocence.”

His eyebrows raised. Intense quietness lagged, underscored by the wind gusting outside. With his blatant lack of a reply, the silence mocked.

“You cannot tell a woman is virgin by merely looking at her,” Faye said.

He smiled. “I do not have to undress her, either.”

Cheers erupted from the downstairs tavern room, followed by clumsy footfalls on the stairs. In the ensuing rowdiness, she heard a woman’s throaty laughter, deep and enticing. The wind outside moaned.

Shivering again, Faye pressed her fingers tighter to her belly. The barrenness there ached. She would rather hear the knave’s voice, coax him into more conversation, as dangerous as it was, than lie awake, tormented by her thoughts.

Despite the sensual way he had threatened her earlier, she did not fear he might be seduced by their conversation into ravishing her. If he intended to force her into intimacy, he would have done so before now.

Carefully shifting up on one elbow, she gave him a pointed look. “What gives an innocent woman away? I am curious to know.”

“You expect me to tell you my secrets, milady?”

An answering, wry smile tugged at her lips. “You seem a man of a great many secrets. You will have plenty left, if you divulge only a few.”

“Very true,” he murmured.

Their gazes locked. Heady anticipation slipped through her, capturing her in a strong, sensual magic.

What fascinating secrets lay hidden in his smoldering gaze: the reason his handsome face bore a terrible scar; the names of all the warriors he had vanquished in the frenzied heat of battle; and all the women, both innocent and experienced, he had artfully seduced into his bed—

Footfalls stomped on the stairs, then the landing floorboards. Someone approached. A man and woman, judging from the murmurs.

The spell shattered. Faye looked away.

Val leapt to his feet. Ears pricked, he stared at the door and growled.

Drawing in an unsteady breath, Faye willed her pulse not to pound with such reckless excitement. When had she lost all common sense? How could she speak so coyly with Angeline’s kidnapper? If the couple had not come up the stairs, what might she have said, or done?

The barest sound alerted her that the knave rose to a crouch. He snapped his fingers. Val instantly quieted. Staring at the door, the man reached for his dagger and slipped the glinting blade from its leather sheath.

The floorboards outside the door squeaked.

Tugging the bedding around her, Faye sat up straight. She fumbled with the blanket, desperate to grasp enough to shield her face if need be.

His expression taut with concentration, the knave moved swiftly to the door, the knife in his hand. His back pressed to the wall, he looked poised for attack. His tunic outlined the broad planes of his torso, while his snug hose revealed the impressive musculature of his legs and thighs.

How sinful that a primitive mewl roused somewhere deep inside her.

Something bumped against the door. The bolt rattled on its hinges.

With a gasp, Faye pressed her face into the blanket. The wool grazed her wound, and she bit her bottom lip to stifle her cry.

A man cursed in the hallway outside. “Oh, me lovely. Me lovely.” Footfalls thudded again, this time retreating down the corridor.

Another thud.

Then a groan of pleasure.

Followed by a rhythmic—

Oh, dear God. The man and woman were coupling. In the hallway. Against the wall.

Heat scorched Faye’s face. She felt the knave’s gaze upon her, but could not look up from the blanket to meet his stare. She simply could not!

Faye fell back on the pallet, rolled over to face the wall, then wrapped the blanket tightly around her head to cocoon herself in darkness. Her belly lurched like a boat on a rough lake. Mercy, she should not have lain down so quickly.

Through a blur of pain and nausea, she heard wood squeal against wood. The knave had pushed the side table against the door. Val’s claws ticked on the floor. Then, silence.

Val and his rogue master must have lain down on their bed of blankets.

Did she dare peek to see for certain?

She could not. Not with . . . that . . . going on in the hallway.

“Are you . . . all right?” The knave’s voice, laced with humor, reached her, muffled through the cloth covering her ears.

“I . . . I want to sleep now.”

Shutting her eyes tight, blocking out the muted noises as best she could, Faye begged for the encroaching darkness to overwhelm her. A merciful escape.

On a throb of pain, shadows rushed into her mind.

Escape . . .

Some time later, she awoke to the sensation of being smothered. She coughed. Batting her sleepy hands, she tugged the blanket from her face and gulped in breaths of fresh, cool air.

As the muzziness cleared from her mind, she became aware that the storm no longer railed outside. The cacophony in the downstairs room had quieted. Nor could she hear the fire burning.

Turning slightly on the pallet, she glanced toward the hearth. The blaze had died down to one charred log.

The knave’s bed was empty.

Faye’s pulse lurched. Expecting to see him standing in a shadowed corner, she glanced about the room.

She was alone.

He had expected her to slumber on. He had probably taken Val for a walk.

Biting her lower lip, she sat up. Nervous heat skittered across her skin. Where was the saddlebag? Had the knave taken it with him?

Most likely. Of all the rotten luck—

Aha! There, tucked behind the table. An excited whoop bubbled inside her.

She scooted to the edge of the pallet, then stood. With tentative, yet determined steps, she crossed to the table, knelt, and pulled the saddlebag out onto the floorboards. Her clammy palms slipped over the worn leather.

Be forewarned, milady, the knave’s voice rumbled in her mind. Touch my saddlebag again, and there will be consequences.

Consequences? Ha.

She did not intend to see him ever again.

Faye opened the bag. Inside glimmered the gold cup.

Relieved tears stung her eyes. His scent, earthy and male, wafted as she drew out the chalice. A tremor ran through her, but she shrugged it away. Thank God she still had a means to bargain with Angeline’s abductors and win the little girl’s freedom.

She jumped as wood creaked behind her. Only the water-logged tavern walls drying after the storm. Yet, now she had the gold cup, she must leave as quickly as possible.

Fighting a renewed headache, she crossed to the hearth, set down the chalice and gathered her still-damp clothes. If only she could stay in the dry gown . . . but if she arrived back at Caldstowe in a servant’s garments, Torr would be suspicious. He would ask questions that might contradict her carefully thought-out story—that she was thrown from her spooked mare while riding through the storm to visit Greya and had huddled under an oak all night until she could make her way back to the keep.

With desperate tugs, Faye shed the gown and struggled into her own garments. She prayed not to hear Val and his master ascending the stairs.

As she secured the gold cup at her waist using her belt, a man’s voice carried from down below.

The knave returning?

Oh, God. Nay.

She must leave—now—and crouch in the shadows at the top of the stairs until he had passed by. Otherwise, she would never get away.

Faye grabbed her mantle, pulled the heavy garment about her shoulders, then yanked the hood up over her head to conceal her features. On shaky legs, she hurried to the door.

Easing the panel open, she stepped out into the hallway.

***

Smothering a yawn with his hand, Brant pushed open the tavern door. Val loped at his heels, tongue lolling, his fur damp with dew after his ecstatic, barking pursuit of the four woodpigeons pecking in the grassy verge. He had almost caught one of the plump, witless birds, too. Yet, with a sharp whistle, Brant had curtailed his pursuit. Lady Rivellaux would wake soon. He would be wise to keep watch on his saddlebag. And her.

God’s teeth, he could not stop himself from staring at her most of the night. She had huddled in her blankets with her back to him, but in the shadowed darkness, he still made out the curves of her body beneath the bedding. The memory of her lovely face tinted pink with embarrassment had teased him with merciless persistence. Sleep, however, had eluded him.

The tavern door closed behind Brant. Bleary-eyed, the tavern owner looked up from the overturned table he was setting aright on its four uneven legs.

“Good morn,” Brant said, trying to stifle another yawn.

The man gave a terse smile. “Good day to ye, milord. Busy night, was it?”

Brant ignored the owner’s prying gaze. “I would like hot water and fare sent up to my chamber.”

The man nodded. Then, with his booted foot, he nudged the three drunkards sprawled face-down on the floor. One of them groaned. “Go on, now,” the owner groused. “Me wife cannot sweep the floor with yer fat arses in the way.”

“Do not yell,” another sot grumbled, pushing up on an elbow. The two other men slowly rose. There were other revelers, Brant noted, curled in corners or on the tavern floor where they had eventually fallen in a drunken stupor. At the hearth on the opposite wall, a young girl knelt and tried to coax the fire to kindle.

Brant’s gaze shifted up the staircase to the shadows cloaking the landing, only a few paces from his chamber. He wondered if the lady slept on, or if the men’s raised voices had wakened her. If so, and if she were as determined to look in his saddlebag as he imagined, he should return to the room right away.

“Send up my order as soon as possible,” Brant said, unable to leash an impatient growl. Sidestepping a sleeping farmer wrapped in the arms of a partially clothed strumpet, Brant strode for the stairs.

Val scampered two steps ahead of him, his clawed steps echoing the rap of Brant’s boots. Snuggled together in the dark shadows in a corner of the landing, three strumpets stirred. Among them, he recognized Deane, the well-endowed wench with the blemished skin, who had offered herself to him last eve. From her dejected expression, he guessed she had not managed to attract a customer, and likely not for many nights before that; the men who frequented the tavern obviously preferred younger, fresher-faced whores. Curled beside her, another strumpet pulled a cloak closer about her before giving a petulant sigh and huddling nearer to the wall.

On the faintest breeze wafting across the landing, he caught a floral scent.

Lady Rivellaux’s fragrance.

Brant’s steps slowed. Misgiving coursed through him as he glanced toward the dozing women. Swathed in shadow, he could barely make out their forms.

He inhaled a careful breath. He discerned only the smells of damp wood, wet dog, and wood smoke.

Lady Rivellaux’s scent might have been carried on a draft wafting under the chamber door. Or, more likely, his lascivious mind conspired to drive him mad.

Brant headed for the chamber. With a faint shudder of relief, he saw the wooden panel was closed, just as he had left it.

Behind him, someone stomped up the staircase—judging from the mutters and heavy footfalls, a woman of considerable girth. Most likely the tavern owner’s wife, whom Brant had glimpsed the other day.

“Up ye get, ye lazy whores,” she said, her words accompanied by rasps of a broom and sleepy groans of protest. “Ye’ll earn yer keep, ye will, or ye can find somewhere else ta sleep.” Whisk, whisk. “Go on. Off ta the kitchens. There’s plenty o’ ale mugs ta scrub.”

More grumbles. “’Tis still early,” a strumpet moaned.

“There is an order in fer ’ot water and fare. Ye will fetch it.”  Whisk, whisk. “Shoo! Afore I use this broom on ye!”

Clothing rustled. Standing with his hand on the door handle, Brant’s mind shot back to the previous evening and the torment of listening to Lady Rivellaux undress. If he had to listen to that again this morn—

He pushed open the door, vaguely aware of the strumpets descending the stairs.

The fire had burned low, but there was still enough light to glance about the room. . . and see the lady’s bed was empty.

Brant whirled on his heel. The saddlebag lay beside the table. Open. In two lunged strides, he crossed to it, but he knew, before he looked inside, the gold cup was missing.

Fool! He had underestimated the lady. And now the chalice was gone.

A vision of Royce’s blue eyes, wide with pain and disbelief as the spark of life faded, stabbed through Brant’s mind. Shaking, a sickly sweat dampening his skin, he stared at his right hand. His fingers were curled as though he once again gripped the dagger that had plunged into Royce’s belly.

On the incoming breeze, Brant caught a metallic, bloody scent. He saw again Royce’s body sprawled on the tent floor, a crimson pool spreading around him, his hair sticky with blood. He remembered Royce’s last, whimpered words. “Brant. Oh, God . . . Help me, Brant . . . Help me . . .”

Bile filled Brant’s mouth. He swung to face the door. Sitting near the table, Val’s little ears quivered. He wiggled several steps backward.

“Come,” Brant snapped. “Find her.”

If she had gone to the kitchens with the strumpets, she had not gone far.

He thundered across the landing, ignoring the tavern owner’s wife’s startled expression, and tore down the stairs. He slammed open the kitchen door.

Standing by a pot bubbling over a fire, a group of wenches screamed.

“The lady,” he snarled. “Where is she?”

“L-lady?” a strumpet said with a nervous titter. “I can be yer lady, mil—”

“Three pieces of silver,” he ground out, “to whoever tells me where she is.”

Delighted squeals erupted. “What does she look like?” one cried.

“What’s she wearin’?” another yelled.

“Red hair. A gray mantle,” he said.

“The new girl!” another said, elbowing her way to the fore. “She went out the back door, ta fetch—”

The rest of her words faded on the roar filling Brant’s ears. Bolting to the door, he yanked it open. The small dirt yard beyond, that led out to the well and stables, was empty. A bucket rested on the well’s stone ledge.

Lady Rivellaux had fled.

Anger seared his gut. He would saddle his horse, hunt her down . . .

A triumphant smile tilted his mouth.

Let her run.

He did not need to chase her.

He knew exactly where to find her.

Chapter Four

Escorted by a contingent of men-at-arms, Faye rode into Caldstowe Keep’s sun-drenched bailey. The smells of rain-washed stone, horses, and baking bread surrounded her, familiar and welcoming. She sighed. How wondrous to be back within the keep’s walls, safe from that arrogant knave.

“Faye!”

Torr’s shout carried over the crunch of hooves. She fingered aside the wool blanket draped about her—brought by the guard who rode behind her on the horse—and glanced in the direction of approaching footfalls.

At a near run, Torr skirted a maidservant hauling a pail of water. His blond hair, normally combed in sleek waves about his shoulders, looked unkempt. Worry tightened his handsome face. Even his costly blue silk tunic and black hose looked disheveled, as if he had slept in them.

When he drew near, the guard reined the winded horse to a halt.

She smiled down at him. “Torr.”

“Milord, we found her walking the road from the village,” the man behind her said. “The other men are still looking for her mare.”

Halting next to her, Torr’s light brown eyes widened with dismay. “Your face!  What happened?”  Reaching up, he clasped her hand. “’Tis a nasty wound.”

The warmth of his touch elicited a shiver of unease. “The mare threw me in the storm. Frightened, she galloped off. I dared not try to reach Greya’s cottage on my own,” Faye said, careful that her tone did not waver and betray her lie. “I waited under a tree until morn, when I set out toward the village. Your men found me soon after.”

His gaze dropped to the front of her blood-stained mantle, visible where the blanket parted at her neck. “A healer should look at your wound.”

“Truly, the injury is not too severe. In a few days, ’twill be no more than a bruise.”

“Still, you will have it tended.”  His fingers tightened on her hand. “I was very worried, especially after the violent storm. The thought of you facing that tempest . . .”

The dull headache that had taunted Faye during the journey became more intense. She had not meant to cause him anxiety, especially when he must be frantic with concern for his little girl.

“I am sorry.”  She yearned to tell him why she had dared to ride away yesterday. For Angeline’s safety, she could not. “I did not realize the tempest would be so fierce,” she added. “I hoped to reach Greya’s before the rain started.”

Suspicion shadowed Torr’s gaze.

Faye forced a wry laugh. “Do not look at me so! You know I visit her at least once a week. Since Elayne died, she has become one of my dearest friends.”

His golden hair shifted when he nodded. “True.” Yet, wariness lingered in his gaze.

Pain spread across her brow. An answering ache roused in her heart. Tell him the truth, it whispered. Show him the ransom note. Confide in him, and he can help you save Angeline.

She could not. She must not.

“Faye?”

Pressing her hand to her forehead, she said, “It has been a long night, and I am weary. Please, Torr, may we speak of this later? I am eager to bathe and be rid of my damp garments.”

“Of course.”  Torr spun on his heel. He motioned to a young girl walking toward the keep’s forebuilding. “You, there. Fetch a bath for Lady Rivellaux.”

The startled girl dropped into a curtsey. “Aye, mil—”

“Do not dally! Go!”

She lurched to standing, then bolted for the kitchens.

A stable hand strode over from the stables, carrying a wooden mounting block. He set it on the ground by Faye.

The guard behind her shifted. “I will help you down, milady.”

“Nay, I will,” Torr answered, before she could respond to the man’s kind offer.

Faye gnawed her lip. She did not like to encourage physical contact with Torr, but if she refused him now, she would further pique his suspicions. Moreover, with her head throbbing and her body close to exhaustion, ’twas foolish to try to dismount without assistance; she could well fall in a heap on the dirt.

“You are most kind,” Faye murmured, as Torr’s other hand slid up to her waist. He drew her down to the mounting block. When her soaked shoes landed on the wood, her body brushed against his. She twisted free of his hold and stepped to the ground.

A vivid memory of standing pressed against the knave’s warm, muscled body skittered through her mind. A flush heated her face, even as she fought a rush of pure dread. He would know, by now, she had stolen the goblet. What would he do?

Torr touched her arm. “I will ask the cook to prepare you an herbal infusion and order ointment sent up for your wound. Is there aught else you need? Shall I escort you to your chamber?”

“Nay, thank you.”  She gave him a grateful smile, then walked to the forebuilding.

After stepping into the enclosed outer stairwell that led up to the main keep, she blew out a shaky breath. The burning reed torch on the wall near her flickered. Pressing her palm against the cold stone for support, she began to climb the stairs.

Was it unseemly for a lord, whose wife had recently died, to be so attentive to a widow? Torr had been extremely kind to her by allowing her to live at Caldstowe without asking any kind of payment in return. Surely, suspecting his intentions was unfair and unwise, when fatigue and pain muddied her logic.

Faye reached the great hall and crossed the expansive, rush-strewn chamber with a quick wave to the maidservants arranging trestle tables for the midday meal. Step by careful step, she took the wooden stairs up to the area reserved for the lord, his family and guests. She passed the guarded double doors to Torr’s solar and made her way along the torch lit passage to her room.

She stepped inside, pushed the door closed, then melted back against the wooden panel. Her gaze traveled over the fire snapping in the hearth, her narrow bed, the trestle table against the wall, to settle on the straggly bouquet of wildflowers. She and Angeline had picked them together last summer, the little girl’s blue eyes shining with pleasure. Unable to throw the blooms away, Faye had bound their stems and hung them upside down in her chamber to dry, before tucking them into an earthenware pot.

Tears stung Faye’s eyes. Oh, Angeline.

A rap sounded on the door. Faye started. Had Torr decided to follow her up to her chambers, to see if she were all right?

Smothering her misgiving, Faye depressed the door handle. A stout woman with black hair, braided in a coil around her head, stood in the corridor, holding a small pot and a mug.

“Milady, Lord Lorvais said ye ’ad need o’—” She gasped. “Oh!”

Faye instinctively touched her cheek.

Shaking her head, the woman thrust the pot into Faye’s hands. “Ye need this fer certes. ’Tis excellent salve, made by one o’ the best ’ealers in this land. Greya’s ’er name.”

Faye smiled. “I know Greya.”

“Very skilled, she is. Could very near raise a man from the dead, I vow.”  The woman handed over the mug. “’ere is yer infusion. Would ye like me ta take a look at that wound for ye, milady? Apply the ointment? ’Ow about a ’ot compress ta ’elp ease the pain?”

The woman’s kindness touched deep within Faye, stirring fragile emotions too close to brimming over. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

“If ye need aught else, milady, de not ’esitate ta ask.” After dropping into a graceful curtsey, she walked away.

Faye started to shut the door, but heard voices in the passage. Lads approached carrying a wooden bathing tub. Behind them, boys lugged buckets of water. After opening the door wide, she stood aside while they placed the tub near the hearth. The boys made several more trips to the kitchens for water, cloths, and soap, before Faye thanked them and ushered them out.

Standing beside the tub, she stripped off her garments. When she glanced at her discarded clothes, her memories shot back to the tavern room and the items drying before the fire. What had the knave done when he found her gone? Had he shoved his partly dry clothes into his saddlebag, mounted his horse, and commanded Val to track her?

Did he still hunt for her, as a ravenous falcon pursued a hare?

Shivering, she stepped into the tub with an awkward splash. Speculating about the knave—whom she hoped to never see again—was not only senseless, but took her concentration from more pressing concerns. Her attempt to rescue Angeline had failed. Now, she must find another way to negotiate with the kidnappers.

Faye snatched up a soft linen cloth and the soap. After bathing, she would go to the quiet place where she always retreated to think; by the morn’s end, she must know her next course of action.

With brisk strokes, she scrubbed her body to remove all trace of the knave’s hands upon her. Then she gently washed her face, wincing at the sting of soap in her wound. Sliding back in the tub, she soaked her hair, scrubbed it, then twisted the slippery length to remove most of the water. In the firelight, the droplets glittered as bright as tears.

The warm bath coaxed her to lie back, close her eyes, and doze—a temptation she refused. She left the tub, dried, and, ignoring her aching limbs and cheek, drew fresh garments from her linen chest pushed against the wall. Hubert had bought her the gray wool gown. She had recently renewed the well-worn garment by embroidering blue flowers along the neck. One day, she hoped to buy new things, but for now, what she had must do. She would not ask Torr for coin to buy clothes. Nor could she bear to alter Elayne’s luxurious silks, which he had given her after she died.

“Please, make use of them,” he had said, handing her an armload of exquisite gowns. “She wanted you to have them.”

Sitting on the end of her bed, Faye pushed her feet into leather shoes. “Elayne,” she whispered to the silent chamber. “How I miss you.”

Faye brushed out her hair, donned her spare, forest-green mantle and made her way down to the bailey. Murmuring “good morn” to the children tossing a stick for a playful wolfhound and the servants drawing well water, Faye crossed to the gardens. Herbs clustered in one stone-walled bed. Fallen leaves scattered over the paths, browned grass, and soil where spring seeds would be soon be planted.

A hedge enclosed the garden corner closest to Caldstowe’s tower, the part of the keep built soon after the Norman Conquest. Faye pushed open the squeaky, wrought iron gate and stepped inside.

Cut from gray stone, a reclining woman stared up at the sky overhead. Pressing her hands over the carved ones of Elayne’s tomb, Faye bent her head. “I will not fail you,” she said, looking down at the rigid portrayal of her friend’s features. “I have not forgotten my vow to you. I will bring Angeline home safely, I promise.”

A sparrow twittered from the hedge, as if answering her. With a sad smile, Faye sat on a raised stone by the tomb. Looping her arms around her knees, tilting up her chin, she closed her eyes and let the calm of the place seep into her. The sunlight soothed her wounded cheek.

How to best rescue Angeline . . . ?

In the garden beyond, she caught the rumble of male voices.

Not unusual. Yet, warning prickled through her.

Faye opened her eyes and pushed to her feet. When the hushed conversation carried again, goose bumps rose on her arms.

She recognized Torr’s voice.

And the other—

Hardly daring to breathe, she crept to the hedge. Parting the interwoven branches, she peered through. Torr stood by the fish pond, breaking a twig apart with his fingers. Beside him was a tall, dark haired man. His back faced her, but there was no mistaking his warrior physique, or his aura of barely-leashed tension.

The knave!

The branches slipped from her fingers. Lurching back, she dragged in several choked breaths while struggling to control her panic and confusion. Why had he come to Caldstowe? What could he possibly have to discuss with Torr?

Had something happened to Angeline . . . something awful that had convinced the knave to confide in Torr, since he was the little girl’s father?

Mayhap the matter did not concern Angeline at all. The knave could have discovered Faye lived at Caldstowe and had come for the gold.

Her pulse pounded. She could not return to the keep. As soon as she stepped from the enclosed garden, they would see her. Until they moved away from the pond, she must wait here.

Trapped.

She fought to remain calm, while trying to hear what the men were discussing. Yet, the birdsong from the garden, the breeze stirring the hedge leaves, and the day-to day activity in the bailey conspired to muffle their words.

One thing, however, she knew for certain: the men were not arguing. Their voices did not rise and fall in bitter accusation, but remained at a constant level . . . which implied an amicable conversation. It also suggested Torr and the knave . . . knew each other.

Before she could ponder that startling thought, another noise intruded. Leaves rustled by her feet. Lowering to a crouch, she peered under the hedge. From the other side, Val raised his little nose from the ground. He stared back at her.

“Shoo,” she muttered between her teeth. “Go away.”

Val barked.

Faye sensed, rather than saw, the knave’s head turn. Before she could stop her instinctive reaction, she shot to her feet. Thank God the hedge grew tall enough to hide her.

“Val!” he shouted.

She flinched.

Val yapped again. More rustling.

Was the wretched little dog going to dig his way under the hedge and reveal her?

A sparrow, chirping with indignant fervor, burst from the nearby branches. Val raced after it, barking excitedly. The knave and Torr laughed.

Crunching gravel alerted her that the men moved away from the pond. Daring to peek through the hedge again, she saw they were walking toward the stables. Not at a brisk pace, but at a leisurely jaunt. As though the men were friends.

How could that be? She had never seen the knave at Caldstowe before. She would remember such a scarred face.

The thought nagged, even as she forced it to the back of her mind. She counted out ten deep breaths. Then she hurried to the gate, cringing when it squeaked open.

The men stood chatting by the stable. Thank goodness they had not heard the gate. Light glinted off the knave’s hair and played in tantalizing planes of light and shadow across his back. Her hands tingled with the memory of touching him.

Tearing her gaze away, Faye strode toward the forebuilding. Part of her begged to break into a run, but she must not be conspicuous. Did the knave see her leave the garden? Was he watching her now? She dared not glance over her shoulder. Dared not meet the knave’s cold, cunning gaze and know she, the hare, was cornered.

As she reached for the forebuilding’s door, two maidservants waved to her from the open kitchen doorway. “Lady Rivellaux.”

Oh, God!

Faye waved back, grabbed the iron handle, and bolted inside, hoping the knave had not heard the maidservants’ call. She hurried to her chamber. Each step seemed to take an eternity.

At last, Faye reached her room. She shut the wooden panel behind her, removed her mantle, then crossed her chamber. Kneeling on the floor, she pushed aside her linen chest and pressed her fingers to the loose wall stone she had discovered long ago. Gently wiggling the stone, she pried it out. A grating rasp, and it came free. Gold glittered in the darkened cavity.

A relieved sigh broke from her. The chalice was safe.

Her chamber, however, was the first place the knave would search.

She must move the gold cup elsewhere. But where?

With careful fingers, she eased the goblet out of the hiding place. The cool, smooth metal molded to her hand. In her palm was the weight of a child’s life.

Outside, in the corridor, came the muffled echo of voices. Her head snapped up. Sweat dampened her hand, turning the gold slick. Earlier, she had asked one of the young girls to bring more wood for her chamber’s fire. The firewood had not yet been delivered.

If the servant found her with the cup . . .

Faye nudged the vessel back into the recess, pushed the stone into place, and shoved the linen chest into its normal spot. She ran her hands over her gown, smoothing the fabric as she dried her palms.

No reason to be anxious. No one knew where the gold was hidden.

They would never know.

She sucked in a deep breath, tucked hair behind her ear, and faced the doorway.

And saw she was not alone.

The knave lounged with his back against her door, his arms folded over his chest.

A gasp wrenched from deep inside her. Her hand fluttered to her throat, a feeble defense against his bold, looming presence.

As their gazes clashed, his mouth turned up in a grin that did not hold even the barest hint of warmth.

“Lady Rivellaux. A pleasure to see you again.”

Chapter Five

When the lady’s eyes flared with dismay, Brant savored a delicious surge of elation. Had she really thought she could deceive him and get away with it?

“W-what are you doing here?” she choked out, while her fingers flitted over the neck of her dreary gown.

He almost laughed at her ridiculous question. “I have come to claim what is mine.”

“Really?”  Her face pinkened, an exquisite flush that intensified the green of her eyes. Brant sensed her thoughts racing, trying to decide how best to deal with him. Most of all, how to keep him from taking the gold chalice.

Holding her gaze, he smiled. He was not a man to be governed by a woman. Especially one who possessed an object he desired.

“How did you get into my chamber? I did not hear the door open or close.”

“You were occupied with other matters, milady.”

Her delicate chin nudged higher, while her icy stare scorned him for setting one scuffed boot within her private chamber. Worry glimmered in her gaze, too—for her own safety, or that of her friend, Angeline, whom she hoped to rescue by offering the cup?

“Milady,” he said quietly, “I am not leaving ’till I have the goblet.”

Her hands balled into fists. From the willful spark in her eyes, she looked about to throw herself across the room at him. “You cannot have the vessel. It does not belong to you.”

“Nevertheless, I will have it.”

“Why? To satisfy your selfish greed? To sell it and fill your saddlebag with coin?” She practically spat the words.

Anger growled like silent thunder in his blood. If he told her he wanted to fulfill his dead brother’s dream, she would never believe him. She would accuse him of telling falsehoods and spinning his own avarice into gold.

“My reasons are my own.” Uncrossing his arms, he pushed away from the door. “Give me the cup, and I will be on my way.”

She did not budge. Not even the slightest attempt to obey.

“Milady.” He did not attempt to steel the warning from his voice.

The faintest smile touched her lips. “What makes you believe I have it?”

He laughed, a low, challenging sound that caused her blush to deepen. “You took it from my saddlebag before fleeing the tavern. No one else visited the chamber, except you.”

“Mayhap I gave the vessel to the kidnappers.”

“You left the tavern early this morn, and ’tis not yet midday. ’Tis doubtful you had time to write a missive, send it to the abductors, and meet with them—even if you knew how to contact them—between now and then.”

Her lashes dropped, and she glanced away.

“You also would not be so adamant to deter me, if the gold were not in your possession.” Brant’s gaze slid past her to the linen chest pushed against the wall. “Even in this chamber.”

Her shoulders rose and fell on a huffed breath. “Get out.”

Raising his eyebrows, he strode past her to the chest.

She grabbed his sleeve. “Do not!” She yanked hard enough that he heard his tunic’s seams protest. “Touch my linen chest and I—”

“You will what?” He turned and caught her hand that pulled at him with such insistence. He locked his fingers through hers, snaring her. She trembled. Her rebellious gaze snapped from their joined hands to his face. Scowling, she tugged to free her fingers.

He smiled, but did not release her.

“Let me go, knave.”

Each word dripped with fury. A grin played at his mouth. What a delectable sight she made when wild and spitting. Her hair tumbled about her like copper fire. Her body drew up taut, thrusting forward the luscious swell of her bosom. And her mouth . . .

He stared at her lips. Yester eve, as he lay on the tavern floor, listening to her breathing, he had dreamed of kissing her. Craved it with an intensity that stunned him, for he had tasted many women. Yet, she was as tempting as treasure itself.

He trailed his thumb over the backs of her captive fingers. So soft and fair, her skin. Like fine linen sheets, worn smooth in the wind and sun.

She inhaled a sharp breath and tried, again, to pull her hand loose. Her mouth quivered. “I will tell you but one last time,” she said. “Let me go.”

“Or?” he taunted.

“Or I will keep the threat I made in the tavern. I will scream as though you mean to draw and quarter me. ’Twould not bode well for you, knave, to be found in my chamber.”

What a cunning little scheme. One, indeed, with merit. Yet, such trickery would never succeed.

Softening his tone to a sensuous drawl, he said, “’Twould bode ill for you as well, milady. I will say I am your lover, and that you invited me to your chamber.”

“Never!” she gasped.

Again, his thumb swept across her skin. He savored the anxious little twitch of her fingers. “I can be very convincing, when I want to be.”

“No one will believe you. I am a widow—”

“Who has been alone far too long,” he murmured, drawing her resistant hand to his lips. He pressed a lazy kiss to her knuckles.

She squirmed. “Cease!”

“Your pleasure is my greatest wish, milady. If you scream, I shall tell those who rush to aid you that ’tis so.” He winked. “All will believe you screamed because of pleasure.”

“Even Torr?”

Brant tensed. The startling question revealed she had seen him and Torr talking. “Aye,” he said, even as he wondered the dangerous permutations of her witnessing them together.

She breathed in. Her lips parted.

Damnation!  She was going to scream.

“Nay,” he snapped. Yanking her against his body, he slid one hand into the silken mass of her hair, while his other arm pressed to the small of her back.

His lips closed over hers, swallowing the cry as it broke in her mouth.

Her smothered scream turned shrill and outraged. She stiffened in his arms. Fought his hold. She clamped her lips tightly together, resisting the brush of his mouth. If he stopped plying his lips over hers, even to snatch a breath, she would shriek to bring the chamber’s wooden trusses crashing down upon his head.

There was only one way to tame this defiant lady. He must stir the simmering passion he had sensed within her when they lay in the tavern room with the storm raging. He would transform her anger into a seductive, all-consuming magic.

The wenches had told him time and again that they enjoyed his kisses.

He had never been one to decline a worthy challenge.

Still kissing her, he nudged her backward, step by tiny step. She resisted, tried to hold firm as he propelled her against her will, yet a slender woman like she could not hope to deter him. With a muted thud, her bottom bumped against the door. The rough-hewn wood grazed the backs of his fingers in her hair as he pressed her firmly against the panel.

Another scream, this one tinged with frustration, rumbled in her throat. She struggled anew. In answer, he flexed his hips against her womanly softness. She shuddered. Her cry trailed off to a whimper.

With his tongue, Brant traced the seam of her lips. This close, her floral scent seemed to wrap itself around him, as potent as a veil of faerie mist. Her hair slipped like the finest silk through his fingers. Trailing his thumb against her downy nape, he marveled at her enticing softness. His hands yearned to feel more. To explore what she denied him.

Shifting his arm at her waist, he drew her slightly forward, then skimmed his hand down to touch her bottom. Her mouth opened on a shocked gasp. His greedy tongue slipped into the wet warmth of her mouth.

She moaned.

The helpless, awe-filled sound shook him. An answering moan burned inside him, breaking free on a guttural groan which voiced every frustration in his aching body. He deepened the exploration of his tongue, pressed himself even closer to her. And, in answer, her hands slid up his thighs and under his shirt. Her fingers brushed his naked skin.

Ah, God!

Her hesitant touch wreaked more havoc than the teasing of a skilled whore. Desire raced hot and urgent inside him, sweeping him up in a torrent of sensation. He could hardly breathe. Like a man possessed by a fey spell, he had only one coherent thought: to have her.

Her tongue met his. She jumped, suggesting that despite being a widow, such contact was new to her. He slid his tongue around hers, coaxing. She responded, thrust for thrust. Her fingers pressed tighter to his flesh, dug into his ribs, tried to draw him even closer. As if together, they could become one, dynamic entity.

He delved deeper, ravishing her mouth, exploring every sweet recess and hollow. Her tongue followed him in the arousing assault. He coaxed, and she coaxed him back. Bewitchment flavored her kiss, for the more he tasted her, the more he craved.

His body shook with the hunger tearing through him. Never had never experienced such desire. If he did not stop now . . .

He drew his fingers from her hair. Setting both hands upon her hips, he stared down at her flushed face. She looked back at him with glazed eyes, her lips reddened from his kisses. A fleeting image of her sprawled in rumpled sheets, smiling after passionate lovemaking, flashed through his mind. Anticipation skipped over his skin like sparks cast from a sorcerer’s wand.

“Milady,” he whispered.

She blinked. The passion in her gaze vanished, as if it had never existed. “Oh, mercy,” she rasped.

The self-condemnation in her voice hit him like a blow. He could not keep from flinching, even as he chided himself for letting her affect him so.

“Was my kiss so terrible?”

Her gaze darkened with mortified fury. “’Twas the most vile kiss to have touched my lips.”  With a startled gasp, she yanked her hands out from under his shirt.

He missed the warm press of her fingers—but he would eat his saddlebag before he admitted that to her. Instead, with a bawdy chuckle, he nudged his thighs against hers. “I vow I am the first man to have kissed you properly, milady.”

“What arrogance!” she hissed between her teeth.

“I only speak what is true. Your husband never showed affection to you in such a way, did he?”

Her face turned scarlet. If he did not know better, he might have thought her a virgin, naïve as to the intimacy between men and women. Yet, she had been married. While he could not claim to have known Hubert Villaux, no man could take this lady as his wife and not be tempted to lie with her.

One of her hands thrust between their bodies to fist into his tunic. “You have no right to speak of my husband,” she bit out.

“If he did not kiss you properly”—Brant closed his hand over hers—“then he was a fool.”

Puzzlement flashed in her eyes.

“A woman like you,” he murmured, caressing her wrist, “deserves a man who will teach her the art of good lovemaking.”

A disbelieving snort broke from her. “You are that man?”

“I vow I am.”

She shook her head. Then, she inhaled sharply.

“Hellfire!” Brant’s lips clamped down on hers again.

She screamed beneath his imprisoning mouth. Her head jerked from side to side, but he matched her frantic movements, refusing to let her dislodge him. As she squirmed against the wood panel, she yanked her hand free. Her elbow hit the door with a thud.

She grimaced, then whimpered.

Just as Brant was about to raise his mouth away, to ask if she had hurt herself, she tensed. Thud, thud, thud echoed as she pummeled her fists against the door.

Silently cursing her ingenuity, and hoping no one had heard, Brant locked an arm around her waist. Still kissing her, securing her head with his other hand, he lifted her off the floor. Her hips tilted flush against him.

“Mff!” she screamed against his mouth. She kicked at his shins. Clawed at his tunic.

Smothering a laugh, he turned. His gaze fell to her bed. Draped in a patched woolen coverlet, it beckoned, only a few paces away.

The image of her lying amongst mussed sheets flooded his mind again. An undeniable temptation. Ignoring her struggles, he carried her to the bed. The ropes creaked as he set her down, forcing her with his advancing body to lie back. He lowered himself onto her, thigh to thigh, belly to belly. Ah, but she felt wondrous beneath him.

Her legs thrashed. She swatted at his sides. A moan broke from her, different from her earlier cry. This time, he heard panic.

Hesitating, he lifted his mouth away.

“Stop!” she gasped. “Please.”

Did she think he would ravish her? Of course she would believe him capable of such a despicable act. “I will not violate you. I promise,” he said.

Her breath warmed his chin as she stared up at him, her eyes huge against her ashen skin. “A promise made by a knave,” she answered, so quietly he almost did not hear.

“Milady, I have only one purpose with you, and ’tis not to bed you.”  With gentle fingers, he brushed a strand of hair from her bottom lip. She trembled. How foolish, that he longed to see passion in her eyes again. Even more senseless, he yearned to prove his own reassuring words a lie.

Bedding her would be his sweet reward for the torment she had caused him that morn. ’Twould slake his desire still screaming for release. Yet he, unlike many other men, would never take a woman against her will.

She still stared up at him, clearly uncertain. He should rise, allow her to sit up, but somehow, the feel of her beneath him held him spellbound.

“How can I believe you when . . . I don’t even know your name? Indeed, knave, who are you?”

A treasure seeker, his conscience whispered. A man on a vital quest. He could not speak the words. If he did, she would demand to know why.

“You”—she went on, her voice a mesmerizing wisp of sound—“are akin to a dark, restless phantom. You are nameless, dangerous and . . . a woman would be ill-advised to place her trust in you.”

Brant frowned. He, a restless phantom? Nameless? Dangerous? Indeed, there was more than a seed of truth in what she said. If he did not heed his inner cry for caution, that truth might grow roots and crack the mortar of his solitary existence.

What Lady Rivellaux thought of him should not matter. Did not matter. Once he had the gold cup, he had no reason to ever see her again.

Yet a tiny part of him—the part that wanted so badly to challenge her opinion of him—convinced him to give her some measure of a reply.

Looking down at her, he managed a careless smile. “I am no phantom, milady.”

“Not true. You are plagued by a haunted soul. Tormented by misdeeds, mayhap.”

God’s teeth!  He forced a disparaging laugh. “Your imagination misleads you, milady. If you must know, my given name is Brant.”

“Brant,” she repeated, clearly committing his name to memory. Triumph flashed in her eyes. She seemed delighted to have wrested the information from him.

He struggled not to grin. He was an idiot to appreciate that cunning look. Neither should he relish the way his name sounded when she spoke it.

“Are you a knight?” she asked. “How do you know Torr? How—”

Brant scowled, for already he had told her too much. He touched his finger to her mouth, and her words died on a startled inhalation. “No more questions. I want the cup, milady.”  His finger, of its own will, trailed along her silken bottom lip. “Where is it?”

Resolve tightened her features. “You cannot have it.”

“I must have it.”

She turned her head away—a blatant refusal. His finger slid down her chin to brush without threat against her neck.

Blowing an exasperated sigh, Brant bowed his head. His hair draped across her jaw before he pushed away from her, ending their physical contact. The bed ropes creaked as he sat beside her, impatience uncoiling inside him like a length of rope.

If she would not give him the goblet, he would simply have to take it.

Moments ago, when he entered her chamber, she was bending over her linen chest—the most obvious place for her to put the chalice. She would not like him rummaging through her personal effects, but she left him no choice.

Brant refused to accept even the tiniest pinch of guilt. She had not hesitated to go through his saddlebag, despite his stern warning.

He rose and strode to the linen chest. Behind him, he heard the bed groan as she sat up.

“Brant!”

He raised the linen chest’s lid. Silk gowns in vibrant reds, blues, and greens, some with intricate embroidery, shimmered inside—a treasure trove of luxurious clothes. A faint scent, shockingly familiar, rose from the garments. He froze. His head spun as Elayne’s flirtatious laughter echoed in his thoughts.

He gritted his teeth against the unwelcome memories. These were Lady Rivellaux’s possessions. Why, then, did he think of Elayne?

Footfalls came up behind him. He ignored the lady’s approach. Stooping, he thrust his arms into the gleaming mound of garments, lifted them, then tossed them onto the floorboards.

“Fie!” she muttered. She stood just out of his reach, her hair a tousled mess. Staring down at the discarded finery, she folded her arms across her gown—a very plain garment compared to the riches he had deposited near her feet.

“You do not care for costly clothes?” he said, not bothering to temper his sarcasm. He reached into the chest again. “Within, there is a fortune in silk.”

“I know.” The catch in her voice made him pause to look at her. “They belonged to Torr’s wife, Elayne. He gave them to me after she died. He said ’twould please him if I made use of her gowns, for he did not want them to go unworn. They would only be ruined by moths.”

So the garments were Elayne’s. No wonder his thoughts had strayed to her.

“You do not wear them?” he asked.

Sadness in her gaze, Faye shook her head.

Brant tossed aside more garments, including gossamer-sheer chemises and silk hose. How odd Lady Rivellaux, an impoverished widow, did not make use of the finery that looked tailored to the latest fashions. Beautiful, vain Elayne would have demanded no less.

“You probably think I am foolish not to use her clothes,” the lady said, her tone barely above a whisper. “Elayne was taller than I am, so the gowns would need some adjusting. Torr said he would pay for the alterations as part of his gift to me. A most generous offer. Yet, I simply cannot bring myself to wear what was hers.”

As Brant took one last armload, he wondered if there was something more to her story. In his travels, he had seen enough facets of humanity to know few women would resist such luxuries—unless they had a very good reason.

She made no attempt to elaborate. Nor did she try to stop him searching through her belongings. Mayhap she had accepted, at long last, that he would not be deterred. That he would only leave when he had the gold cup. She must be eager to see him go.

An odd regret slashed through him, for after he had the goblet, he would likely never see her again. A ridiculous remorse. ’Twas best for both of them.

Brant dug through the remaining items in the chest. His fingers brushed a cloth bag. Something solid was inside. When he picked up the bag, objects inside clinked together. Frowning, he parted the drawstring at the top.

“Nay!” the lady cried, lurching forward. “’Tis only stones and—”

Brant emptied the contents onto the pile of gowns—an assortment of river rocks, two bits of gnarled wood, as well as a grubby toy sheep. Stitched from woolen fabric, its round eyes were embroidered with blue thread. A blue ribbon encircled its neck.

He shook his head at the odd collection. “You did not want me to find these?”

“They are Angeline’s,” the lady said, as if that explained all. Her eyes blazed with anguish and outrage.

With two fingers, he dangled the well-worn sheep in the air, its head pointing toward the floorboards.

“A ewe,” she said, “which came with a little lamb. ’Twas made for Angeline by one of the local villagers.”

“I see.” Gesturing to the stones and wood, Brant said, “These, too, were gifts?”

Her chin thrust up. “Treasures of their own kind.”

Brant blew out a disbelieving breath. Only a complete simpleton—or a child—would cherish stones and a toy sheep. He tossed the ewe onto the mounded gowns. “Your friend has peculiar taste, milady.”

When he turned back to the chest, his foot nudged the garments. One of the stones tumbled off the pile. The lady darted after it.

“’Tis only a rock,” he muttered.

She snatched the stone from the floorboards and whirled to face him. With near reverence, she cupped the brown-gray stone in her palm. “Angeline was very proud of these. She collected them herself, and I promised to keep them safe for her. And so I shall.”

“Mmm,” he said, half listening. Dragging his hand one more time through the chest, he choked down bitter disappointment. He turned to face her. “The goblet is not here.”

She quirked a slender eyebrow. “Imagine that. Now that your curiosity is satisfied, mayhap you will put the garments back in the chest and leave.”

He set his hands on his hips and glared at her. “Damnation, milady. Where is it?”

Pointing to the lavish gowns, she said, “Take them. Have them all, in place of the goblet.”

“I want the gold.”

Desperation gleamed in her eyes. “The clothes will fetch a good price at a town market. Take them and be gone from here. I beg you.”

“Nay.”

A sound like a sob broke from her. “Take them, now, before I—”

The rest of her words became a blur of sound. As he glanced back at the linen chest, his gaze traveled over the whitewashed wall.

The mortar was missing from around one of the stones, which jutted out slightly further than the others.

The perfect hiding place for all kinds of secrets.

His mouth twisting into a smile, he approached the wall.

“Nay,” Faye shrieked. “Nay!”

Dropping to a crouch, he pressed his fingers to the stone.

***

The gold cup is not there. There is naught behind that block but darkness, Faye wanted to cry as Brant began to nudge it from the wall. But she knew he would not listen. By sheer willpower, she stopped herself from falling to her knees and pleading like a woman whose soul was about to be ripped from her.

The expression on his face . . . she had seen naught like it. His jaw was a taut line of intense concentration. His determined gaze locked to that section of wall as if it concealed all the riches of the Holy Roman Empire.

With a gritty scrape, the stone edged toward him.

Her restraint shattered. “Stop!” She lunged, careening into him.

Brant grunted and fell sideways against the linen chest. Faster than she thought possible, he pushed her away, then leapt back to a crouch.

She clawed at his hands. Cursing under his breath, he blocked her with his shoulder.

The stone slid free.

She stumbled back. “Oh, mercy!”

He peered into the hiding place. A sigh rushed from him, a sound not only of elation, but profound relief. He reached in and drew out the goblet.

Settling the vessel in his palm, Brant slowly turned it. The gold gleamed, as though illuminated from within. His expression softened with awe.

Awe indeed. If he sold it, he could live off the proceeds for the rest of his living days.

Unless she could convince him to let her keep it.

Somehow, she must.

“’Tis very beautiful,” she began, desperation in her voice, “but I cannot let you take it.”

He rose to standing. “If I may say so, milady, ’tis already mine.”

She swallowed down a vehement denial. “Whatever your reasons, they cannot be more important than Angeline’s life.”

His lips flattened into a stubborn line. “If you are worried about paying the ransom demand, why do you not sell a few of Elayne’s gowns yourself?”

“A grand idea, from a man without a conscience,” Faye said coolly. “I have no wish to offend Torr, who has allowed me to live here since my husband died.”

Brant’s eyes narrowed. He looked about to challenge her words, but merely shrugged. “Surely he would understand your selling a few garments to rescue a friend.”

“Friend?” She gasped. He spoke so casually. How could he consider the relationship between a widow and another woman’s eighteen-month-old daughter—the little girl she had sworn to protect—a simple friendship?

With his thumb, Brant traced the dent in the cup. “Angeline is your friend, aye?”

Her frustration broke free in sharp, biting words. “She is more than a friend. She is an innocent child.”

On the word ‘child,’ his thumb stilled. His gaze, dark with warning, collided with hers. “Milady, do not try to manipulate me with dangerous lies.”

“What?” She struggled to keep from shouting. “What lies?”

“With your protests and pleas, you failed to stop me from taking the cup. Now, you will deceive me with tales of a child?”

Anger shook her. “I do not speak false. Angeline is but eighteen months old.”

Brant looked close to throttling her now. “Milady!”

Refusing to retreat from his fearsome glower, Faye glared at him. “She is not any child—”

“Well, milady, she is not your child. You do not have any children,” he told her with irritating triumph. “That, I know for certain.”

How, exactly, did he know such a private detail about her? Refusing to let herself be distracted by the thought, she said, “Angeline is the daughter of Torr and Elayne.”

“Damnation!”

Faye crossed her arms over her bosom. “Why act surprised? You are one of her kidnappers. You know she is a child.”

He shook his head, disbelief, then guarded wariness in his gaze. “I assure you, milady, I had no part in her abduction. I was hired only to collect the ransom from you.”

She frowned.

“I do not understand,” he went on, shaking his head. “What reason . . . Why abduct—”

“A helpless child? One who recently lost her mother? ’Tis heartless, indeed.”

Brant looked about to nod in agreement. Then, bowing his head, he studied the cup, slowly turning it in his fingers. The metal glowed with the luster of an unfinished dream.

From his thoughtful expression, Faye guessed he struggled with a difficult dilemma. Was he changing his mind about taking the goblet? Could she still persuade him to relinquish it?

“You see, now, why I must have it,” she said.

A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he did not look at her. “Your reasons are clear,” he said quietly, “but I have my reasons, too.”

She hissed a frustrated oath. “Greed? Fie!”

“Although I swear to you,” he continued, as if she had not spoken and it took effort for him to say the words, “I never realized Angeline was a child. That changes a great deal.”

Faye blew out a trembled sigh. She crossed to him. Pressing her hands over his cradling the gold cup she said, “You know what is the right decision.”

As their skin touched, warmth rippled across her palm. Acute, shocking awareness. She started. He must have felt the sensation too, for he flinched.

Raising his head, he met her stare, no trace of emotion in his cool blue eyes. “It seems we would be wise to forge a bargain, milady, if we are to both get what we desire.”

His tone’s husky sensuality made her belly flutter. Heat from his strong, tanned hand flowed up her arm to spread like an intoxicating potion. Faye withdrew her hands from his, discreetly wiping her palms on her gown. “What bargain . . . do you propose?” She tried to sound dispassionate, but her words emerged a breathless squeak.

He smiled. “An arrangement to satisfy us both.”

How shameful, that the innuendo in his statement sent excitement pulsing through her.

“This vessel is likely part of a much larger horde of treasure,” he said, his voice gliding over and through her in a purely mesmerizing manner. “If my guess is correct, it belonged to a great Celtic warrior. A king named Arthur.”

Faye had heard of such a man. His name was revered in legend and song. Greya, too, had told her some of the old stories, passed down through her family. Some of the tales mentioned sites close to Caldstowe. “Why do you believe ’tis King Arthur’s treasure?”

Anguish clouded his features. Somehow, she had touched on a forbidden subject. “I have heard the legends,” he said with a shrug. “As, no doubt, have you.”

She nodded. However, she sensed he had not told her all. She wondered what he wished to keep secret, even as she said, “You intend to find the treasure.”

“Aye.”

“Yet, I need the gold to save Angeline.”

Steel-cold resolve fired his gaze. “Help me find the riches, milady, and I will help you rescue Angeline.”

Faye’s breath whispered between her lips, the sound akin to a breeze whistling past stone. “A proposal to suit us both.”  An odd sense of intimacy, of their lives being bound together by their agreement, coursed through her. “When will our search begin?”

“First, you must vow secrecy.”

“Of course I will not tell.”

“Promise you will tell no one of our quest. I must have your solemn vow, Faye.”

She shivered when he spoke her given name. How bold of him, to take such a privilege. Somehow, though it enforced the solemnity of the vow. “I promise I will tell no one,” she said quietly. “But why—”

“If word gets out of a Celtic treasure, it could become very dangerous for both of us.”

“As well as Angeline,” Faye murmured.

Brant nodded. “I fear so.”

Fear ran through Faye, insidious as black magic. From this moment on, she began a quest from which she could not turn back. A journey with no certain ending.

Squaring her shoulders, she said, “Tell me what I must do.”

Chapter Six

Dawn’s first light had barely pierced the winter sky when Faye drew back her blankets, stumbled across the cold floorboards to the table, and splashed water over her face. The fire in her chamber had burned out during the night, and she shivered as the icy liquid hit her skin. Yet, she must wake quickly. She had vowed to meet Brant at daybreak to begin their search for the treasure. She would not be late.

With shaking hands, Faye donned her chemise and gray gown. For a moment, her gaze slid to the linen chest. She wondered at the expression on Brant’s face if she chose to wear Elayne’s embroidered cloak. Would he notice? Would he think her . . . beautiful?

A ludicrous thought.

Faye snatched up her forest green mantle and pinned it closed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled on sturdy leather shoes. The bed ropes squeaked, rousing the memory of Brant’s face stark with desire, his hard body covering hers, his earthy, masculine scent—all conspiring to conquer her senses.

She should not dwell upon him in such a fashion. He had no interest in her apart from her help in locating the treasure. He already possessed the gold cup; he had secured it under his tunic before leaving her chamber yesterday. Once they found the riches and rescued Angeline, he would ride off in search of other adventures.

That is, if such a man honored his agreements.

A shiver wove through Faye as she crossed to the door. She had trusted Brant’s word. She had no other option, when she could turn to no one else. Yet, ’twas entirely possible Brant would not follow through with his part of their arrangement. Something she must not forget.

Drawing a steadying breath, Faye opened her door, shut it behind her, and headed down to the great hall. Most of the castle folk were still asleep, stretched out on pallets on the hall’s floor. By the light of a few lit torches, she skirted slumbering servants and dogs, eager to reach the forebuilding.

The faint scrape of a chair alerted her she was not the only one awake.

“Faye?”

Torr!

Her footsteps faltered. She glanced across the dark hall, to see him swing his booted legs off the table on the raised dais—the lord’s table. With his thumb, he wiped his lips. He stood, pushing a leather flask into his belt.

A pang of sympathy lanced through her, for she knew the flask contained a draft made for him by a local herbalist. It eased his chronic pain caused by a fall from a horse during a tournament years ago.

Torr stepped off the dais and started toward her. Sweat dampened her palms. What if he did not believe her when she said she was going to visit Greya? Faye did not have time to linger. Nor could she simply wave, then dash down the stairwell to the bailey. As lord of Caldstowe, he could prevent her from leaving the keep.

Telling herself to remain calm, Faye smiled at him. Drawing near, he smiled back. Despite the dim lighting, she noticed shadows under his eyes. She guessed he had not slept much that night, if at all.

“You are awake early, Faye.”

“I could not sleep.” She managed a wry chuckle. “I thought I would enjoy some fresh morning air. I did not mean to disturb you.”

“I was already awake.” Compassion softened Torr’s gaze. “How is your wound? Does it pain you?”

“Only a little. ’Tis healing well.” Glancing toward the forebuilding, she said, “Well, if you do not mind, I—”

“I, too, cannot sleep.” He sighed, as if a peaceful night’s rest was an impossible dream.

“You miss Angeline,” Faye murmured, guilt squeezing her conscience. How thoughtless that she considered only herself, when he must be very worried about his little girl.

He hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, Angeline.”

Faye swallowed hard. She could only imagine his torment. He must long to know if his daughter was safe, or cold, or hungry, or terrified. He must fear not seeing her alive again. Tears stung Faye’s eyes, for after losing her babe, she understood such grief.

“Torr,” she whispered, touching his arm. For all his generosity over the past months, as well as the vow she had made to Elayne, she would do whatever was necessary to bring Angeline safely home.

Torr’s gaze held hers. Such intense emotion churned in his eyes. How could he not be distraught, with Elayne’s illness and recent death, followed by Angeline’s disappearance?

“Your daughter will be back with us soon,” Faye murmured.

His lips tightened. He clearly tried to suppress difficult emotions. With a shaking hand, he reached for his flask, took a long sip and returned it to his belt. When he glanced at her again, she saw his façade of the calm, composed lord of Caldstowe Keep. “So far, my men have discovered naught. I hope you are right, Faye, about her being found.”

“I am.” She smiled.

Torr’s mouth curved into a faint grin. “Come. I will walk with you.”

“’Tis a very kind offer, but this morn, I prefer to walk alo—”

He had already clasped her hand. When his fingers twined through hers, she fought a shudder. His touch brought no comfort, only a sense of entrapment, as he ushered her into the stairwell.

She needed to be on her way! Before the sun lit the distant trees, she must be on the road to the meeting site. If she did not meet Brant as arranged, he had no obligation to help her. He would simply vanish with the gold. Gone, like the morning mist.

Torr pushed open the door at the bottom of the forebuilding, admitting a waft of wintry air that stirred her gown’s hem. The faintest hints of pink and gold swept the horizon. Dawn would soon wake the rest of the keep.

Frosty gravel crunched beneath her shoes as she walked a few paces with him, then slowed her stride. “Thank you, Torr, but I wish to go my own way now.”

Torr faced her. “I see,” he said, sounding indignant. His breath formed a white cloud, akin to smoke exhaled by an angry dragon. “Why do you not want my company, Faye?”

Because I am meeting another man this morn, in order to save Angeline, her conscience whispered.

“I assure you, I intend no insult,” she said quickly, squeezing his hand still linked through hers. “I did not realize daybreak was so close upon us. You see, I promised to visit Greya this morn. I hoped to be there by dawn.”

“Visiting her again?”

Faye nodded, anxious to defray the suspicion in his gaze. “I did not reach her cottage when I tried to see her the other day. The storm prevented me.”

“Are you well enough to ride to the village? With your wound—”

“I would not undertake the journey if I did not feel able. ’Twould be very foolish.”

Torr’s eyebrows raised, a gesture that reminded her of Brant. Yet, while Brant’s stare had sent excitement coursing through her, Torr’s filled her with apprehension.

“Greya is the best healer in this county. I also hoped she would examine my wound, to make sure ’tis mending properly. She may have special salves to quicken the healing.”

Torr’s head dipped in a half-nod. But he did not look convinced.

The morning chill crept into the folds of her mantle. Gently extricating her fingers from his, she hugged her arms across her chest.

His gaze slid down to where her breasts lay concealed beneath her mantle. He looked across the bailey to the stables, where a scrawny cat had emerged from the doorway. Torr’s displeasure seemed to vibrate into the air around them.

“Tomorrow, will you join me for a walk?” she said, softening her tone with a plea. “I would like that very much.”

His head swiveled. A smile touched his lips. “I would enjoy that, too.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

She started to turn toward the stables, but he caught her arm. “Wait. I will summon a few of my men-at-arms to accompany you.”

Oh, God! “Nay!  I mean, ’tis very considerate of you, but unnecessary.”

He frowned. “I am worried about you, Faye. The last few days you have been acting . . . peculiar.” He looked about to say more, but at that moment, one of the stable hands, rubbing sleep from his eyes, emerged from the stables. He bowed. “Good morn, milord. Lady Rivellaux.”

“Good morn,” Faye said. Panic pressed between her ribs. Unless she immediately began her journey, she would miss her meeting with Brant. “I promise you, I am fine. I would not ride today otherwise.”

He studied her, each tense moment marked by her urgent heartbeat.

At last, he shook his head and smiled. “Forgive me. After all that has happened lately, I fear I am a little . . . overprotective.” Gesturing to the stable hand, he said, “Ready Lady’s Rivellaux’s mare.”

***

Picking his teeth with a dried length of grass, Brant leaned against an oak and studied the straight, narrow dirt road, as he had at least twenty times since he’d ridden to the designated meeting place. During the night, heavy frost had settled on the vegetation growing alongside the naked forest. As dawn’s light fingered through the trees, the verge glittered as if strewn with stars.

A few paces away, Val dug furiously at a rabbit hole, then shoved his nose into the opening. His little body shook in a zealous sneeze.

Brant chuckled before working the piece of grass between his bottom teeth. His gaze shifted to the stand of trees in the distance. Beyond lay the lake where he had first met Faye. Last night, he had ridden past it. Cloaked in twilight, the lake had been as smooth as polished pewter. As though, beneath its still surface, something waited, poised to surface at a precise moment with splashing, gleaming splendor like a sword raised by a mystical maiden’s hand.

Now, just like yester eve, he could not stop thinking of Faye’s anguish at the lakeshore when he had demanded the ransom, and also when he had spilled the rocks onto her chamber floor. Why did those stones, twigs, and a toy sheep—belongings of another lady’s child—mean so much to Faye? What gnawed at her conscience with the fanged ferocity of his own guilt?

’Twas more than worry for Angeline. Faye had scrambled after the rock as if it were more precious than gold.

Her anxiety had bothered him so much, that, upon returning to the Spitting Hen Tavern, he had searched out the blemished-faced strumpet. Her sad eyes lit with excitement when he pressed coins into her hands. “What do ye fancy, milord? For this much silver, ye shall ’ave it several times over.”

With a pained sigh, he drew her into a quiet corner. “Deane, I do not pay for your charms. I wish you to go to Caldstowe Keep and become a servant there. ’Twill be a better life for you.”

She blinked down at the coin, then back at him. Her eyes glistened. “Why are ye so kind? I am a stranger to ye.”

His hands closed over hers. “All I ask in return is that you listen for word on Lord Lorvais’s daughter, Angeline, who is missing. If you hear any news, you must tell me. Will you, Deane?”

Tears streamed down her rouged cheeks. “I will. Oh, thank ye, milord. Thank ye.”

A bird flitted through the tree branches overhead, snapping Brant’s focus back to the wintry road. In the rising light, the frost glittered bright as Faye’s eyes.

Her bewitching gaze hinted at a rare magic he had experienced only once before. After meeting Elayne at a Midsummer feast, he had been consumed by the need to see more of her, to kiss her perfect cheek, to touch the tantalizing body she so brazenly presented to all the men around her.

Bitterness left a foul taste in his mouth. Even now, Faye captured his thoughts with the same persistence. Even though she had not come to meet him as promised.

“Damnation,” Brant muttered. He pushed away from the tree, his cloak swirling about his calves as he strode to the road. His destrier, tethered to an oak further off the road, raised its head from the frozen grass and shook its mane, jangling its bridle, eager to be on the move.

Planting his gloved hands on his hips, Brant walked inside the ruts caused by a wagon racing down the road when muddy. Dirt crunched beneath his boots. Could she have mistaken the meeting place? Were his directions not clear? Had she decided during the night that she did not need his help to rescue Angeline, after all?

Resolving to wait for her a few more moments, he kicked a stone with the toe of his boot. It landed on an ice-covered puddle. The surface smashed into a hundred white pieces, its symmetry destroyed—just like his plan to meet Faye and begin the hunt for the treasure. For, without her, he had no idea where to begin to look. Of all undesirable predicaments, he needed her, for the insight she could provide.

A keen ache slashed through Brant. If only he had been more determined to find Royce’s journal that he had taken with him on crusade. If only he had searched harder while knights and fellow warriors dismantled the desert camp and prepared to move on. Royce had carefully written all of the rumors, legends, and snippets of information on the treasure’s possible locations in the pages of that leather-bound tome.

Yet, at the time, overwhelmed by the horror of what he had done, Brant could not even step into the tent he’d shared with Royce. Death had confronted him when he raised the tent’s flap. Vomit scalding his mouth, blood streaming from his slashed cheek, he had lurched away. His fellow crusaders, believing Royce slaughtered by the crippled Saracen prisoner who had tried to escape that night—and who, Brant later learned, was hung, drawn and quartered for the murder—offered sympathetic claps on the back. Shaking with grief, he had retched into the sand.

Torr had packed all of Brant and Royce’s belongings, stowed them on Brant’s horse, and burned the tent. When Brant asked about the journal, Torr said he had not found it among Royce’s effects. Brant remembered his brother had sometimes tucked the journal into the garments he was wearing. In their eagerness to be rid of the corpse before it rotted and attracted rats, his fellow crusaders had likely burned the journal along with the body.

Still, Torr had helped Brant search the area where the tent stood, as well as around the campfire where Royce had lingered, his face lit by flickering flames while he flipped through the journal. They found no trace of the tome. Like his brother, its ashes were scattered in the scorching desert sands.

Now, his only hope of fulfilling Royce’s dream lay with a woman.

One who had deserted him.

A scratching noise came from the verge to Brant’s left, then Val sneezed again. Setting his hands on his hips, Brant tipped his head back to look through the branches at the blue sky.

How long did he wait for Faye until he admitted she was not coming?

How long had he waited for Elayne, on the threshold of that secluded cottage, where she had promised to lie with him and tutor his hungry, virgin body in the ways of pleasure?

His lip curled. God’s blood, he had waited long enough.

If he had to ride to Caldstowe and bully the information from Faye, so be it.

Pivoting on his heel, he loosed a sharp whistle. Val scampered from the verge and ran at his heels while he strode toward his horse. When Brant approached, the destrier whickered, snorting a white cloud from its nostrils.

Brant patted the destrier’s warm neck. He reached out to untie the reins.

A sound, quiet yet growing louder, intruded—a rhythmic thud, like a pulse.

Hoofbeats.

Barking, Val raced into the middle of the road. Brant spun to face the oncoming rider. A lone figure hunched against the neck of a bay galloping ever closer. With each ta-ta-tap, ta-ta-tap of hooves, Brant’s mood lightened.

Mayhap Faye had not deserted him, after all.

As the rider neared, strands of copper red hair glinted in the sunlight. Streaming out behind her, Faye’s tresses lifted and fell with the motion of her mare. The hood of her green mantle bunched about her shoulders. Whipped by the morning air, her face held a rosy flush. How beautiful she looked, thundering toward him.

Relief flooded through Brant. As he strode toward the road, however, Val snarled. Barking again, he bolted out to intercept the mare.

Fear numbed Brant’s elation. Patches of ice dotted this part of the road. Faye’s wound was still healing, so, not feeling her best, she might not be as quick to cope with unexpected crises.

If her mare skidded or lost her footing . . .

“Val!” Slipping when his boot connected with ice, Brant started after the dog.

Faye was near enough now that he saw her eyes flare with panic. She instinctively straightened, then drew back on her horse’s reins, urging her to slow. Yapping, teeth bared, Val raced closer.

“Val!” Brant yelled. “Come.”

At a canter now, the mare tossed her head. Brant sensed Faye’s fear, heard her curse as her wide-eyed mount veered onto the verge. Tree branches caught at Faye’s mantle and hair. Shielding her face from the onslaught, she shrieked. One of the reins slipped from her hands. It dangled to the ground, sliding uselessly on the frozen ground.

Val darted between the horse’s legs.

“Stop him,” Faye cried. “Please.”

“Val!” he thundered. In the morning quiet, his voice boomed. “Come here. Now!”

The little mongrel slowed, came out from under the mare, and stopped in the middle of the road, his tongue lolling. Bright eyed, tail wagging, Val trotted back to Brant.

Brant scowled down at the little mongrel. Then, whipping off his right glove, he snapped his fingers. “Sit.”

Val sat beside the frozen rut, the tip of his tail swishing to and fro. Excitement still danced in his eyes.

“Stay there until I call you,” Brant bit out in a tone harsher than he had ever used when speaking to Val. His innards still quaked from the thought of what could have happened to Faye. All too easily, she could have been thrown to the ground, a limb or two broken, hurt and bleeding again because of him.

Val whimpered. Brant gave the mongrel one last, warning glare. Then he glanced over at Faye.

She sat astride her horse, rubbing her hand over the animal’s lathered neck. Breathing hard, the mare had stopped on the verge. Sun-touched frost glittered at her hooves. Light, slanting through the trees, streamed over Faye, as though the tree boughs had parted in reverence to her, the Fey Queen, who had graced this common stretch of road with her presence.

Dismissing his idiotic thoughts, he crossed to her. “Are you all right?”

Faye gave a stiff nod. She had managed to regain hold of both reins. Her white-knuckled hands clenched around the lengths of leather. When he neared, her grip tightened. “You should have better control of Val,” she said sharply. “’Twas very dangerous. I could have fallen.”

“I know.” He reached her side. Squinting against the brilliant sunlight, he looked up at her. “I am sorry.”

His voice cracked on the last word. All the emotions tangled up inside him seemed to expel on “sorry.” Clearing the embarrassing huskiness from his throat, he said, “’Twill not happen again.”

Her narrowed gaze shifted past him to where Val sat. “How can you be certain?”

“He did not get his usual morning run after the woodpigeons,” Brant said. “’Twas my mistake. I will not deprive him of that morning pleasure again.”

The hard glint of her eyes softened a little.

“I am sorry,” Brant repeated. Reaching up, he pressed his bare hand to her mantle-covered thigh and gently squeezed. The cold wool scratched his palm. However, even through the heavy cloth, he felt the little trembles shaking her, the after-effects of her scare. Proof of the fear he had caused her.

Once again, her gaze locked with his. A more intense shudder rattled her. Not fear, this time, but an emotion even more . . . dangerous.

Tinged red by the morning air, her mouth tempted him for a kiss. He remembered how her lips felt beneath his, her exceptional taste, her slender body cradled beneath him. His hand curled tighter into her mantle, bunching the fabric in his restless fingers. He fought the urge to draw her down from her horse, wrap his arms around her, and murmur soothing words.

Awareness rekindled between them, as tangible as their breaths in the icy air. In that moment, he understood how she had felt the afternoon at the lake when he towered over her on horseback, master of every facet of their meeting. How ironic their perspectives were reversed. Standing beside her mount, gazing up at her, he realized that his fate, from this point on, lay in her control.

She alone could help him achieve Royce’s dream.

Without her, he was lost.

Her horse shifted its weight. With a mortified blink, Brant unclenched his hand from her mantle. Creases marked the cloth where he had gripped.

Heat stung his cheekbones, while frustration burned stronger than his desire. Never did he want to be commanded by a woman—especially an enchantress. As much as he needed Faye, he would not allow her to lead him along like a dim-witted boy. He had learned his lesson from Elayne.

A frown creasing his brow, he stepped away. Faye’s gaze lit with surprise.

“The morn is passing. If we wish to make use of the day, we should be on our way.” His gruff voice sounded to his own ears like grating stone.

“Why do you look at me in that manner?”

He yanked the glove back onto his right hand. Gliding against his skin, the leather made a soft hiss. “How so?”

“You appear to be angry with me.”

Impatience chafed like the rough seam against his palm. “Not angry, milady, but eager to be hunting for the treasure.”

Her lips pursed. “Of course. The lure of gold.”

Casting her a sidelong glance, he tipped his head.

Her chin notched higher. “I remind you, Brant, that you promised to help me rescue Angeline. That is my purpose for being here. My only purpose. Do not forget.”

He almost laughed at her saucy tone. She was bold, indeed, to goad him.

Foolish lady. Mayhap, instead of a knave, she believed him to be a man of honor, who, even if tempted, would never dare to pull a lady down from her horse and satisfy the lust seething inside him. Surely his kiss yesterday had shown her he did not deny himself what he wanted. And that he would not hesitate to use desire, if need be, to get his way.

“I have not forgotten my vow to you,” he said as a breeze stirred the spindly boughs overhead. “Nor have I forgotten the pledge you made yesterday.” With delicious mischief, he lowered his voice to a sensuous rasp. “I trust you remember all that transpired between us in your chamber?”

Faye’s face turned scarlet, making the wound on her cheek more conspicuous. Brant expected her to spit a curse at him, to scorn his crude sensual assault and tell him never to lay his worthless hands upon her again.

With a gentle kick of her heels, she nudged her horse back onto the road. With a gritty clip-clop, clip-clop the mare walked down the center of the frozen rut, leaving him to stare at the proud line of Faye’s back. Her mantle flowed down from her shoulders and over her horse’s sides like a faerie queen’s ceremonial robe.

“Milady,” he called after her with a touch of warning.

She flicked her hand in the air. “Coming?”

His legs ached to break into a walk, to stride to his destrier, mount, and start after her. However, the search for the lost treasure was his to lead, by God. Not hers.

Her horse’s unwavering gait taunted him. Even the lazy swish of its long tail seemed to mock him.

“My horse is still tethered,” he groused. “Stop and wait. Only when I am ready will our search begin.”

Her words floated back to him. “The sooner we search, the sooner you will help me rescue Angeline.”

“Faye,” he snapped.

She rode on, clearly ignoring him. She must have heard him, for there was not too great a distance between them yet. Nor could her horse’s hoofbeats have drowned out his voice.

Brant glared at her, waiting for her to turn around and acknowledge his command. Yet, with carefree fingers, she pulled at the glossy strands of hair caught in her hood, then smoothed them back over her shoulder. When she rode into a pool of sunshine, light crowned her head and fired her tresses with a molten red sheen.

Scowling, Brant glanced down at Val, still sitting by the rut. The mongrel’s tail swayed against the ground. His eyes stared huge and pleading. “Come on,” Brant said.

Val scrabbled to his feet. As Brant strode at a brisk clip toward his horse, Val ran alongside him. The little dog leapt up and nipped at his glove. After scampering a few paces ahead of Brant, Val darted back and nipped again.

“No more of that.” Reaching his destrier, Brant quickly untied the reins from around the tree. He bent, scooped wriggling Val up under his arm, and swung up into the saddle. Brant lowered the little dog into the specially-made pouch attached to his saddle. Ears pricked, Val poked his head out of the top.

Nudging his boots into the destrier’s sides, Brant turned his horse onto the road. “Milady,” he vowed under his breath, “you had best lead me to the treasure. Or you will learn I am the very worst kind of knave.”

Chapter Seven

When hooves thudded on the road behind her, signaling that at last Brant followed, Faye blew out a breath. She refused to let her shoulders sag, swivel to see how soon he would catch up to her, or lose the aura of nonchalance she conjured with every shaken bit of her pride.

Drawing in another breath of the crisp air, she pressed her hand over her belly. Still, her stomach fluttered. The sensation began the moment Brant had ordered Val to sit and then crossed to her, his blue eyes lit with concern. His compassion at the tavern had tested her fortitude. Here, on the lonely stretch of road, after the way he had kissed her yesterday—

Another flutter.

She frowned. How wretchedly unfair that she should be enslaved by his sensual sorcery. How disconcerting that, moments ago, when his hungry stare locked with hers, her lips tingled as if he had ravished her mouth. How shameful that she had wondered, with more than a little curiosity, what ’twould be like to surrender to his carnal magic—a desire she had never once experienced when married to Hubert.

Behind her, the hoofbeats accelerated to a trot. The destrier’s bridle chimed. Brant was drawing nearer. Stronger flutters teased her now—like butterflies trapped within an orb, beating their wings against the iridescent sides in a frantic bid to escape.

She fought the overwhelming urge to spur her horse to a canter. Nay. To bolt would reveal that he unsettled her. ’Twould prove her indifference was a fragile illusion. Brant must never know how his touch affected her. Or when his hand had clenched into her mantle while his face contorted with an inner struggle, she had understood exactly that sense of torment.

Brant’s mount came alongside hers. Faye forced her tense hands to relax on the reins. Brant’s angry gaze raked over her, a demand to acknowledge him. A command so strong, he might well have reached over and grabbed her chin.

She suppressed a shudder. Forcing a neutral smile, she glanced at him.

His expression was positively ferocious. His brow creased into a forbidding scowl, while his lips pressed into an ominous line. Fury flashed in his eyes. He did not like being ordered about by a woman. The warrior in him clearly objected.

Sensing another gaze upon her, Faye glanced lower, to the front of Brant’s saddle. The sight of Val’s fuzzy head peeking from the leather bag brought a startled grin to her lips. She longed to giggle, but Brant might interpret her laughter as an insult to his pride. If she angered him too much—

“Will you at least tell me where we are going?” he growled.

His tone quelled her bloom of humor. “I thought to begin our search at the river,” she said, “where the goblet was found.”

He looked away, at the ancient Roman road which ran straight as a sword for miles ahead. “A good start.”

“I am glad we agree.”

The faintest tick of a muscle in his jaw warned that his temper was barely leashed.

“I thought if we returned there,” she went on, “I might remember more details of that day. Of the circumstances when A . . . when the vessel was unearthed.”

His head turned. His cool, assessing stare told her he realized she had omitted some information. Yet, he did not need to know Angeline had discovered the goblet. Reaching down, avoiding his scrutiny, she pulled a twig from her horse’s mane.

“How long ago was the vessel found?”

“Nigh four weeks.”

“You kept it hidden all that time,” he murmured, sounding astonished.

She could not resist glancing at him. Did he wonder why she had not sold it and used the coin to start a new life? Mayhap he was surprised because he had not expected her to be able to keep such a treasure secret.

“I found the loose wall stone not long after I came to live at Caldstowe,” Faye said. “Until several days ago, a tapestry hung on that wall, concealing the stone. The tapestry had been there for years. None of the servants bothered to move my linen chest and peer behind it.”

“Mmm,” Brant said, shifting his reins to his other hand. He scratched Val’s head with lazy strokes that roused an odd warmth in Faye’s belly.

“The tapestry was very dusty,” she continued, hating her breathless tone. “’Twas giving me sneezing fits whenever I drew it aside. I told one of the maidservants it needed a good airing, so she had it taken down. After ’tis cleaned, the tapestry will be returned to my chamber.”

“And your secret niche again hidden,” he said.

“Not really a secret. ’Tis there for any man to find—as you did—if he searches in the right place.”

“Most secrets are.”

A note in his voice made her pause. Was there a hidden meaning to his words? An element of prying, mayhap? She narrowed her gaze, but before she could say one word, his lips eased into a roguish, breath-snatching grin.

“You look worried, Faye. Do you have other secrets, pray tell?”

Aye, a foolish desire for you. “Of course not,” she said, a little too quickly.

“No shameful vices? Stealing a drop or two of Torr’s best liqueurs, now and again? Or a lover who slips into your chamber on those nights when—”

“Cease! Your pestering is most annoying.”

To her dismay, he threw back his head and laughed.

They rode for several miles, past the last trees fringing the forest, frost-hardened fields, and farmers’ cottages wreathed in wood smoke. The sun had risen well into the sky when Faye pointed to the river ahead. “There.”

“’Tis still Torr’s land,” Brant said. His attention shifted from the water to the distant village, where the church steeple glinted in the sunlight.

Faye nodded. “How do you know?”

Brant shrugged. She sensed he was withholding information from her.

Part of her urged her to ask him not just what he knew about Torr’s lands, but the nature of his and Torr’s acquaintance. That he referred to him by first name, rather than “Lord Lorvais” implied a friendship, reinforcing what she had noted when she saw them talking in Caldstowe’s bailey.

Yet, as they rode nearer the water, memories poured into her thoughts like water streaming from a broken jar: the journeys she and Elayne had made to the market to buy toys and shoes for Angeline; the private thoughts she had shared with Elayne, her closest friend, while the little girl played by the shallows; and the morning they had journeyed to the riverbank for a picnic, when Angeline found the gold.

“—you all right?”  Brant’s voice cut into her thoughts.

“Pardon?” With a startled jolt, Faye saw they were almost at the river’s edge. The earthy scents of wet rock, slow-moving water, and mud carried on the breeze. How vividly she remembered that smell, not only from past journeys here, but that terrible day months ago. The day her babe perished.

“Are you all right?” Brant repeated.

She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “Aye.”

“You did not answer when I spoke to you. You seemed lost in your own thoughts.”

Faye struggled to tamp down her grief. Memories were just memories. She must not let the painful remembrances drown her in anguish, or she could jeopardize her agreement with Brant. “You are right,” she said, sitting straighter in her saddle. “I was trying to remember exactly what happened that morn.”

Frustration darkened Brant’s expression before he slowed his destrier. He paused at the bank’s grassy edge to look down at the river.

Ears pricked up, Val barked. Three ducks waddling in the mud pushed off into the water. The ripples of their startled paddling distorted the reflection of Brant upon his horse. His image was obliterated.

Faye shivered. Water had that power, to transform. To give—as well as take—at will.

The ache inside her grew more piercing. Tearing her gaze away from the river, she rode the last few yards to the intersecting road which crossed the bridge in its winding route to the village. Her mare’s hooves clipped on the new wooden planks, lain just sennights ago. When Brant’s destrier walked onto the bridge, its hoofbeats bore an eerie hollowness that echoed inside her, down in that lonely place in her soul.

“The bridge is new,” Brant said from behind her.

Turning her horse, she faced him while he approached. “Last winter, with all the heavy rains, the river overflowed its banks. The old bridge was destroyed. When folk complained they could no longer travel to the village, Torr ordered the bridge rebuilt, stronger and better than the previous one.”

“How kind of him.” Brant’s gritty reply implied he did not consider the action generous.

“Many of the local people depend on the town market for food, clothing, and other goods.” She shrugged. “The herbalist who makes Torr’s medicinal drafts lives on the outskirts of the village. That may have influenced his decision.”

With a curt nod, Brant drew his horse beside hers. He looked again at the river, his gaze intense. “Is it much further?”

“Nay. That day, we planned to have a picnic on this side of the bank. We brought a blanket and set it out along with our lunch in the shade of that tree.” She gestured to the sprawling willow. “Angeline and I . . . ” Faye’s voice trailed off as her gaze slid down to the bank. Down there, amongst the weeds, mud and rocks, was the spot where the little girl had found the goblet.

Somewhere.

“I will water the horses,” Brant said. “If you go down to the bank, I will join you in a moment.”

Faye fought a rising sense of dread. She stared down at her hands, curled tightly around her mare’s reins. They looked like another woman’s. As though somehow, she had become trapped in another lady’s destiny.

“Do you need help dismounting?” Brant asked.

His narrowed gaze held many questions. She had not realized he watched her so closely. The thought of being vulnerable, of seeming weak, sent a harsh shudder rippling through her. Shaking her head, she said, “I can manage.”

She slid to the ground. After stroking her horse’s muzzle, she handed him the reins.

Thawing grasses crunched under her shoes while she strode down to the river bank. Stones lined the water’s muddy edge and clattered as she walked. In assorted shapes and sizes, the sea of rocks all looked the same, an endless pattern of muted browns and grays.

She hesitated in the shadow cast by the willow. Disquiet clawed into her mind, turning her thoughts blank. Clasping her hands together, forcing herself to concentrate, she tried to envision the events of that November morning.

A week before, the unseasonably mild weather had melted the first snowfall and brought torrential rains. The river swelled over its banks—a disaster that had not occurred in well over one hundred years. The old bridge, suffering from disrepair, disintegrated. The floodwaters quickly receded, but the riverbank was forever transformed.

Hugging her arms across her chest, Faye again breathed in the essence of water and stone. In the river’s hushed gurgle, she caught the echo of Angeline’s laughter.

That morning, basking in the sun’s warmth, they had shed their heavy mantles.

There, by the willows, she and Elayne had spread the wool blanket, a place to set the picnic lunch along with Angeline’s cherished toy ewe.

Here, from this large, flat boulder, she had helped Angeline jump down. As the little girl leapt, the toy lamb clutched in one hand, Faye caught her around the waist. She swung the child around several times before gently setting her on the ground and straightening her yellow gown.

Squealing with delight, Angeline jumped up and down, making her blond curls bounce. “’Gain!”

Faye laughed. “You liked that, did you?”

Angeline grinned. Fisting her free hand, she darted back toward the big rock.

“Oh, where has she gone?” Faye cried in mock distress, pretending not to see the child. “Elayne, have you seen Angeline?” Glancing over at her friend, Faye tried not to chuckle and give the game away.

Seated on the blanket, braiding a length of her golden hair, Elayne smiled, then waved her slender hand. The rings on her fingers caught the light. “Oh, nay. Has my little lamb disappeared?”

“Vanished.” Faye pressed her hand to her brow and scanned the stretch of riverbank. “Wherever could she be?”

Angeline giggled. Rocks rolled down by Faye’s feet, and she glanced down. Giving a dramatic cry, she said, “The ground is moving.”

Another cheeky giggle from Angeline.

“Is that you laughing, Elayne?” Faye said.

“Nay,” Elayne answered, with a hint of boredom.

“Here yam!”

Faye swung around. She gasped again, then pointed at Angeline standing proudly on the boulder. “How did you get back up there?”

The little girl smiled, stretching out her pudgy arms. “’Gain!”

Faye could not refuse that beautiful grin, which brought the dimples to Angeline’s cheeks. The child’s blue eyes gleamed with excitement. “All right. One last time.”

“Wheee!” Angeline jumped from the stone into Faye’s waiting arms. Laughing, swinging her around, Faye kissed the child’s flushed cheek and stood her on the ground. “Why don’t we let your mother have a rest, and we will go put our hands in the river?” She linked her fingers through the little girl’s.

“’Tick,” Angeline said, pointing with the lamb.

“Pardon?”

“’Tick.” Angeline tugged as though to lead Faye away from the bank.

“Show me.” She followed the child’s lead. A few yards ahead, Faye saw a stick lying among the stones, a small branch broken from a nearby tree.

“Stick,” she murmured. “I understand now.”

Angeline shifted the lamb to her left hand, before her fat fingers closed around the stick. She waved it in the air and pointed to the water. “Go?”

Faye nodded and walked her down to the river’s edge.

Bending at the knees, the little girl poked the stick into the water, trying to reach a leaf gliding on the sluggish current. Small fish darted away from the shore, toward the reeds fringing the opposite bank. Plop, the stick went again. Faye lowered to a crouch, near enough to help Angeline if necessary, but content to let the child play undisturbed.

Such a beautiful little girl.

Flaxen curls framed her round face and brought out the vivid blue of her eyes. Her rosy cheeks softened into a sweetly-formed mouth. With a wistful smile, Faye trailed her fingers in the cool shallows. If her babe had lived, she would have been as winsome as Angeline.

Lips pursed in concentration, the little girl swiped again at the leaf. Overextending her reach, she wobbled on unsteady legs. Faye caught her around the waist. At the same time, Elayne called, “Faye, do not let her fall in. We must not spoil this lovely morning with tears.”

Her gaze uncertain, Angeline looked at Faye. As if, having regained her balance, she wanted permission to explore the water again.

“Faye, did you hear me?” Elayne called.

Faye sighed. Part of the joy of childhood was exploring nature, of reaching for new experiences even if that meant stumbling on the way. Angeline had not fallen into the river. Nor was there a drop of water on her gown. Even if there were, what was the harm in it?

Still, Angeline was Elayne’s child, to be raised as she and Torr wished. Faye, a guest at Caldstowe, must abide by their wishes.

Turning, she smiled at Elayne, reclining on the blanket, nibbling on a pastry from the packed lunch. “Aye, I heard.” Rubbing a gentle hand down Angeline’s arm, Faye said, “Would you like to see what is further down the bank? We can come back here later.”

Angeline pouted. “’Tick.” She pointed at the water. Disappointed tears welled in her eyes.

“Bring your stick. We can turn over stones with it.” Faye winked. “Maybe we will find a treasure.”

The little girl’s head bobbed. “Go.”

Hand in hand, they walked along the riverbank. Six, seven, eight paces. A portion of wooden plank, part of the washed away bridge, lay wedged in a mound of stones and dirt, probably flung there by cresting water. Angeline tapped the wood with her stick, then poked at the rocks around it. Smaller stones fell away, revealing more embedded in mud. Clearly fascinated, Angeline thrust her toy lamb into Faye’s hands, hunched down and continued to dig with the end of her stick.

Faye sat on a nearby rock, the toy lamb in her lap. Leaning her head on one hand, she watched Angeline and listened to the child’s happy chatter. Moments later, the little girl let out an excited “Ooo!”

“Did you find a treasure?”

“Goad,” Angeline said.

Faye laughed. “Gold? That would be a treasure indeed.”

Bouncing on her bent legs, Angeline pointed. “Look.”

Her elbows on her knees, Faye leaned forward. Metal glinted within the pile of mud.

“Angeline,” she whispered. “May I borrow your stick?”

The little girl sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. Disappointment shadowed her gaze. “My ’tick.”

“Only for a moment,” Faye promised, trying not to show impatience. “I will give it right back to you.”

Angeline handed over the stick. With shaking hands, Faye dug away the dirt around the object. Little by little, the treasure revealed itself. Leaning forward, she picked it up.

A goblet. Dented on one side, where it had been tossed against a rock, it nonetheless was an exquisite cup. A beautiful object forged many years ago by a talented craftsman.

And likely worth a king’s ransom.

“Goad,” Angeline said with a big smile. “Pwetty.”

Lifting the toy lamb from her lap, Faye rose. “Let us wash the mud off, so we can have a good look.”

The little girl toddled at Faye’s side as they walked to the water. Gently dipping the vessel into the shallows, Faye sluiced water over its gleaming surface.

“What have you found?” Elayne called.

“Goad!” Angeline shrilled.

“Shh!” Faye quickly tempered her command with a smile. She did not want to upset the child, but if passing travelers learned they had found gold, the situation could turn dangerous. Especially when Elayne had refused to allow men-at-arms to accompany them on their picnic.

“’Tis best if we keep our treasure a secret for now. Promise you will not tell?”

Angeline glanced over at Elayne. “Tell Mama?”

Faye swallowed hard, then nodded. “We will tell your mother.” The treasure rightfully belonged to Angeline, since she had found it. ’Twas Elayne’s responsibility to look after it.

“Come show me, my lamb,” Elayne said from the grassy bank.

Rising to her feet from the river’s edge, tucking the vessel beneath her arm, Faye caught Angeline’s hand and headed toward the blanket—

A horse’s shrill whinny broke into Faye’s thoughts. With a gasp, she blinked. The memories dissipated like morning mist, although the ache inside her remained.

Another whinny. “Easy.” Brant’s voice came from behind her, followed by the ring of hooves on the stony bank. He had watered the horses. Soon, he would be striding over to her, bent on learning what she knew.

She glanced over at the willow, then scanned the distance between it and the water. The broken wooden plank was no longer there. With the recent, bitter cold, a peasant had probably taken it to cut into firewood. Her physical point of reference was gone, leaving only memories.

Squeezing her arms tighter to her bosom, she walked to where she and Angeline had found the plank. Or where she thought it had been. The endless repetition of rocks and debris all looked the same.

A brown blur darted past her. Val scampered over the rocks, his tail wagging. He raced down to the water, sniffed the mud, trotted a few more paces along and sniffed again. The ducks huddled on the bank’s opposite side quacked and eyed him warily.

Forcing her gaze back to the nearby rocks, Faye lowered to a crouch. Mayhap from this angle, she could better remember.

At the water’s edge, Val yapped. Dipping his fuzzy head, he lunged for the river, then darted back again. Ignoring him, Faye pushed aside rocks with her hands.

Another excited yip. With sharp tugs, Val dragged an object out of the water. He snatched it up before glancing about, as if to locate Brant to take the prize to him.

Water dripped from the small, whitish object in the dog’s mouth.

A frayed ribbon jutted between Val’s teeth.

Blue ribbon!

Lunging to her feet, Faye stumbled toward Val. Ears flattening to his head, he darted away. “Come here,” she screamed. “Come here!”

“What is the matter?” Brant yelled, his footfalls loud on the stones behind her.

Tears filled her eyes. Tremors shook her, wrenching up from the soles of her feet, through her legs, through to her very core. Her vision a blurry haze, she struggled after Val. Her breaths became sobs.

“Faye!” Brant shouted.

His forceful tone brought her to a teetering stop. She turned, wavering as though drunk. She tried to tell him what was wrong, but words failed her. Moaning, she pointed at Val.

Dropping to one knee, Brant whistled softly to the little dog. Casting Faye a wary look, the mongrel loped over to Brant. She held her breath, hoping desperately her gaze had deceived her, that the dog had not found what she thought.

Gently scratching the dog’s head, Brant drew the object from Val’s mouth.

A soggy, dirty toy lamb.

Chapter Eight

Faye’s face crumpled on another despairing moan. The sound bore such anguish, the hairs at Brant’s nape tingled, a sensation akin to ants crawling from the base of his skull into his hairline.

What in God’s holy name was wrong?

Rising to his feet, he held out his hand, palm up, displaying the filthy little lamb. Water ran between his fingers to spatter on the rocks. Ignoring Val’s disgruntled barks, he said, “You weep for a child’s toy?”

She was shaking so hard, she looked about to collapse. She nodded, then immediately shook her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Apprehension warred with his impatience to begin the treasure hunt. “What is it, Faye? Aye, you are weeping for this lamb? Or nay?”

“Aa—” Her hands pressed to her belly. She shuddered, as though racked by terrible pain. Her face looked ashen.

As she wobbled on her feet, Brant caught her elbow. “Sit,” he said between clenched teeth. He did not mean to speak so harshly, but he could not quell his growing concern.

Brant expected a scathing refusal, a tart reply that he had no right to order her about like his dog. Yet, she did not scorn him, or try to escape from his authoritative grip. When he tipped his head toward a large stone beside her, she sniffled, then wilted down onto it.

Cradling the lamb in his hands, Brant sat opposite her. His gaze slid from the pathetic looking toy back to her, acute helplessness sharpening his worry. What should he say? How did he comfort her? He had little experience comforting the fairer sex. He could slay an opponent with two slashes of his sword, but confronted by a lady’s tears . . .

Brant cleared his throat, a sound rife with awkwardness. Part of him longed to sit beside her, slide his arm around her shoulders, and draw her against him . . . but he could not. Touching her would add another volatile element to this already unexpected twist of events.

Faye’s ladylike indignation had kept a welcome emotional distance between them. But raw, honest tears . . .

Sniffling again, she wiped her face with her mantle’s sleeve. Her gaze did not leave the bedraggled toy, and she made no attempt to explain her desolation.

“Faye?” he coaxed.

When the silence between them dragged, his concern tinged with misgiving. She would not weep so, and refuse to explain, unless she wanted to withhold the reason from him.

The lady had a secret. One that was devouring her.

Like his own secret devoured him, it seemed.

He might have smiled at the irony of such a common bond between them, except at that moment, she reached out and took the lamb from his hands. Her slender fingers looked pale against the grubby, wet cloth.

A sob broke from her, before fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

Enough.

“Faye, what is wrong?”

She bit her bottom lip, then shook her head.

“’Tis only a toy.” His voice sounded rough, as though spoken by another man.

So gently, as though ’twere a precious object, she stroked the little lamb. “’Tis Angeline’s,” she whispered at last. “She would not part with it, unless . . .” She swallowed hard. “Unless . . .”

“How can you be certain this lamb is Angeline’s?”

“’Tis hers. I know.”

“How?”

“The blue ribbon, and . . . stitched eyes.”

From her horrified expression, she thought Angeline dead. Faye’s anguish stabbed Brant like a dagger, the steel-edged pain driven deeper by guilt. While he had no part in Angeline’s abduction apart from negotiating the ransom, he could not let Faye believe such a grim fate had befallen the child.

Leaning forward, bracing his arms on his knees, he struggled to reassure her. “’Tis the lamb which matches the ewe, the one I discovered in your linen chest.”

Faye nodded. “They were made especially for her, by a craftsman in the village.”

“The village close by?” Brant asked, gesturing toward the distant church spire.

“Aye. He has a stall at the market every week. He loves to . . . to make toys for the children.”

“Which means he has made more than one ewe and lamb.”

Faye paused in her tender stroking of the toy. Her moist gaze lifted and locked with his. How desperately, it seemed, she wanted to believe him.

“This could be any child’s lamb, Faye.”

With her finger, she wiped tears from the corner of her mouth. Hope shimmered in her eyes, warming them to the color of sun-warmed emeralds.

At last, he was reaching her, slaying her ghastly assumptions. “He has likely made many such as this. Hundreds.”

“True,” she said slowly.

“Angeline’s lamb is probably with her,” Brant went on, relieved that at last, Faye’s tears might end. “’Tis doubtful harm has befallen her. Why would the kidnappers want to hurt her?”

His confident words carried in the morning air. Yet, even as he spoke, he saw disquiet creeping back into her gaze. “I cannot imagine. You, of all people, might know.”

Brant dragged a hand over his jaw. “I do not. As I told you before, I was hired only to collect the ransom. I was not involved in her abduction.”

Torr, however, was familiar with the kidnappers.

The words burned for release. Brant forced them down, for he could not tell her. To betray Torr in such a manner would take Brant dangerously close to breaking his blood oath. A code of honor between knights he could not forsake, especially after all Torr had done to protect Brant months ago.

Even more daunting, if Faye realized he had no significant role in the kidnapping, she might decide he was of no use to her in her quest to rescue Angeline. The arrangement forged between them would be as solid as a bridge made from twigs. Flimsy. Insubstantial.

She might resolve not to help him find the treasure, and Royce’s lost dream—within Brant’s grasp for mayhap the last time—would forever remain unfulfilled.

He must not relinquish Royce’s goal. Not now. Brant must perpetuate the falsehoods, embellish them with the luster of Celtic gold itself, if he had any hopes of succeeding. To tell Faye the truth doomed him to failure.

Exhaling a long breath, he dragged his hands through his hair. She was studying him so intently, he shrugged to relieve his discomfort. “Faye, as far as I know, you have no reason to worry. Angeline is fine.”

Her stare did not waver. She clearly expected more of an answer.

He looked across the river. The less he said, the better. There was power in withholding all but the smallest details.

“Brant—”

“As far as I know,” he repeated, “she is well.”

Faye’s breath hissed between her teeth. She shoved to her feet. Val gave a startled yap before scampering several yards away.

Brant scowled down at his linked hands. He sensed his control of the situation slipping from his grasp.

“I want to see Angeline.”

He forced a brittle laugh. “’Tis not possible.”

“Why not?”

He tilted his head to look up at Faye. Her hands were pressed to the front of her mantle, between her breasts, the frayed end of the lamb’s ribbon just visible at her fingertips. “I must see her,” she said. “You know the abductors, as well as how to contact them. All I want is to know for myself that she is all right.”

“’Twas was not part of our agreement, milady.”

She huffed a breath. “I see.”

Brant pushed up to standing. He looked down at her tense, upturned face. Tears still glimmered on her lashes. Her lips flattened, but she did not break his gaze. Nor did she make further demands he could not carry out. “Now,” he said in a curt tone, “to ensure we will both benefit from our agreement, I hope we can resume—”

“—the search for the gold.” She spoke as though he had asked her to drop to her knees and kiss his grubby boots.

Refusing to give ground, he quirked an eyebrow. “That is why we are here.”

Her eyes narrowed. Her hands, still cupped protectively around the lamb, curled tighter against her ribcage. “How vile, to care more about the treasure than a child.”

Brant thrust up his hand. “Do not corrupt the truth. I did not say—”

“You did not have to.”

She was trembling again. Despair did not shimmer in her eyes now, but iron resolve. Before he could say one word in his defense, she bit out, “The gold was found here.” She gestured to the nearby mound of stones. “’Twas underneath a wooden board, lodged amongst dirt and stones.”

He crossed to the area she had indicated and stooped to examine the rocks. When he braced one hand on a nearby stone, the rock’s chill seeped into his palm, numbing his hand. But he did not care. “How deep in the dirt? How far amongst the stones?”

“Close to the surface,” she snapped. “If you look, you might discover more gold.”

The note of finality in her voice made him pause. Still at a crouch, he turned to face her.

Turning her back to him, she started to walk away.

“Where are you going?”

Her strides slowed before she swung back to face him. The rosy hue had started to return to her cheeks. “I have told you what you wanted to know. I have kept my part of our arrangement.”

Disquiet rippled through him, akin to the aftereffects of a stone hurled into the river. The chill in his palm spread. “You have shown me rocks and earth. We have yet to find the treasure.”

She tucked hair behind her ear. Then, holding the lamb against her chest with both hands, she whirled and strode toward the horses.

“God’s blood!” He stared at the proud line of her back. He did not mistake the purpose in her strides. “Faye, come back.”

Her posture stiffened, but she did not stop walking. A few more strides and she would reach her mount.

With an angry shove, he rose to standing. “Where are you going? We are not done.”

She abruptly halted. Spinning around, she glared at him. “Aye, knave, we are.”

“What?” He struggled to control his rising fury. “We had an agreement.”

“Had,” she agreed.

“Faye!” Brant growled.

“Keep the goblet. Take whatever riches you find. I never want to see you again. Angeline is worth more than any wretched treasure, and I will rescue her on my own.”

***

Faye sensed Brant’s outrage, heard his foul curse. She caught her mare’s reins and swung up into the saddle. After tucking the lamb against her thigh, she spurred her mount toward the road.

Her heart thumped like a wild creature against her breastbone. She half-expected to hear Brant’s running footfalls, to feel his hands grabbing for her. With a quick nudge of her heels, she urged her horse to a canter. When she rode over the bridge, the mare’s mane whipping into her eyes, she dared a glance back.

Brant stood where she had left him, his hands folded across his chest, watching her. A silent figure all in black, frightening, but also beautiful—in the same way lightning split apart the heavens, yet also illuminated them with awe-inspiring brilliance. The scar on his cheek looked brutally stark in the morning light. He did not gesture, did not call to her, but his rage crackled across the yards between them.

Tearing her attention away, she stared ahead down the road. “Ha!” she cried, urging her horse to a gallop. Bending closer to the animal’s warm neck, inhaling the comforting scents of leather and horse, she rode from the river.

From him.

She surrendered to her mare’s rhythmic gait, grateful for the strength beneath her when her body shook with emotional exhaustion. She struggled to subdue a wave of guilt. How rash of her—and, aye, foolish—to have given the knave the goblet. She prayed Elayne would forgive her for making such a choice. However, from the moment Angeline unearthed the gold cup, it had become a tremendous responsibility. A burden that had fallen upon Faye when Elayne died.

Faye trembled. No longer was she responsible for keeping the vessel, and the location of the find, a secret. Yet, she also did not have it to barter for Angeline’s freedom. Celtic gold would be far more tempting to the abductors than aught else she could offer them.

Steeling herself against rising worry, she reminded herself the kidnappers had demanded a ransom of silver, not gold. While she did not know for certain, she suspected Brant had not told them of the cup; he likely aimed to keep it, and any more riches he discovered, for himself. Greed had vanquished his loyalties to his fellow criminals. If he had informed them of such a treasure, ’twould not still be in his possession. The abductors would have seized it—or killed him to possess it.

Unless he had told them of the goblet, as well as more gold to be found, and they, too, were in on his scheme to find it. Through his cunning arrangement with her, Brant might be working on behalf of them all to locate the riches.

Which meant his only motive for his bold, passionate, magical kisses was to seduce his way into her confidence, to make her trust him with the secrets of the gold. That way, she would willingly lead him to the treasure.

Would he . . . could he . . . be so ruthless?

’Twas entirely possible. The man was a rogue. Why, of all idiocy, did the notion of him manipulating her hurt so much?

Tamping down a flare of resentment, Faye struggled to refocus her thoughts. The plot she imagined could well be true, but, in truth, she had no evidence Brant was a fortune seeker for anyone but himself. Moreover, she did not know his exact relationship to the kidnappers. He seemed shocked to learn Angeline was a child. Such a vital misunderstanding implied he was not involved in organizing the kidnapping—as he had told her—and had not seen the little girl with her abductors. Would he not have done, if he were part of the scheme? At the very least, he would have known Angeline was a child.

Also, his efforts to convince her that Angeline was hale, and not harmed in any way, showed concern for the little girl’s welfare.

Only the most foolish, smitten fool would be swayed by a knave’s compassion, a voice inside her cautioned. His attentiveness could be merely a ploy to furrow his way deeper into your trust, because he sensed your reluctance to share what you knew about the gold.

True. Still, his reactions at the lake had seemed spontaneous, rather than rehearsed. In those tense, awful moments, he had seemed . . . genuine.

Shifting in the saddle, she looked over her shoulder. Far behind her glimmered the river. There was no dark figure, his cloak whipping about him, thundering down the thawing road behind her.

Facing forward again, she sighed. Brant must have accepted that their arrangement was ended. Realizing she would not be swayed, he thus chose not to pursue her.

With a gentle tug on the reins, she slowed her horse to a canter. On the faint breeze, she caught the acrid smell of wood smoke. Not far ahead, smoke-encircled cottages lined the roadside. She approached the outer fringes of the village.

Whether her suspicions about Brant were right or wrong did not matter. She had told him where the goblet was found, and given him the gold. She never had to see him again.

Even if he returned uninvited to her chamber.

Even if he threatened to say he was her lover.

If he were so bold as to visit Caldstowe Keep again and confront her, she would make good her threat to scream, and he would face the consequences.

As Faye headed toward the village, she fought the unwelcome heaviness stealing through her, the weight of new responsibility. Her quest to rescue Angeline might be more difficult working alone. Yet, she was not without wits or resources.

Especially if she went to Torr.

A dangerous notion, especially when the kidnappers had told her not to tell anyone. However, if she explained the situation to Torr, and told him how important it was to keep it secret, the abductors would never know.

Being Angeline’s father, did he not deserve to be aware of the kidnappers’ demands? Was she wise to keep what she knew from him, when he must be gravely concerned?

Looking up from her mare’s neck, she recognized the familiar part of the road. Instinct had brought her to the place where she always felt welcome. Wispy smoke rose from the wattle-and-daub cottage enclosed by an uneven wooden fence. The stoked fire told her Greya was home, as did the painted sign depicting a bunch of rosemary that hung from the lowest branch of the hazelnut tree.

Grasping the little lamb, Faye drew her horse to a halt and dismounted. Patting her mare’s neck, she led her through the gate made from wooden sticks bound together, then closed it behind them, taking care to secure the latch. She headed to the thatch-roofed shelter, where chickens nested in wooden boxes stuffed with straw and a sway-backed cow chewed cud. After tethering the mare to one of the posts, Faye crossed to the wooden door and knocked.

Moments later, the panel creaked open. From the muted shadows inside, Greya smiled.

“Lady Rivellaux.” She drew the door open wider. “I knew ’twas you.”

A smile tugged at Faye’s lips. “Somehow, you always know.”

“I do, for you—” Greya’s motherly smile faltered. “What happened to your cheek? Let me have a look.” Stepping back, the old woman motioned Faye in. Today, Greya wore her silver gray hair, the hue of winter sunshine grazing a cold lake, braided and pinned around her head. Her tresses glimmered in the light of candles clustered on a nearby wall shelf.

For a moment, Faye hesitated. In all the morning’s commotion, she had forgotten about her injury. While she was glad of Greya’s willingness to inspect the wound, she did not wish to explain how she got it.

“Come,” Greya insisted. “Please. Before all the fire’s warmth leaves the cottage.”

Faye nodded. She could not very well leave now, could she? Moreover, the bruised part of her soul reminded her she was exactly where she wanted to be. She stepped over the threshold.

Greya closed the door. The breeze rustled bunches of lavender, rosemary, dill, and other herbs hanging upside down from the ceiling. The drying herbs gave the cottage’s interior a comforting fragrance, a scent Faye always associated with Greya. Faye breathed in deep, and felt some of the morning’s strain slip out of her.

An oak table stretched across half of the room. By the fire in the center of the dirt floor, an ancient, orange tabby raised his head from where he lay curled up in a blanket tucked into a woven basket. Blinking his golden eyes, he stared at Faye—a very direct look, akin to a greeting.

“Hello, Merlin,” Faye murmured.

Her strides smooth and elegant despite her many years, Greya came to her. “Now, milady, what did you do to your cheek?”

“I . . . fell from my mare.”

The old woman tsked. “It looks painful.” Guiding Faye toward the table, Greya said, “Sit, milady. I will fetch you an herbal infusion, then find my best ointment.”

“Thank you.”

Greya raised a slender, protesting hand. “I am glad to be of help. You do not look well. I hope you do not mind me saying so, milady, but you look quite wretched.”

Faye laughed, despite the weariness pressing upon her. “Oh, nay.”

Gliding over to the fire, carrying a small iron pot, Greya chuckled, a sound like dried leaves scraping over frosty ground. “Tell me what happened.”

Faye rubbed her chapped lips together. How she longed to confide in Greya all that had transpired over the last few difficult days. But she could not. If she told, the kind-hearted woman would feel compelled to help. A word or two to the wrong person could put her in grave danger, as well as Angeline. A risk Faye would not take.

With stiff fingers, she unfastened her mantle, keeping her gaze on her hands rather than Greya. “I was thrown from my horse the day of the storm. I hoped to come visit you, but the tempest overtook me. The thunder frightened my mare and she galloped off.” Faye dropped onto the bench at the table, fighting the compulsion to look up and meet the healer’s gaze. “I spent the night in the storm’s wrath, waiting ’till the weather cleared. Torr’s men found me the next morn and escorted me back to Caldstowe.”

“You spent the whole night alone in the storm?” Greya sounded aghast.

In truth, I lay in a tavern room, in the care of a handsome, arrogant knave.

Somehow, Faye managed a soft “Mmm.”

Shaking her head, Greya hung the cauldron over the flame. Reaching up, she snapped dried leaves from the herbs hanging overhead, muttering to herself as she went along. “—a little of this. Aye, a bit of that.” She dropped the handful into the pot, then stirred. A piquant scent wafted from the fire.

Faye leaned her cheek on her hand. “’Tis a lovely smell.”

“’Twill be ready in a moment.” After one more stir, Greya set her wooden spoon aside. She crossed to a small cupboard, withdrew a glazed, earthenware pot, and came to Faye’s side. As the old woman removed the wooden lid, the soothing scents of lavender and comfrey enveloped Faye.

“Is aught else bothering you?” Greya asked, her voice gentled by worry.

Faye bit her lip. The little lamb, clasped between her palms, scratched her skin. If only she could share her turmoil with the old woman, her closest friend. Without Greya’s comfort, Faye did not know how she would have survived the despair of losing her babe. What a blessed relief ’twould be to release her pent-up emotions.

She could not.

Must not.

Faye forced a lie, hating each false word. “I am . . . weary after my ordeal in the storm.”

“Of course.” Greya tilted Faye’s face with tender, skilled hands. With light touches, she massaged the ointment into Faye’s cheek. Then, with a satisfied nod, she set the lid back on the pot. “Take the rest with you, if you like. ’Tis good for curing all manner of injuries”—her voice dropped to murmur—“except, I fear, a wounded heart.”

Tears burned Faye’s eyes. Raising her head, she looked at Greya. The old woman’s mouth formed a compassionate line. She squeezed Faye’s clasped hands.

Tears spilled down Faye’s cheeks. “Oh, Greya.”

“I know how much you miss your babe.” The healer settled on the bench beside Faye. “She will always be with you, though, milady. As close as your own whisper.” She tapped wrinkled fingers to her chest. “Here.”

Faye managed a jerky nod.

“There now.” Greya patted Faye’s hands. So smooth, her palms. Like the softest linen. “’Tis no wonder you are upset, with Lady Lorvais dying not long ago. I know what close friends you were. And little Angeline, without a mother now.” Greya paused before exhaling a troubled sigh. “No doubt what has happened to that sweet child is worrying you as well.”

Faye sucked in a breath. “Greya—”

“A friend at Caldstowe told me Angeline is missing. There are rumors she has been kidnapped.”

“A-aye.” With trembling hands, Faye wiped her face. Freed from her grasp, the lamb tipped over to lie on the table in a little puddle of water.

“What have you there?” Greya’s eyes widened. “’Tis Angeline’s?”

“I believe so.”

The old woman picked up the soggy toy. “Why, ’tis filthy. And wet. Where—”

“I found it at the river.”

“River? What did you there, so early this icy morn?”

Faye swallowed, her mouth dry. The effort of holding back the truth became almost unbearable. She struggled to contrive a reasonable explanation which would not lead to more awkward questions. “I had difficulty sleeping and needed a morning walk. Elayne, Angeline and I oft went to the river. I rode there and . . .”

“You found the lamb during your walk.”

Not quite the truth, but near enough. Faye nodded.

Greya set the lamb back on the table. How stark it looked against the worn oak. After a silence, she said, “’Tis probably not Angeline’s. That child did not go anywhere without her lamb, and the man in the village has made many ewes with lambs over the years. Most likely, it belongs to one of the villagers’ children, lost when the women stopped there to wash clothes.”

Faye’s conversation with Brant nudged its way into her thoughts. With an irritated clamp of her jaw, she forced it away.

“A terrible crime, to abduct a child,” the old woman said. “I cannot imagine. Angeline must be terrified.”

Faye rested her hands on the table. Entwining her fingers, she said, “I will find her.”

“You, milady?” Greya clucked her tongue. “’Tis not your responsibility. ’Tis Lord Lorvais’s. He is ruler of this land and Angeline’s father.”

“True. Yet, I made a vow to Elayne as she lay dying. I promised to watch over Angeline, to protect her.” Her voice quavered. “I will not fail Elayne, especially in aught so important.”

“Oh, milady. Lady Lorvais could not have meant protecting Angeline from kidnappers.”

“Still—”

“You place too great a burden upon yourself.”

Faye wiped her eyes, then looked up at Greya. “How can I not do all within my power to help Angeline? She . . . needs me.”

A thoughtfulness shadowed Greya’s gaze as she rose from the bench. Steam wisped up from the pot over the fire. After stirring it several times, she fetched a mug and poured the liquid, then set the infusion on the table. “Careful. ’Tis hot.”

“Thank you,” Faye murmured.

Greya slipped down onto the opposite bench. Tucking stray, silvery hair back behind her ear, she asked, “How is Lord Lorvais, after all that has happened?”

Faye thought back to her earlier conversation with Torr. “As well as can be expected.”

“I imagine all the strain has made his affliction worse.”

“I believe so. He was drinking from his flask this morn.”

Greya shook her head. “I remember when he came to me for more of his herbal draft, when his other healer was ill.” A worried frown knit her brow. “’Twas a strange brew. Not light and healing, but dark and sinister. A potion with the power to enslave.”

Blowing on the infusion to cool it, Faye hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“Some herbs, such as Wormwood, should be used only when there is no alternative, for they can cause a”—she waved her hand, as if searching for the right word—“craving. A hunger that becomes stronger and stronger. This need has the power to destroy.”

“’Tis the only remedy that eases his discomfort.”

Greya pursed her lips as she looked down at the table. “So he said. I told him I never used such herbs and thus could not duplicate his draft. He seemed displeased. When I offered to make him a different tonic, he refused and strode out. He has not come back to me, so”—she shrugged—“I assume he found another healer to aid him.”

A high-pitched brrrttt announced Merlin. He leapt up onto the bench beside Greya, agile despite his age. Purring, he rubbed his furry face against her arm. With an affectionate smile, she scratched between his ears.

“Always after attention,” she said with teasing gruffness. “Just like a man.”

Faye laughed. The cat rubbed his face on her sleeve again, then gently nipped her.

“Merlin! Cease.”

“Merlin,” Faye said. “Did you name him after King Arthur’s sorcerer?”

“I did. Has a lovely sound to it, does it not?”

“What do you know of King Arthur?”

A little grin touched the healer’s lips. “He was the greatest of the Celtic rulers. He defeated the Saxons in battle after battle—a warrior of legendary victories—until he was killed at Camlann by a man named Mordred. Many believe he was Arthur’s own son.”

“Camlann is not very far from Caldstowe,” Faye said, sipping the infusion tasting strongly of mint.

Nodding, Greya stroked her hand down Merlin’s silky back. “Some folk do not believe King Arthur died. There are legends he and his most trusted knights lie asleep somewhere in England’s hills. When they are needed, they will awaken to battle the enemies who threaten our lands. Once again, they will lead us to victory.”

A cold shiver trailed down Faye’s spine. She carefully set down the mug. “’Tis impossible. How could men live for hundreds of years?”

“As I said, ’tis a legend. One of a great many.” She continued to stroke Merlin, while he blinked at her with bright, golden eyes. “There may be some truth in the old tales. Many are merely stories to entertain on bleak winter nights.”

Faye trailed her finger over the mug’s shiny glaze. “If . . . just if . . . King Arthur were still alive, in a slumber, where might he be?”

“There are many deep hills and caves in our lands. Some close to Caldstowe.” Greya scratched under Merlin’s chin. “A few of the villagers believe he lies in a secret cave very close to this village.”

“Has anyone searched for him?”

“More than once. None of the villagers found him, though—or the riches claimed to be hidden with him.”

A vivid memory of Brant’s taut, determined expression stole into Faye’s thoughts. Where was he now? Still searching the riverbank for more gold? Or, had he ridden off to sell the chalice? Ignoring a stab of unease, she asked, “I have heard rumors of such a lost treasure. Is there really any truth to the legend?”

The healer chuckled. “Every once in a while, farmers tilling their fields unearth bits of gold or ancient spearheads. After the recent flood, a peasant found a gold coin by the river.”

Faye started. “Indeed?”

“The man and his family promptly vanished, before anyone could question him about the find. He was probably afraid someone might rob him. Of course, whenever an artifact is found, there is renewed interest in the old stories.”

“I can imagine,” Faye murmured. She could only guess at the tremendous excitement if the village folk knew of the chalice.

“For that reason, the legends will never die. King Arthur shall live on forever.”

“Immortal.”

Greya slowly nodded. Merlin’s purr seemed louder than the crackling fire. “Milady, why are you so interested in King Arthur?”

“The legends are fascinating,” she said quickly, sipping more of the comforting brew. “Please, Greya, tell me more about King Arthur.”

***

As the sound of Faye’s galloping mare faded into the morning birdsong, Brant threw out his hands and cursed into the air. At his feet, Val cowered, then scurried away to explore further down the riverbank.

Glowering, Brant stared at the empty stretch of road. If he stepped up onto the boulder nearby, he would no doubt see Faye racing away, her hair flying out behind her in her haste to put distance between them.

He tore his gaze from the road. He did not wish to see her.

Deceitful, untrustworthy wench.

“Damnation!” He blew out an exasperated breath before kicking a stone into the river, startling the nearby ducks into a flapping, squawking frenzy. Val barked. The rock landed with a plonk, then disappeared from sight. As with Faye’s abandonment of their quest, his hopes for finding the treasure had all but vanished.

Staring at the sluggish water, he dragged his fingers through his hair. What in God’s holy name had happened? Why, of all unforeseen circumstances, had she balked after finding the little lamb?

How wretchedly unfair of her to abandon him. They had forged an agreement that was of mutual benefit. He intended to fulfill his part of the bargain.

Now, he was on his own.

Spurned, yet again, by a woman.

True, Faye had not rejected him in the same way as Elayne, but she had spurned him nonetheless.

Hurt gouged deep, along with fierce frustration. He kicked another rock, then spun around and kicked the boulder. He winced. “Ow!”

Resisting another pained yelp, he sucked a breath between his teeth, then flexed his toes inside his boot. Relieved no bones seemed to be broken, he dropped to his knees. Snatching up a flat stone, he began to dig into the mounded earth and stones Faye had indicated.

So she had decided not to help him. Fine. He would find the treasure himself.

Without her, he would find King Arthur’s riches.

Without her, he would achieve Royce’s dream and prove the treasure was worthy of legend.

Without her.

Resisting intense dismay, he kept digging, overturning stones, pushing aside dirt. He dug and dug, until he had excavated a wide hole.

Naught.

As he sat back, wiping the sweat from his brow, a curious sense of apprehension lashed through him. Was the treasure not here because the gold cup was all the earth had chosen to spit out? Or, had Faye deceived him? Decided, at the last, that she did not wish to tell him all, and used the finding of the lamb as her means of escape?

He pushed to his feet, tossing the flat stone aside. She would not deceive him so.

Would she?

His gaze again flew to the stretch of road. Anger roused in his gut, like an adder stirring to wary alertness in the sun.

She might have decided he was not the man to help her rescue Angeline, after all.

Faye might have decided to turn to Torr.

You are to frighten her. Scare her. Bring her to screaming tears, if need be. Then you will ride away, Torr had said the day they met in the woods, when he commanded Brant to ride to the lake and demand the ransom from Faye.

Why had Torr wanted him to terrify her? To put her through such torment was not only cruel, but . . . corrupt.

Did Torr want her to seek help from him, even though the ransom demand had told her not to? If so, what reasons did Torr have for manipulating Faye in such a manner?

Moreover, what role did Torr play in the abduction of his own child? Surely he had not arranged to have his own child kidnapped.

Had he?

Brant scowled. God’s blood, how he loathed deception. It reeked like an onion rotting from the inside out.

He strode to the water to rinse the dirt from his hands, wondering what would happen if Faye went to Torr, told him of the ransom note, and asked for his help. What next set of machinations would slip into place like wooden pieces of a child’s game?

If she told him of the goblet . . .

A chill sluiced through him, icier even than the winter river. If she spoke of the gold, the danger to her—as well as to him—increased hundredfold. As lord of these lands, Torr would demand to know why she kept the find a secret. Torr would be furious. Moreover, if Faye told him Brant knew of the gold days ago, Torr would demand to know why Brant did not tell him, either.

Both of their lives, as well as Angeline’s, would be in terrible danger. Months ago, on crusade, and years before that while they grew up together, Royce had shared his journal with notes of the lost treasure with Torr as well as Brant. The riches and old stories had fascinated Torr.

A painful tightness spread through Brant’s chest. Without him, Faye faced whatever happened next on her own.

His gaze shifted to his saddlebag tied to his horse. Inside, the gold goblet lay protected in a length of cloth. That morn, in the grimy tavern room, when he had carefully unwrapped the vessel to examine it once again, it had glimmered with an austere beauty. Unable to resist, he had traced his thumb over it, a tactile reminder of his promise to Royce. Again, his hands tingled with the brush of his skin against the ancient metal.

He had not been able to save Royce. Yet, if he chose, he could help Faye. And with her, Angeline.

However, to protect them, he must abandon his search for the treasure. And, he must walk the steepest, most dangerous precipice between preserving his oath to Torr and forsaking it.

His mind whirled with the enormity of his decision. To do what he had vowed to honor Royce’s memory, or do what he knew was right . . .

Brant whistled between his teeth—a single, sharp note—and strode to the boulder. He leapt up onto its pitted, flat surface. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the road heading toward the village.

There, no more than a speck in the distance.

Val came to the side of the rock, tail wagging. Brant stepped down and bent to scratch Val’s head. “Find her,” he said.

The little dog barked.

Gesturing toward the road, Brant yelled, “Go.”

Val raced toward the road. As Brant swung up into the saddle and spurred his destrier, he muttered, “Royce, forgive me.”

Chapter Nine

Faye sipped her infusion, even as a sound nudged its way into the comfortable cocoon inside Greya’s cottage. Holding the mug between her palms, nodding with interest as the old woman chatted on about King Arthur’s Camelot, Faye strained to hear.

Outside, a dog barked.

Val.

Panic kicked her pulse. Brant had followed her, after all. With his dog’s help, he had tracked her down. The chalice was not enough to satisfy his desire for gold, so he had come to convince her to resume their search, armed with fresh verbal weapons to force her to concede.

Her gaze dropped to the lamb on the table. She would not yield, no matter what means of persuasion Brant used.

The memory of him standing at the lakeshore, dark and forbidding, stormed into her thoughts. Before she choked on her mouthful of herbal brew, she made herself swallow. The liquid stung her throat. Her hand shook as she set the mug down with a clumsy thud.

In mid sentence, Greya paused. She frowned. “Faye?”

“I . . . heard a dog outside.”

Waving a dismissive hand, the healer laughed. “’Tis the farmer’s who lives two cottages away. His mongrel always barks in the morn. Probably telling off the travelers heading into town to buy the baker’s fresh meat pies.”

Faye tried to respond, but the sound refused to emerge. Her gaze flew to the shuttered windows on the cottage’s opposite wall. Too small for her to climb through, if she had to flee in a hurry.

“Whose dog did you think it might be?”

With a jolt, Faye’s gaze returned to Greya. Curiosity brightened the old woman’s eyes.

“I . . . ah . . .”

“What have you not told me, milady?”

“Please,” Faye said, rising from the bench. “There is a man—”

Greya rose, startling strength in her regal poise. “Man? A lord?”

Words jumbled together in Faye’s mind like a tangle of chain mail links, interlocking and twisting around each other. Explanations. Denials. Inner cries for caution, lest she say more than was wise. Shaking her head, she said, “I cannot tell you right now. If he comes here . . .”

Greya’s head dipped in a brisk nod. “Do not worry, milady. I will not let him in.” She paused. “Or, would you prefer that I do?”

“Nay!” Faye sighed. “To be honest, I doubt he will be deterred. He is most determined.”

The old woman’s brows raised, before an intrigued smile curved her mouth. “Is he, now?”

Heat flooded Faye’s face. Greya clearly assumed the matter was a lover’s spat. “’Tis not . . . He is not . . . I mean—”

A knock sounded on the door.

“Mercy!” Faye whispered. She started toward the windows, before stumbling to a halt and glancing back at Greya. “Is there another way out of the cottage?”

The healer shook her head.

Biting down on her lip, Faye looked at the door. “Well, then, I will have to face him. I will send him on his way.”

“Allow me, milady.” Greya pointed to the wooden bathing screen positioned to shield her bed from the rest of the room. “Wait behind there.”

Faye’s hands curled into her gown while she started toward the door. “Thank you, but ’tis not your battle.”

Greya caught her arm. “For a man to have upset you so, milady,” she said, “I feel obliged to do what I can to help. Now, shoo.” With a gentle nudge, she coaxed Faye toward the screen.

Another knock, accompanied by Val’s excited yip.

Faye shuddered, for she felt the weight of that rap all through her body. Brant must be furious, to knock with such boldness. She had never thought one simple sound could elicit such a deluge of anxiety.

Hugging her arms over her breasts, hardly daring to breathe, she hurried behind the screen. Greya unhinged the front door. It creaked open.

“Good morn,” Brant said, his voice a low, firm rumble.

“Good day to you,” Greya answered.

Faye pressed her fisted hand to her mouth, grazing her knuckles with her teeth. Her legs quaked. He could not possibly see her through the screen. Still, she felt exposed, a sensation akin to standing naked in a pool of sunlight. Waiting for him to find her.

“I must speak with Lady Rivellaux.”

“I am sorry, milord, but she is not—”

An impatient growl came from the doorway. The sound seemed to prowl its way across the room, as though searching her out. Faye bit down on her knuckles.

“Her mare is tethered in your shelter,” Brant went on. “I know she is here.”

“Are you certain ’tis her horse?” Greya said. “I oft have animals here while I tend their wounds.”

“’Tis hers.”

Brant snapped his fingers.

Oh, nay! Dread shot through Faye, for she knew the command in that simple gesture.

An instant later, she heard the pad-pad of an animal crossing the dirt floor.

“Wait!” Greya cried. “Your dog is not allowed in my home.”

“I apologize, good woman, but Val has a mind of his own, it seems.” Mocking warmth curled around each husky word, and Faye shivered. Brant was warning her, in his own way, that she would not escape him.

“Call him back,” Greya said, her tone anxious.

“I can try,” Brant answered, again with humor. “He does not always heed me. If I may come in, I will catch him.”

Deny him, Greya! Faye screamed in her mind. Do not let him inside!

Faye fought the burning need to bolt. How foolish. There was nowhere to run. Mayhap Val would not find her, after all. The cottage’s herbal scent might mask her presence. Aye, she would pray that it did.

Merlin hissed, then yowled. Val barked.

“Stop him! Wicked mongrel. He must not chase my cat.”

Another yowl, accompanied by the scrabble of claws.

“My apologies, good woman. Val,” Brant called—a half-hearted summons—over the sound of animals tearing around the cottage. The door creaked again, before booted footfalls thudded on the cottage floor.

Brant had stepped inside!

Faye smothered a moan. She felt his presence, seeking her. She knew the moment his gaze settled on the screen. Tingles shot from her scalp to her toes, with the impact of sunshine capturing an icicle in its light, its warmth toying with the frozen beauty. Droplet by droplet the icicle began to melt, each winking tear marking the inevitable bending of the ice to the sun’s will.

Squeezing her eyes shut, Faye stood as motionless as a sculpture carved from ice. She fought the power of Brant’s stare.

Oh, please. Leave me be.

In the main room beyond, the cacophony of racing animals continued, and then a small body scooted past her legs. Faye gasped. Her eyes flew open, to see Merlin hunched on Greya’s bed, back arched, hissing. Val stood by the edge of the screen. His gaze darted from Merlin to Faye. Then, he yapped.

“Wretched animal,” she whispered, glaring at the little mongrel. His tail moved in a hesitant wag.

Any moment now, Brant would approach the screen.

She looked about the enclosed sleeping area for something—anything—to use to defend herself, for she would not willingly leave the cottage with him. Her gaze skimmed the narrow, raised pallet covered with a patchwork coverlet, then the bedside table that bore a candle holder, three earthenware ointment pots, and a round, glazed bowl of the kind fashioned by local potters. Folded cloths lay beside the washbowl.

Stepping forward, Faye snatched up two of the lidded pots. They likely contained facial cream and hand salve, for these were Greya’s specialties. As Faye’s palms curled around the cool pots, and she caught the lingering scent of lavender, she fought a shiver of dismay. The pots were hardly good weapons to deter a warrior like Brant. When she wielded them at him, he would most likely collapse in a fit of laughter.

“Hand salve? Facial cream?” he might gloat. “How terrifying, milady.”

Ha!  Let him chuckle as though she were a witless simpleton. She would show him what marvelous, inventive weapons she had in her possession. One well-aimed toss, and she could send him reeling backward, clutching his brow, while she ran past him.

Throwing the pots would mean hurting him, of course. A rather unsettling thought.

Yet, Greya knew all means of treating wounds. She would no doubt see that, despite his bruised pride and a nasty bump, Brant was hale, even as Faye galloped off.

Delicious anticipation rippled through Faye.

Then she realized the room beyond the screen was astonishingly quiet.

She listened. Apart from the snapping fire, she heard naught.

The wretched knave must have sensed her thoughts, for his low chuckle echoed in the cottage. “Whenever you are ready, milady, you may come out from behind that screen.”

She recoiled as if he had reached an arm around the screen to grab her. Heat scorched her face. Her fingers curled tighter around the pots. What arrogance. She may come out from behind the screen? Did he infer he granted her permission?

How wretchedly cunning. He obviously wanted her to capitulate, rather than him having to haul her out from behind the barricade. He did not want Greya to see him force her out kicking and screaming. He wanted to preserve the illusion of a lover’s spat between them.

Wicked, wicked man.

Struggling to control her irritation, she wondered if he knew for certain she hid behind the screen. He could not. The wood reached almost to the floor, so ’twas unlikely he saw her shoes. She had not called out and betrayed herself. Nor had Greya told him.

Squaring her shoulders, she glared at Val. The little dog’s ears flattened to his head. His tail stopped wagging, but he did not budge.

Keeping watch on her, was he? Well, for all his thick skulled oaf of a master knew, Val was guarding Merlin.

If Brant hoped his annoying words would goad her into revealing herself, he would not succeed.

She would come out from the screen when she felt like it.

If she felt like it.

A giddy laugh bubbled inside her. She would wait him out. Stay here, silent and defiant, until he yawned with boredom and decided to see if, in fact, she hid behind the screen—in which case she would have ample warning to aim her pots.

“Good man,” Greya said, sounding nervous. “Mayhap if you wait outside—”

“I will wait here.”

The old woman huffed.

When the silence dragged, guilt nagged at Faye. Her willfulness made the situation very difficult for Greya. ’Twas not fair to impose upon her friendship, or her home, in such a manner.

“Milady,” Brant called, an ominous note in his voice. “I shall count to three. If, by that time, you have not appeared—”

Another command! What an arrogant, insufferable—

“One.”

Her chin tilted up a notch, even as a tremor rippled through her. She raised one of the pots, preparing her aim. She would wait him out. Aye. Excellent plan.

“Two.”

Her hands grew damp, threatening her secure grip. Soon, he would storm over to fetch her, and then—thwack!

What if she missed? She had a difficult enough time swatting flies.

What if she hit him? Would blood spatter? What if his injury left a scar?

What if she accidentally killed him?

“Three.”

Oh, God! She lurched to the edge of the screen. Val scooted backward, before spinning around and scurrying over to Brant.

Arms crossed, he stood with one hip braced against the trestle table. His glittering gaze locked with hers before a roguish smile tilted up the corner of his mouth. “There you are. I thought I was going to have to fetch you myself.”

An angry flush warmed her face. “Disappointed, are you?”

He grinned.

Gliding over, Greya touched Faye’s arm. “I am sorry, milady. When his dog went after Merlin, I was concerned. Before I could stop him, he walked in.”

Faye managed a smile. “’Tis all right.” Switching the pots to one sweaty palm, she dried the other on her gown.

Greya’s gaze dropped to the pots. With a puzzled frown, she said, “You need more hand salve, milady? Or the facial cream?”

Faye swallowed. “Actually—”

“I vow those could cause a rather nasty bump,” Brant murmured, “if they were thrown at someone.”

Raising her eyebrows, Faye said, “Mmm.”

Before she could even think to draw back her arm—not that she intended to—Brant had crossed the space between them. She stepped back, anxious to avoid him, but he caught her hands, pried out the pots, and handed them to Greya.

Faye gasped. “You have no right—”

His possessive hands locked around her wrists. Looking at Greya, he said, “Leave us.”

“You cannot order Greya out of her own home!”

“Good woman, you have my solemn vow I will do her no harm,” he said, while Faye struggled to free herself from his grip. “What I intend to say must be said to her alone.”

Uncertainty shadowed Greya’s gaze.

“I do not have the slightest wish to speak with you,” Faye bit out. When his gaze, sparkling with dangerous amusement, slid back to her, she glared at him. “None.”

“My clever, fetching, stubborn love,” he murmured with a sensual huskiness that made her belly swoop, “I regret you saw the need to run from me, but I am certain we can overcome this unfortunate disagreement.”

She refused to heed the wanton vision flitting through her mind of him lying naked on his side in bed, smiling in that bawdy, lop-sided way, while patting the coverlet. “Do not call me your love. You know as well as I ’tis untrue.”

“Faye.”  Clucking his tongue, sounding like a man already gloating over his victory, he tugged her hands forward until they touched his tunic, warmed by his broad body. So easily he maneuvered her, despite her struggles.

The softness of his tunic brushed her fingers. It felt like supple, tanned skin. His skin, gliding against hers. A sinful awareness coursed through her.

Brant leaned in closer, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple. “Faye, my love, what I have to say is of vast importance to us both.”

“I will not listen!”

He chuckled. “Come, now, there is no reason to be ashamed of us.”

“Ashamed?” she choked out. By the saints! How she wanted to scream at him.

A faint clatter—the sound of small pots being set on the trestle table—intruded into Faye’s mental haze. “I shall leave you two alone to speak,” Greya said. “I will return after tending to the animals in the stable and gathering more firewood.”

Brant smiled at her. “Thank you. If you would be so kind, would you please tether my destrier around the back of the stable so he may graze?”

“There he will also be hidden from sight,” Greya noted with a faint smile. “Very well, milord. If you need me, milady, I am just outside.” The old woman gave them both a brisk nod, then walked out the door. It closed with a click behind her.

Words tumbled from Faye’s lips. “What . . . what treachery!”

Looking down at her, Brant’s expression hardened. “Beware, Faye. I say the same of you.”

“Indeed? Why so? You manipulated Greya into believing we are lovers. I have done naught.”

“Nay?” He scowled. “You manipulated me. You led me to the riverbank, and then refused to follow through with your pledge to help me find the treasure. Without any explanation, you deserted me there.”

She sensed anguish in his words, pierced by a sense of betrayal. Truly, she had not intended to deceive him. Yet, she could never explain the tangled emotions which had hounded her, forcing her to leave. “Brant, I—”

Releasing her hands, he exhaled a tormented sigh. “What is important, now, is that we have a chance to talk.” He paused, as if mulling his next words. “To be honest.”

The cottage air swept over her fingers, making her aware he no longer touched her—an abandonment of its own kind. Rubbing her palms up and down her sleeves, she frowned. “What do you mean? What more is there to say?”

His gaze snapped up to meet hers. “A great deal.”  Resolve gleamed in his eyes. There, also, she saw hints of his darkest secrets. Gesturing to the bench running alongside the table, he said, “Mayhap you should sit.”

She almost blurted out, I would prefer to stand. However, an element in his voice—soul-deep reluctance, or the catch conveying his unease—coaxed her to cross the few steps to the bench and sit. Clasping her hands together, she looked up at him.

Plowing his hand into his wind-snarled hair, he paced across Greya’s home. Val lay on the floor nearby, his head on his paws, his gaze following Brant’s every movement, while Merlin peered warily around the edge of the screen.

Pivoting on his heel, Brant turned back to Faye. “Where to begin . . .” His tone roughened. “Mayhap with the journal.”

He did not seem a man to write down his musings. “’Tis your journal?”

Hands on his hips, Brant halted. “My older brother Royce’s. For years, he kept notes and made drawings regarding a vast hoard he believed was hidden somewhere near here. A treasure that, long ago, belonged to the Celtic king named Arthur.”

“You believe the goblet is part of this treasure,” Faye said.

Brant nodded. Head bent, his silky hair snarling down around his face, he stared at the swept dirt floor. It seemed that what he had to reveal next, he could not speak while holding her gaze. “When Royce and I joined the king’s crusade, he brought the journal with him. He studied it every free moment, between battles or at night, when we retreated to our camp. Finding the treasure was his dream.” Remorse softened his tone. “I can still see him sitting cross legged next to the fire, cradling the book in his hands, mulling over what he had written . . .”

“Does he still have the journal?” Faye asked.

“Royce perished in the east. The journal was lost.”

“I see.” Awkward tension whispered through the room. “I am sorry,” she added, “that he died.”

“As am I.” Barely a rasp of sound, Brant’s voice was more poignant than if he had collapsed to his knees and sobbed.

His grief reached out to her, intangible, yet as potent as smoke wafting from a bubbling cauldron of elixir. Her heart understood the agony of loss, of loving and losing without any way of changing what had happened. Of believing oneself responsible for a death.

If she had not gone to have her chatelaine repaired, if she had stayed at Hubert’s castle that day, she might have been able to stop her miscarriage. Her beautiful little girl might be alive now. If she had done differently.

His head raised a fraction, as though he questioned the direction of her thoughts.

“You are not alone in your grief,” Faye whispered. “Many have lost loved ones.”

He stared at her then, his face a mask of tightly-leashed emotion. Only the overly-bright glint of his eyes betrayed him. “True. Yet, I did not come here for your sympathy, but to warn you.”

His crisp tone—in such contrast to his anguished gaze—caused her to press back against the table. The hard oak dug into her upper back, a biting echo of the self-condemnation coursing through her. How foolish to have felt a moment of empathy for this man, who was still so very much a stranger. For being tempted to tell him of her own loss.

To a man who lived by his fighting instinct, emotion was a weakness. Torr, she remembered, had once told her such sentiment.

“Faye, you must heed me,” Brant said. “Others knew of the journal.”

Val raised his head. Ears pricked, he stared at the cottage doorway, as though hearing Greya outside.

Brant frowned down at Val.

“Others?” Faye asked.

“We were not the only men from this area to join the crusade. A close friend of Royce’s and mine—”

Val growled, then padded toward the door.

A horse whinnied outside.

Wariness shadowed Brant’s face. His body immediately tensed with the same warrior alertness she had witnessed at the tavern. Head tilted, he seemed to be listening hard.

Val yapped.

“What is wrong?” Faye threw up her hands. “’Tis only Greya.”

Footfalls sounded on the threshold before the door swung inward. The healer rushed in, her arms laden with firewood. On the road beyond the cottage fence, Faye caught a glimpse of a group of riders before the door slammed shut.

“Milady,” Greya said, sounding breathless. “Lord Lorvais has arrived.”

“Torr!” Faye said, at the same moment as Brant.

His face contorted with anger. “Why is he here?”

“I do not know!” Dismay and dread knotted Faye’s stomach.

“We made a promise, Faye, to keep our dealings a secret.” Accusation glittered in his gaze. “You seem to have broken that vow. You told Torr to meet you here this morn. When did you arrange that? Before you left Caldstowe?”

She lurched to her feet. Keeping her tone hushed, she said, “I did not tell Torr—I mean, I informed him I was visiting Greya today to have her look at my wound. I had to!  He was suspicious. He would not have let me leave the keep otherwise.”

“You cannot go with him.”

“Oh? Why not?”

Brant dragged his hand over his mouth. “Torr is not to be trusted. He—”

A shout carried from outside. Dropping her wood near the fire, Greya hurried back to the door. “I have invited him and his men-at-arms in,” she said. “’Tis my duty, since he is my lord.”

“Wait,” Brant said, as Greya’s hand closed on the door handle. “One more moment. Please.”

Rage boiled within Faye. “Is that why you followed me here? To try to convince me not to trust Torr? How vile of you!  He has been kind to me. He allowed me to live at Caldstowe after my husband died and I had naught. Not even enough coin to buy a loaf of bread.”

Brant shook his head. “Faye.”

Furious tears scalded her eyes. Struggling to keep her voice lowered, she said, “’Tis clear to me now. You rode here to turn me against Torr, to undermine our relationship which has given me a new life,”—she sucked in a tight breath—“to make me believe you are the only man to whom I can turn in order to find Angeline—”

“Faye!”

“—another manipulation, so I will continue to help you find that wretched treasure.”

She had never seen such an expression on Brant’s face, a mixture of outrage, dismay, and . . . hopelessness. “You must believe me—”

“You are more ruthless than I ever imagined! Fie! How I despise you.”

A brittle laugh broke from him. “You do not hate me. You need me, as much as I need you.”

“I do not need you.”

“Now, more than ever, you need a knight’s protection.” He stepped toward her. “Think, Faye. If I were interested only in becoming wealthy, I would not have come here. Why would I? I have the gold cup. ’Tis a treasure in itself, worth enough coin to make me a very rich man.”

“Cease!” she hissed, throwing her hands out at him. “I will hear no more.”

“You must.” Brant seized her by the shoulders, holding her immobile while he stared down into her face. Where his palms touched, her skin burned. “I came here because I vow you are in danger. I had to warn you.”

Tossing her head, she fought to wrench free.

“Faye, Torr is responsible for Angeline’s disappearance.”

Chapter Ten

As Brant spoke the dreaded words, a sense of doom crushed down upon him. The sensation reminded him of being sucked down into swirling mud and dragged along in a dangerous current of events over which he had little control.

Greya’s gasp seemed as loud as a willow crashing into a river.

Her eyes flared with shock, Faye quit struggling. “What?”

“Torr is involved in Angeline’s disappearance. I am certain of it.”

His blood oath to Torr loomed like a cracked boulder, at risk of being split asunder by the deluge. Yet, breaking his oath required a very deliberate action: confessing to Royce’s murder. The oath—although fissured—remained intact.

Shifting in his grasp, Faye gaped up at him, her lips slightly parted. Tears sparkled on the ends of her lashes. “You are very bold to make such an accusation, Brant.”

“’Tis the truth.”

Muttering under her breath, Greya shook her head. “Never!”

“How ridiculous!” Faye snapped. “Torr is Angeline’s father. Why would he abduct his own child?”

“I do not know.”

“What proof do you have? Tell me.”

Ah, the damning crux of the matter. The sense of doom intensified, pulling him down, down. Gently squeezing her, he said, “I can give you no proof. Still, you must trust me.”

With a muttered curse, she tore out of his grasp. Hands clenched into fists, she glared at him, her face taut with fury. How magnificent she looked in her willfulness.

“If what you say is true, I shall call Torr in here and ask him.”

“Do not!”

She paused halfway to the door, her mantle swirling about her. Brows arched in brittle inquiry, she said, “You fear he will prove you a liar?”

“I fear no one. My concern is for you.”

She laughed. “Me?”

Aye, for you, beautiful, naïve Faye. If aught happened to you, something I could not prevent, as with Royce’s death . . .

Torr must not discover them here in Greya’s cottage. If he did, he would suspect Brant’s loyalty. That circumstance could lead to dire consequences not only for himself, but for Faye.

Fighting a rising sense of urgency, Brant said, “He must not see us together. If he realized we knew one another, he would demand to know how we met, and the full nature of our relationship.”

With a pointed stare, he tried to alert her of the true meaning of his words, without revealing it to Greya: Torr would find out about the gold cup.

Male voices carried from outside. They drew nearer.

Staring at the door, Val growled.

Unease glimmered in Faye’s eyes before her gaze slanted to Val.

Smoothing her gown, Greya crossed to the door. “I will delay them as long as I can.” Shooing Val out of the way, she opened the door and slipped out. The wooden panel creaked closed behind her.

Silence settled inside the cottage. Arms crossed, Faye hugged herself, as though struggling to comprehend what he had told her.

She appeared to be deciding whether to believe him—or reject him.

How he wanted to fall to his knees and plead with her, to make her swear she would not reveal to Torr their dealings together. Yet, pride refused to let him yield. Pride, along with deep-rooted disgust that Torr had chosen to manipulate the life of a woman who held him in such high esteem.

With immense effort, Brant steeled all emotion from his voice. “I cannot give you all the pieces of the puzzle, Faye. I do not know them myself. Yet, I promised to help you find Angeline, and I will.”

She rubbed her hands down her arms.

“If you betray me to Torr, I will not be able to help you.”

Her lips flattened into a line, the only indication she heard him. Outside, he caught Torr’s laughter above a swell of conversation.

Clenching his jaw, Brant snapped his fingers. Val scampered to his side. Brant darted behind the wooden screen and ordered the little mongrel to sit. Val’s wagging tail swept the floor as he stared up at Brant.

He drew in a slow, steadying breath. Faye’s fragrance lingered in the shadowed air. It teased the fraying edges of his patience, tantalized him with memories of her kiss. As he rolled tension from his shoulder blades, his gaze fell to Greya’s bed, rumpled as though by lovers. The way Faye’s bed had looked after he had pressed her down upon it.

What he regretted most was that he might never kiss her again.

The cottage door creaked open. A frigid draft stole into the room. Brant resisted a shudder, forced himself to remain stone still, for whatever transpired in the next few moments was entirely beyond his control.

By God, he hoped Faye did not drown in the consequences.

***

When the door swung inward, Faye turned. Hugging herself tighter, she forced a welcoming smile.

Torr blocked the doorway’s light while he stepped inside. His rust-colored mantle, cut from the finest wool, fell to his calves, encased in brown leather boots. As he swept blond hair from his brow, his gaze lit upon her. He grinned. “Faye.”

“Hello, Torr.”

His boots sounded on the dirt floor as, slipping his gloves from his hands, he crossed to her. “Your journey went well?”

“Of course.” Unable to hold back a nervous little laugh, she added, “You did not need to follow me. I told you I would be fine.”

His four men-at-arms tromped into the cottage, their voices echoing to the wooden trusses overhead. Several crossed to the fire, crouched, and extended their hands to the flames to warm them.

“You did indeed promise me you were hale enough to ride,” Torr said in a mildly irritated tone. He threw his gloves down on the table beside her. “My men were traveling to the village today to question some of the cotters about Angeline’s disappearance, so I accompanied them. I was concerned about you.” Reaching out, he caught a lock of her hair. “I am glad I worried for naught.”

A possessive note wove into his last words. Twisting his hand, he slowly began to wind her hair around his fingers.

Months ago, in the great hall, he had done the same with a skein of Elayne’s flaxen tresses. A sly expression stealing across her features, she had smiled before arching her slender body against him for a passionate kiss.

Faye swallowed. Surely Torr did not expect such a reaction from her. Her uneasy gaze darted to his mouth, pursed as he studied her coppery tresses threaded about his hand. Odd, that she had not noticed the hard, thin quality to his lips—far different than the sensual fullness of Brant’s mouth—until now.

The thought of kissing Torr, of sharing such intimacy with her dead friend’s husband . . . She could never do so.

She longed to yank her tresses free of his hold. However, if she did, she risked offending him. Unwise, when he still seemed to be possessed by the odd mood from earlier that morn.

The men’s rowdy conversation continued, accented by the clank of Greya’s metal cauldron being returned to the fire to heat. The rituals of greeting went on, even as Torr told her, in his own way, that her life was bound to his.

While Brant stood behind the screen.

Hearing every sound.

Listening to every word.

Wondering if she would reveal him.

What strange, heady power she held, to determine what happened to him.

Unable to suppress a shiver, Faye glanced up at Torr. Her thoughts whirled together in a confused snarl. Brant’s claim that Torr had arranged Angeline’s disappearance seemed ludicrous. However, a lord of his authority could likely make anyone disappear if he so wished.

Even Brant.

If you betray me to Torr, I will not be able to help you.

A dull ache ran through her, settling close to her heart. Could Torr, who had so generously provided a home for her, have coordinated his little girl’s disappearance? If so, what reason did he have for such a despicable act?

An anxious tickle at the back of her throat made her cough. Torr’s gaze turned wry, and he released her hair. Before she could turn away, his fingers trailed down her cheek. “You look uneasy.”

Faye turned slightly to avoid his touch, while she searched for a way to divert his suspicion. “I cannot help but think about Angeline. I hope today your men find some hint as to her whereabouts. Until she is home, I will always be unsettled.”

“Mmm,” Torr said, flexing his fingers as though to warm them.

Greya glided past the men crouched by the fire. After dropping into an elegant curtsey, she handed Torr an earthenware mug. “Mead, milord, as you asked.”

“Thank you.” Raising the drink to his lips, Torr sipped.

Moving next to Faye, the healer asked, “Would you care for some, milady?”

“Nay, thank you.” Mead would only dull her wits, and her thoughts were already far too muddled.

Torr slowly lowered his mug. He wrinkled his nose. “Greya, do you have a dog?”

Faye caught a gasp. Oh, God!

The old woman hesitated the barest moment. “Nay, milord.”

“I smell a wet mongrel.”

“’Tis probably the scent of my drying herbs.” Greya waved a slender hand toward the ceiling. “Sometimes they give off a peculiar odor.”

One of the men-at-arms by the fire guffawed. “’Tis ’is boots, milord.” He pointed to one of the other guards, who flushed. “They stink.”

The other men chortled. With a wry smile, Torr shook his head. “My apologies, Greya.”

Faye smiled, too, before Torr’s assessing gaze skimmed her face. Quelling a pinch of dread, she willed a bland expression, ladylike composure which revealed none of her internal turmoil—or that she thought of Val and Brant, behind the screen.

Tucking the lock of hair he had fingered back behind her ear, she averted her gaze, and saw the lamb lying on the table. Angeline’s treasure.

Reaching over, Faye picked up the bedraggled toy.

“Look what I found by the river.”  Laying the lamb in her palm, she offered it to him.

Giving her outstretched hand the most cursory glance, Torr demanded, “When did you go to the river?”

Refusing to heed a surge of panic, she said, “This morn, on my way here.”

“Alone?”

She managed a stiff nod. “I . . .”—she rubbed her lips together—“I missed Angeline and Elayne. We had many happy outings by the water.”

“’Tis all right,” Greya soothed, sliding her arm around Faye’s waist. “Angeline will be home very soon. Do not fret, milady.”

Cold water seeped from the toy and collected in her palm. “’Tis difficult not to worry.”

Torr’s hand trembled. He set the mug down on the table. “Greya is right. We will find Angeline. I have men searching for her each day.”

“I know you do.” Faye managed a smile.

His head dipped in a nod before he dragged his unsteady hand over his mouth. “You should not go to the river alone, especially not when you are injured. If you slipped on the wet stones—”

“If I had not gone,” Faye insisted, “I would not have found her lamb.”

He frowned. “Whose lamb?”

A puddle formed in Faye’s stomach, as icy as the water against her skin. Torr must know how important the toy was to his daughter. She had refused to part with it from the day Elayne had bought it for her at the market. Pointing to the lamb, Faye said, “Do you not recognize it?”

His nostrils flared in disdain. “That filthy scrap?”

“Look closer.” She softened her request with a gentle, “Please.”

Exhaling a weary sigh, Torr caught her hand and raised it higher. “I see now, ’tis a lamb. A dirty toy discarded by some peasant child. Best tossed in the fire, I vow.”

“Never!”

Torr scowled. “Faye, what are you about?”

The conversation in the room hushed. Faye sensed the men-at-arms’ curious gazes upon them.

A little voice inside her cautioned her not to provoke Torr further. Another, more insistent cry, wondered how he could not have recognized his daughter’s favorite toy. Pressing both of her hands to her breast, cradling the little lamb like a cherished object, Faye said, “’Tis Angeline’s. Do you not remember seeing her with it?”

His harsh laugh cracked like broken stone. “’Tis so grubby, it could be any child’s.”

“’Tis Angeline’s. She would never have parted with it, unless ’twas wrested from her.”

“By whom?” Snatching up his mead, his hand shaking, Torr gulped another mouthful.

“I do not know.” Do you?

The accusatory words burned on the tip of Faye’s tongue. Here, now, with witnesses to his response—and Brant hearing it, too—she could challenge him with Brant’s assertion. Torr would not expect such boldness from her. Thus, she would see the truth in his expression.

His answer, of course, would be “nay.”  If the denial shot from him without hesitation, she knew his conscience was clear of guilt. However, if he hesitated, switched focus from her question to avoid a direct answer, or had to ponder his reply . . . Then, she would know Brant had spoken true.

The desire to know flared within her. She inhaled, preparing to speak, but right as the words warmed her lips, Greya pressed her arm. A plea for caution.

“Let us dry the lamb by the fire,” the old woman said. “Then, I am sure Lord Lorvais will recognize it as Angeline’s.”

Faye bit back a frustrated oath. “Greya—”

“Finding a toy so similar to a missing child’s would unsettle any woman,” the healer said while she steered Faye toward the fire, “especially when you cared for Angeline throughout most of Elayne’s illness.” Keeping hold of Faye with one arm, she bent and murmured to the men at the fire, who scooted aside to let her in. “Here.” The healer patted one of the stones encircling the burning logs. “Put the lamb where ’twill dry quickest.”

Opening her hands, Faye looked at the sodden toy. If she left it by the fire, would it be safe? What if a spark landed on it, causing it to burn? What if one of the men, flinging out his hand as he spoke, knocked it into the flames? If, by chance, Torr was involved with Angeline’s disappearance, he might discreetly order one of his lackeys to see it destroyed.

How she hated the suspicion slithering through her like an adder, but she had promised dying Elayne she would protect Angeline. She had failed in that vow, but could still protect the treasured toy till she could return it to the child.

“Milady.” Greya smoothed a hand down Faye’s hair, as she had done that day at the river, when she delivered Faye’s stillborn baby girl.

“I cannot yield it,” she whispered.

Footfalls approached. Torr. Faye’s fingers tightened again around the lamb. If he tried to take it from her, she would fight him.

“’Tis all right,” Torr said from behind her. His voice held no condemnation, only sympathy. Greya stepped aside, and then his trembling palm skimmed down Faye’s hair to the base of her spine. “Mayhap we should ride back to Caldstowe. The lamb can dry by the great hall’s fire. When we arrive at the keep, there may be word that Angeline has been found.”

Faye nodded. How she hoped so.

“The lamb will be waiting for Angeline when she comes home.”

Faye glanced over her shoulder, confusion again snaking through her. His manner seemed so comforting. Yet, he could simply be trying to ease her distress, without really being sincere.

He did not look like a man who would endanger the life of his young daughter, for some purpose Brant had not explained. Instead, Torr’s expression again held the restless disquiet that had plagued him since Elayne’s passing.

Who was the real Torr? Grieving husband and father, or heartless villain?

His gaze turned puzzled. “Why do you look at me so?”

“How do I look upon you?” she asked, her words a little too quick.

“As though you distrust me.”

Part of me does, her conscience answered, because of what Brant said. However, until she knew the truth—and she would find out—she must not give Torr any more reason to doubt her. She must stay close to him.

Listening. Watching.

She remembered Brant’s warning. I vow you are in danger. You cannot go with him. He is not to be trusted.

Faye mentally smothered Brant’s voice. Regardless of any danger, Angeline’s well-being took precedence over all else. God above, she would rather throw herself into a vat of burning pitch than be responsible for another little girl’s death.

“I am sorry, Torr. ’Tis my worry for Angeline that shadows my gaze so.” Faye smiled and touched his sleeve. “Shall we return to Caldstowe?”

***

His eyes squeezed shut, Brant waited behind the screen. His hands, clenched into fists, were turning numb. He drew a controlled breath through his nostrils, trying to calm the tension screaming in his veins while he listened to Torr and Faye’s conversation.

Every time she spoke, her voice shimmered inside him, as though, somehow, she were part of him, radiating light into the blackest reaches of his soul. His body ached to lunge out from behind the screen. His sword arm craved the weight of his weapon, raised in attack. His mind plotted battle strategy, envisioning his harsh roar as he bolted across the cottage, his blade arcing down to settle against Torr’s neck, before making him admit where he had hidden Angeline.

As he well knew from the bloody battles in the east, physical force was one of the few elements Torr respected.

Opening his eyes, Brant looked down at Val. Crouched on the floor, ears pricked to take in the sounds from the main room, the dog remained blessedly silent. Sensing Brant’s gaze, Val glanced up. The tip of his tail swayed.

Such tremendous trust shone in Val’s gaze, a poignant reminder of responsibility. While Torr might heed Brant’s attack, such a rash act was sheer madness. Not only would he betray himself and Faye, but the men-at-arms would cut him down. Leaving Faye on her own to answer to Torr was unforgivable, even for a man with a soul as tarnished as Brant’s own.

He listened, tension so heavy in his blood he vowed his limbs would snap. As the cottage door creaked open, bringing a draft gusting over his boots, renewed fury raced through him.

“Thank you for the healing ointment, Greya. I am delighted, too, to have more of your hand salve and facial cream,” Faye was saying, as the men-at-arms’ chatter and footfalls moved toward the doorway.

“My pleasure, milady,” said the old woman.

The swell of voices marked the group’s progression over the threshold. Brant’s legs twitched. He clawed his fingers against the wooden screen, focusing on the splinters biting into his flesh to keep himself from charging after them. Surprise might work to his advantage, and thus allow him to reach Torr before his guards reacted.

But what Brant wanted was of no consequence.

Not if he must stay alive to protect Faye.

“Faye,” he groaned into the silent room. Had she listened to one word he said?

Why—God’s blood, why—did she sound as though returning to the keep with Torr was a pleasing choice? As though she wanted to go with him, despite the risks?

Drifting in from the open doorway, he caught the crunch of earth, followed by the clink of bridles. Moments later, soft footfalls—one person returning to the cottage—sounded on the threshold, before the door thumped shut. A lock grated.

“You may come out from behind the screen now,” Greya said. “Or shall I count to three?”

An astonished laugh broke from Brant. She was bold to remind him of his words to Faye. Folding his arms, he stepped out from behind the screen.

Greya stood in front of the door, her hands clasped together. Casting Brant and Val a wary look, Merlin rubbed against her ankles.

Brant dipped his head in a curt nod. “I thank you for not revealing me.”

Her silver-gray head bowed in return. When she looked up at him again, a keen light gleamed in her eyes. “If I believed you were a threat to Lady Rivellaux, you would not still be in my cottage. I would have betrayed you the moment Lord Lorvais rode up to my home.”

Irritation prickled down Brant’s spine. “Your faith in me is most flattering.”

A faint smile touched Greya’s mouth before her grim expression returned. “You were sincere in what you said about Lord Lorvais?”

If she expected him to stand here and endure her inquisition, she had sorely misjudged him. At a wise distance, he must follow Faye and Torr to Caldstowe.

Fastening his cloak to protect him against the winter morn, Brant crossed to Greya. “I will be on my way.”

The old woman did not move.

Coming to an abrupt halt, looming over her, he scowled. Unless he pushed her out of the way, he could not leave the cottage.

As well she knew, from her eyes’ glint.

Not cowed at all, it seemed, by his stern gaze, she said, “While ’tis a tremendous accusation that he is involved in his child’s disappearance, he has the means.”

“He does.” Reaching into his cloak’s pockets, Brant withdrew his leather gloves.

A sigh broke from her, as brittle as a winter wind sweeping over crumbling leaves. “He has not been the same man since his wife Elayne died. Her passing . . . changed him.”

Ah, Elayne. For the barest fraction of a moment, Brant lamented her loss, but the reminder of Faye’s predicament glowed stronger within him. Flexing the tension from his gloved hands, he said, “Please step aside. While I appreciate your words, I cannot aid Faye here.”

“You are now her protector,” the healer mused, “as well as her lover.”

“Lady Rivellaux and I are not—”

Another smile flickered across Greya’s face. “You need not explain. That matter is between the two of you. Yet, I ask that whatever happens, you do not break her heart.” The old woman’s voice trembled. “She has suffered a great deal. Such torment you could not possibly understand.” Her gaze flicked to his scar, as though reading the anguish branded into his flesh. “Or, mayhap you could?”

Wariness jolted through Brant, sharper even than the wish to know exactly what torment Faye had been forced to endure. This cunning old woman—a stranger—had no right to pry. “Faye is entitled to her secrets,” he said. “I am to my own.”

He intended his brusque words to be a warning, but they brought a tiny grin to Greya’s lips. Turning away, she glided to a cupboard and withdrew an earthenware pot. Merlin wove around her legs, seeking attention. Murmuring what sounded like strange, ancient words—although she spoke so softly Brant could not be certain—she leaned down to pet the cat.

Brant glanced at the cottage door. Two steps and he could slide the bolt and be outside. Yet, somehow—mayhap because his conscience insisted he should be chivalrous and wait to say “goodbye,” or because he had to satisfy his curiosity as to her intentions—he could not manage those two steps. His gaze returned to Greya.

She stroked Merlin’s sleek back. His eyes closed with feline smugness, he rubbed his face against the pot, as if he bestowed upon it a special magic.

Sitting beside Brant, Val growled.

Returning to his side, Greya offered him the pot. “Take this.”

He quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “Hand salve? God’s bloody bones, if you think—”

“’Tis ointment for your scar.”

His teeth ground together. “My wound is too old, and too deep, to benefit from one of your salves.”

She snorted, shoved the pot into his hands, then turned and released the bolt. The cottage door opened on a flood of sunlight.

Brant started to hand back the salve—a blunt, deliberate refusal—but to do so might incite more debate from the old woman, and thus more delay. Squinting against the brightness, Brant shoved the pot inside his cloak. “Good day, Greya.” He stepped over the threshold.

As Val bounded ahead of him down the frosted path, the healer’s voice carried to him. “No scar is too old or deep to be healed.”

Chapter Eleven

“I am sorry, Elayne,” Faye said, trailing a finger down a carved fold of the tomb sculpture’s gown. “I have not found Angeline yet, but I will.”

Whispering through the secluded garden, the late morning breeze teased Faye’s hair, blowing a long strand over her face. She brushed the skein from her cheek. The nervous anticipation that clenched her innards had not abated. It had begun in Greya’s cottage, intensified on the return journey to Caldestowe, brought her down off her mount with trembling awkwardness when, surrounded by Torr’s men, they had arrived in the inner bailey—for her decision was made.

’Twas the only way to appease the anxiety devouring her.

She would ask Torr whether he was involved in Angeline’s disappearance.

A very direct question that required an “aye” or “nay” answer.

Not in the bailey in front of his men-at-arms, but in private, where she could be certain there would be no distractions to influence his reply.

Faye curled her fingertips against the effigy’s weathered stone. She had gone so far as to walk over to Torr and ask to speak with him. Before he could reply, a sentry intercepted him and murmured in his ear. Torr had cursed before hurrying inside with him to attend to some important matter of estate.

The breeze tousled her hair again, like rambunctious children pulling at her tresses. Sparrows twittered close by, while browned leaves danced over Elayne’s tomb. With a careful hand, Faye brushed them off.

Later in the day, she would ask her question of Torr. A tremor rattled her, for she doubted he would refuse her request to meet with him. He had asked her at least twice in the past few sennights to come to his solar for a goblet of wine, to sit with him in quiet companionship while he grieved for Elayne. He appeared to be suffering such torment, Faye had almost agreed. Yet, somehow, she could not bring herself to visit his chamber.

The smallest sound—the rasp of cloth—warned her she was no longer alone. Someone stood in the garden’s entrance.

Without raising her head to look, she knew who was there.

She spun away from the tomb.

Brant crowded the garden’s entryway. He stood with his arms crossed over his cloak, observing her. His locks drifted in an unruly tangle, echoing the wild blaze of his eyes. As their gazes locked, a powerful jolt of awareness slammed through her. Catching her breath, she fought to control the answering wildness clawing up inside her, feeding on her simmering anticipation—the shameful part of her that rejoiced in seeing him.

He did not speak, merely dipped his head in terse greeting. In the stark afternoon light, his scar looked harsh, unforgiving, a reflection of his own refusal to compromise—or accept defeat.

“W-why are you here?” she said, hating the breathless quality of her voice.

“To stop you from making a very foolish mistake.”

“I do not need a keeper,” she bit out.

“I vow you do.”

Arrogant knave! Crossing her arms, she leaned one hip against the stone tomb, mirroring his dictatorial posture. His brows cinched together in a frown.

Hoping to keep their conversation from the servants working in the bailey near by, she said in hushed tones, “If you have come to continue our conversation from Greya’s cottage—”

“—which I did not get to finish,” he cut in. “There is much more I have not told you—”

“—’tis not a convenient moment for me. You see, I have an important meeting today.”

His scowl became forbidding. “You cannot confront Torr about Angeline.”

“I can.”

“Have you thought through the risks of being so impetuous? What might happen if he believes suspicion is cast upon him? How might that affect Angeline? Or you?”

In his terse words, she caught the anguish of loss. A glimmer of regret for someone from his past, connected in some way to what currently transpired. She had no right to ask, but could not seem to stop herself. “Why does it matter to you what happens to me? You have the gold cup.”

“True.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “Before coming here, I left it in a safe place.”

He had hidden it until he could find a buyer. A wise decision, considering the chalice’s value. Swallowing the bitter taste of regret, Faye said, “Still, you have what you desired.”

“Do I?”

His tone was a husky rasp, like silk gliding over naked skin. With trembling fingers, she pushed aside her wind-swept hair. A flurry of hot-cold tingles spiraled inside her, astonishingly, frighteningly profound. “Brant . . .”

She could not go on, but he seemed to know the words beating inside her like frantic moths. “What is between us is far more than the gold,” Brant said quietly, “and has been for some time.”

Oh, God! She fought a triumphant little cry, tried to subdue the impulsive part of her threatening to lead her astray. “I do not know what you mean.”

“Of course you do.” His gaze darkened with lustful promise. “You are not an innocent, Faye. Stubborn, mayhap, but not virgin.”

Wicked elation raced through her.

“You desire me,” she whispered.

His head tilted. He leveled her with a stare that shot straight to her soul. “More than you can possibly imagine.”

His words faded to a rough whisper, and she drew a tremulous breath. With him—unlike with Hubert—there would be no awkward gropes and half sincere apologies. After coupling, she would not lie alone in the sheets, tears in her eyes, wondering if what had happened was all lovemaking was supposed to be.

With Brant, the act would be splendid. Illuminating.

A treasure in itself.

She tried to shut out the tantalizing thoughts, struggled to find resolve in the uncertainty festering inside her. Why did Brant admit his desire for her? Why did he imply there was more between them than a shattered arrangement between two strangers?

He intended to distract her. To sway her from speaking with Torr. To bind an emotional cord around her heart, and thus force her to ponder anew her decision.

Devious knave.

He spoke true about the desire nonetheless. The sensual pull between them ran fierce as well as deep. To deny it was to smother a part of her own soul. Impossible.

“The yearning burns in you, too,” he murmured. “You cannot deny it, Faye.”

He had not moved from the garden’s entrance. He watched her with shocking intensity, as though her expression revealed her every thought. Shaking her head, she turned away to press her hands again to the stone. The coldness seeping into her palms leeched some of the traitorous heat from her body. No matter how much she desired him, she would not abandon her purpose.

She would not forsake Elayne’s memory.

“Faye.” Grasses rustled as he started in her direction. His strength of will swept across the space between them, challenging her in a way very different, yet equally as powerful, as his voice.

Her spine stiffened. Raising her chin, she watched him approach. “Desire has no place between us when my responsibility is to Angeline.”

His gaze warmed with a knowing light. He must have sensed her fight to maintain her indifference. Halting beside her, he looked down at the carved figure. “Angeline is not your daughter. The burden of responsibility should never fall to you.”

“No child could ever be a burden,” she said firmly. “I made a promise to Elayne. I will not break it.”

“And so you will endanger your life to find her child. Would she ask that of you?”

“Fie! Brant—”

“Give me but one more day. I will find proof of Torr’s involvement.”

She looked up at him. His bold presence dominated the small garden, claiming all focus. Even the sparrows had quieted, as though spellbound. “How can I wait another day? To think of Angeline alone, terrified—”

“I know.” His gaze traveled the length of Elayne’s effigy before he sighed. “I cannot help but wonder if she were alive, what she could tell us about Angeline’s disappearance.”

Shock rippled through Faye, followed by a rush of anger. “What do you mean?”

A tight smile touched his lips. The almost insignificant gesture revealed a great deal. He had known Elayne. When had they met? How long had he known her? Faye did not recall Elayne ever mentioning him.

“Mayhap she knew what mischief was brewing,” he said.

“You cannot possibly mean Elayne was involved!”

Thrusting up one hand, he said, “I do not claim such. Yet, it cannot be coincidence that days before her death, she sent a rider with a letter urging me to come to Caldstowe.”

“I did not realize you were a friend of Elayne’s.”

If he noticed the tension binding her words, he did not acknowledge it. His head dipped in a stiff nod. “We had not spoken in a long time. We were . . . close. Once.”

How close? Faye wondered, with an unwelcome sting of jealousy. Her mind teased her with a vision of Brant and Elayne standing together in profile, smiling, his hands sweeping through her hair before they settled at her waist to draw her in for a kiss. Setting her jaw, Faye forced away the image.

“Her note claimed the matter was urgent. I could not refuse her request. She had no reason to contact me, unless she had no one else to turn to.” Brant paused. “Not even her husband.”

An ache cut through Faye. Surely Elayne had known she could trust Faye with anything. Every free moment, those last difficult days, she had spent at Elayne’s bedside. She had wiped Elayne’s fevered brow, pressed the goblet of herbal infusion to her lips, held her hand during the mad fits that had wracked her, and fulfilled all of her demands, including her request to send one of the stable hands to her chamber. When the man had arrived, Elayne had struggled to sit up, then asked Faye to leave. Elayne was lady of the household, and Faye had no right to question her.

Mayhap that day, Elayne had given the letter to the man before ordering him to find Brant.

“I packed my belongings and rode out that same day. When I reached Caldstowe, I learned she had died. I was too late.”

Voices and footfalls carried from the bailey. They were the sounds of the daily castle routines. The same noises had come in through Elayne’s chamber window while she lay between life and death, her body twisting in pain. Faye shut her mind to the memories. Better to remember her dear friend in pleasant moments, rather than the ones fraught with anguish.

Especially those moments when, choking words through broken lips, Elayne had begged Faye to protect Angeline.

“I promise,” Faye had whispered over and over. “I promise.”

The memory fragmented. With a start, Faye realized her hands clasped the stone figure’s, as though offering comfort. “’Tis unfortunate you did not see her before she died,” she said softly. “Still, you have not given me a good reason not to go to Torr.”

Brant’s gaze narrowed. “Faye.”

“What harm is there in asking Torr?”

“Ask me what?”

A gasp wrenched from Faye at the same time Brant whirled to face the garden entrance. A curious frown on his handsome face, Torr stood on the path.

“Ask me what, Faye?”

She forced a little laugh. “Well, I—”

Brant stepped forward, shielding her body with his own. Dipping his head in lazy greeting to Torr, Brant chuckled. “Ask why you have never introduced me to this exquisite young lady. Do you mean to keep her all to yourself?”

Astonishment rippled through Faye, while warmth flooded her face. How deftly Brant contrived the falsehood. How well he leapt into his role of protector. She should be annoyed with him for seizing control of the situation, but, without his interference, she would still be scrambling for words.

Brant glanced back at her. In his gaze, she saw a command to play along with his ruse.

Averting her gaze, she looked at Torr. A smile teased the corners of his mouth.

Taking another step nearer Torr, Brant threw his hands wide. “I could not help but speak to her, when I saw her standing alone by this tomb. A woman so vibrant and lovely, in a place reserved for the dead.” He shook his head. “I hoped to see her smile.”

Torr’s gaze shifted to Faye. Under his scrutiny, her face burned. She again felt his fingers in her hair, twisting the strand around and around his hand. “Did you?” he asked.

“Make her smile?” Brant gave a wry snort. “I vow she did not like my flattery.”

Play along, Faye told herself, even as her pulse thumped at an uncomfortable pace. Corroborate his tale, and all will be well. Arching an eyebrow, she said, “Flattery, indeed. He is a knave with a clever tongue.”

Brant grinned. “So the wenches tell me.”

Torr chortled, then so did Brant. Their bawdy laughter carried through the garden. Two maidservants passing by paused to stare at them before hurrying on.

Scowling, Faye crossed her arms. Whatever they were laughing about was most certainly rude.

She longed to thrust her head high and stomp out of the garden. However, she had been here first. Pride refused to let her walk away.

Wiping his eyes, Torr smiled at her. “Do not be angry, Faye. We are only enjoying a . . . man’s jest. I trust the proper introductions have been made?”

Before Faye could utter one word, Brant dropped into a gallant bow. “Brant Meslarches, milady.”

“Brant, may I introduce Lady Faye Rivellaux, wife of the late Hubert Rivellaux and a dear friend of Elayne’s and mine. She has lived at Caldstowe since her husband’s death.” His smile broadened. “She is, of course, welcome to stay here as long as she likes.”

“An immense pleasure, lovely lady,” Brant said. As he straightened, she caught mischief glinting in his eyes. He enjoyed every moment of them pretending to be strangers.

Well, so would she.

“How gracious you are, sir,” she said, while Torr strode to her side. “Have you visited Caldstowe before? Despite my months here, I do not remember seeing you.”

A hint of warning shadowed Brant’s gaze.

“Do you live close to Caldstowe?”

He shrugged, neatly avoiding a definite reply. “Mayhap you simply did not notice me. There are many knights at Caldstowe—indeed, in the surrounding lands for many leagues—who owe allegiance to Lord Lorvais.”

“Hmm. Mayhap.”

With a lop-sided grin, he added, “’Tis hardly a matter for a lady like yourself to dwell upon. Surely you have more pressing concerns.”

Oh, the knave!  Feigning innocence, she said, “Indeed?”

Annoyance glinted in Brant’s cool blue eyes. “From your poignant expression earlier, milady, I vow ’tis so.”

His words ended on a familiar huskiness. Tension sparked anew inside her. So much challenge threaded through his words that she wanted to contradict him, to continue their battle of wits and words. However, they had managed to successfully thwart Torr’s suspicions. For now, mayhap ’twas enough.

“Well,” Torr said, “now you two are acquainted, why do we not go to the great hall to dine? The cook has prepared roasted quail.”

“That sounds lovely,” Faye said.

Torr smiled at her. “You wished to speak with me, did you not? After the meal, we will talk.”

***

Following a few paces behind Faye and Torr, Brant glared at Torr’s arm slung around her waist. His fingers, slightly splayed on her mantle and pressed to her swaying hip, had a possessive air about them. With his flesh, he branded her as his own.

Brant gritted his teeth. He itched to knock Torr’s hand away. His mouth burned with the snarled reprimand that Faye belonged to no man.

Not even him.

For as much as he desired her, he did not deserve her.

Regret clamped like a vice around Brant’s heart. Seeing her and Torr walking side by side, he knew that, from appearances, Torr was the kind of man she would choose as a husband. Wealthy, respected, a lord of great authority, he would provide her with a lifestyle worthy of a lady, with all the luxuries Elayne had enjoyed.

Unlike Brant, who had no estate to call his own, with barely enough coin to pay for his food, drink, his dog, or his horse. A man who had murdered his brother. Curling his hands at his sides, he fought the surge of self loathing which threatened to choke him.

Ahead, Torr dipped his head near Faye’s ear, as though to murmur a secret. “I have yet to see you wear Elayne’s gowns.”

“I know.” She turned her face—just as Torr moved close enough to brush his lips against her hair—to glance at a girl carrying a basket of eggs. How neatly Faye avoided the intimate contact. Frowning, Torr straightened.

Gladness shivered through Brant. Mayhap some of what he had told her had made an impression—made her consider, at least, Torr’s involvement in the snarled tapestry of deception.

God’s teeth! If only he had proof.

“Tomorrow morn, you can speak with one of the keep’s seamstresses,” Torr said. “I will arrange the meeting for you, if you like.”

Faye looked back at Torr. Clever, how he recaptured her attention, a verbal snare disguised as an offer of assistance.

Brant continued to glare at Torr’s back, at the elegant drape of his cloak enrobing him in respectability. A cloak of deception, if Brant’s suspicions were correct.

“’Tis very kind of you,” Faye answered, “but I fear I am busy tomorrow morn. Mayhap another day.”

“Very well,” Torr said, sounding peeved. He seemed to sense Brant’s stare, for he swiveled while he walked. “You are quiet back there, my friend.”

Brant forced a careless smile. “I am famished. I can think of naught else but your cook’s fine fare.” He nodded to Faye. “And, of course, the fine conversation during the meal.”

In the near distance, a woman’s voice carried. “Milord!”

“Conversation, indeed.” Raising his eyebrows, Torr looked out across the inner bailey.

Turning on his heel, Brant followed Torr’s gaze. By the well, a buxom serving wench, her arms laden with firewood, struggled to dislodge the scruffy cap that had slid down over her face to reveal long brown hair.

“Milord,” she called again. Brant frowned. She did not gesture to Torr, but . . . him.

Brant tore his gaze away. She could not be summoning him. He knew very few of the servants at Caldstowe. With absolutely certainty, he knew she was not one he had ever met for a quick tumble behind the stable.

“A friend of yours?” Faye asked.

“I do not know who she is,” he bit back, hating the strained quality of his voice. He had no reason to feel guilty about the wench mistaking him for another man.

“Whoever she is, she is certainly eager for your attention.”

Brant resisted a smile. Did he hear jealousy in Faye’s voice?

He looked back at the servant. She had set down her armload of wood to right her cap. Sunlight caught her pocked face. Deane.

Catching his gaze, she beckoned again, impatience apparent in the thrust of her hand.

Brant cleared his throat, fighting the urge to tell her to stop being so bloody obvious. He feigned a roguish chuckle. “I suppose I should see what she wants.”

Torr snorted.

Faye’s lips pressed together.

Brant sauntered toward Deane. Behind him, he heard Faye and Torr’s footfalls resume.

As he approached, the strumpet winked at him. “’Allo.”

In the near distance, the forebuilding door creaked open. Brant sensed Torr escorting Faye inside, before the door clicked closed.

A level of tension slid from his taut posture. “Good day.”

Deane’s wide, conspiratorial gaze darted about the bailey. “I gots ta speak with ye. I gots news.”

Brant’s pulse jolted. “Good.” In a low voice, he said, “Pretend to be seducing me. Move to that quiet, shadowed area beside the stable.”

Deane tittered. With loose-hipped strides, she started backward toward the stable. “Pretend ta seduce ye? ’Tis easy. Ta ’ave a stallion like ye interested in me . . .” Her gaze raked over him, lingering on his groin. “Mmm.”

Brant grinned and swaggered forward, matching her strides. As they entered the shadows, he reached out and flicked aside the ties of her cap.

Her bosom bounced on a brazen giggle.

Two more steps, and her bottom hit the stable’s wattle and daub walls. Pressing one hand to the rough wall, he leaned over her. “Tell me your news.”

Her tongue darted between her lips. “First, ’ow ’bout a kiss?”

“’Twas not part of our agreement.”

Her face creased into a lusty grin. “’Twould help with the pretendin’.”

Unable to hold back an impatient growl, he said, “The news?”

She loosed a petulant sigh. Then her gaze shadowed. “’Tis about a young girl who works in the kitchen, named Blythe. She ’as been a big ’elp ta me, she ’as.”

“Aye?”

“Well, ya see, the other eve, as we ate our pottage after gettin’ ’is lordship’s meal, she told me about somethin’ she ’ad seen. She could not put it from ’er mind.”

“Go on,” Brant said, toying with Deane’s cap tie.

“She feared what she ’ad witnessed. ’Er eyes were ’uge. She was shakin’. Made me promise not ta tell another soul, and I told her ’twould be all right. She told me she snuck out a few eves ago fer a quick tumble with ’er young lover. ’E’s a farmer’s son, ye see. She came back in the dark hours, meanin’ ta ’urry through the postern gate. When she got close, she saw two men on ’orses. She did not know what was ’appenin’, so she ’id in the brush.”

Anticipation hummed inside Brant. “What happened?”

“They was speakin’ ta another man in quiet voices. Like they did not want ta be overheard.” Deane’s mouth tightened before she whispered, “Blythe saw that little girl bein’ lifted onto one o’ them ’orses.”

Brant froze. “Is she certain she saw Angeline?”

Deane nodded. “There was just enough moonlight that Blythe saw the child. Would never mistake that li’l angel’s face. She was all wrapped up in a blanket, mind, and sleepy.”

The question Brant wanted—nay, needed—to ask, hovered on his lips. He looked at Deane. “Lord Lorvais?”

The strumpet’s eyes widened before concern glinted in their depths. “’Is lordship handed the child over to those men.”

Anger and elation surged like a heady brew in Brant’s veins. “She definitely saw Torr?”

“Aye. She saw ’is lordship’s face. No mistakin’.”

Brant pushed away from the wall. At last, he had proof for Faye. “Who else has Blythe told?”

“No one. She feared Lord Lorvais would find out and she would lose ’er job.” Deane’s voice became a whisper. “Or worse.”

“I must speak with this girl.”

Indignation sharpened Deane’s gaze. “Why? Do ye not trust what I ’ave told ye?”

Trying very hard to control his impatience, Brant bestowed upon her his most charming smile. “Of course I do. There may be other details, though—important ones—that she remembers.”

“If I tell ’er ye wish ta speak with ’er, she will know I broke me promise.”

Brant touched Deane’s cheek, so different from the silken softness of Faye’s skin. “Since you have provided such excellent information, I will pay you another five pieces of silver.”

Deane looked away. She shrugged before her gaze slid back to his. “This eve, Blythe goes ta spend a few days with ’er mother, who is plagued by achin’ joints. I could, mayhap, see if she will speak with ye—”

“Good. As soon as possible.”

“—Fer the silver and a kiss, me lusty lord.”

Brant scowled, challenging her coy grin. He had paid her well to gather information for him—he did not owe her a kiss—but he leaned in to drop a quick kiss on her cheek.

Rolling her eyes, she grumbled, “’Twas not a kiss.”

Brant spun away from her, resolve glowing as hot as coals in his gut. The only woman he intended to kiss full on the mouth had disappeared into the keep, escorted by the man responsible for causing her anguish. A merciless bastard who had participated in his own daughter’s kidnapping, and pretended not to know her whereabouts.

Why? Ah, God, why?

Brant’s gaze narrowed on the forebuilding. He started toward the keep, his boots crunching on the dirt. Over his shoulder, he said, “I will be in the great hall, dining with Lord Lorvais. Tell the girl I wish to speak to her. Hurry.”

Chapter Twelve

“Are you certain you are all right, Faye?” Torr asked, his voice carrying in the dank forebuilding along with their footfalls. His arm tightened around her waist, so her hip brushed against his.

All right? A voice in her head screeched. How, by the blessed saints, could she be all right?

Forcing down the denial, concentrating on the narrow, uneven stone steps ascending to the hall, Faye nodded to Torr, even as she struggled to temper the storm of emotion inside her. How foolish of her to let him keep his arm at her waist. How weak of her not to have found some way to thwart the unwanted body contact, to put discreet distance between them. ’Twas unfair to encourage his attentions. At the moment, however, his possessive hold was an anchor securing her to the cold sea of reality.

Shadows, cast by reed torches lighting the passage, licked over the forebuilding’s walls. Her mind shot back to the tavern room, to the agonizing moments when she lay awake watching the firelight and trying to ignore Brant’s sensual presence, before a vision of him sauntering toward the busty servant consumed Faye with tormenting vividness.

How could he look at that . . . that wench in such a manner? Faye’s jaw clenched. Only a few moments earlier, he had expressed his desire for her in a tone frayed by such hunger, her whole body had trembled.

The forebuilding’s smoky shadows opened into the keep’s great hall, crossed overhead by blackened beams. His arm still at her waist, Torr guided her across the rush-strewn floor.

“Milord,” maidservants murmured, dropping into curtseys before hurrying past with platters of grain bread as well as jugs of wine. Wolfhounds scampered under the rows of trestle tables, awaiting the bits of food dropped during the meal. The mingled smells of warm fare, moldering rushes, and dog made Faye’s stomach whine in protest.

Sensing Torr’s gaze upon her, Faye managed a half-smile. She willed her nausea to dissipate. This was not the time to be ill. She would never escape from Torr’s cloying attentions under those circumstances.

The tightness inside her eased a notch. Good. Soon, her light-headedness would be gone—as, too, would her emotional tempest.

After all, she did not care what Brant was saying to the servant. She did not care if he found the wench fetching, or what sweaty tryst he might be arranging with her.

From the moment they met, she knew Brant was a rogue. He had never tried to convince her otherwise. An irrelevant, disappointed part of her had come to believe that despite his tough, scarred visage, a knight’s honor burned within him. Especially when it came to protecting Angeline. And herself.

Of all indignities, how could Brant vow he desired her, then pursue the first well endowed wench to smile at him? Such behavior was unforgivable.

She would tell him so when she next saw him.

When. Ha!  Sennights from now, if she had her way. With luck, she could avoid him until she chose to speak with him. She did not need any man’s help to find Angeline. She was not without choices, no matter how difficult those choices might be.

If Brant still imagined himself as her protector, he was an addled idiot.

Knave. Liar. Lustful, arrogant—

“Faye.”

She blinked, to find herself standing at the opposite end of the hall, before the raised dais. Chewing on a bone, a wolfhound gaped at her from under the table.

Torr, it seemed, awaited her response.

“I am sorry . . . Pardon?”

A puzzled frown creased his brow, before he motioned to the dais, urging her to step up to her usual place at the table.

“Thank you.” Raising her mantle’s hem so she did not trip, she stepped onto the dais. Careful not to catch the wolfhound’s shaggy tail, she drew out the vacant chair. She had often sat in this place and cared for Angeline when Elayne was unable to attend meals.

As she removed her mantle, Torr came up beside her. He shook his head. “You will sit next to me.”

Faye’s gaze traveled down the pristine, white linen cloth to the vacant spot next to the grand, carved chair at the table’s center. Elayne’s place.

Nay.

“’Tis very kind of you,” Faye said, “but I would prefer to sit here. You see, I have a bit of a headache, and may need to quit the meal early.”

Torr’s frown deepened. “Would you like me to ask the cook to make an infusion?”

“Thank you, but the ache is not unbearable. I will see how I feel after I have eaten.”

“Very well. Still, I vow ’twould be best if you sat by my side. For today,” he added with a coaxing smile. “What harm is there?”

She smothered a groan. Somehow, she must decline without offending him.

A maidservant hurried to the dais with a jug of wine. She filled Torr’s goblet, then reached for Faye’s. At that very moment, the wolfhound yelped—a sound of intense pain—and flew out from under the table. With a startled squeak, the girl lurched backward. The jug flew from her hand. It landed sideways on the table. Red wine flowed in a crimson streak toward Faye.

Gasping, Faye stepped away from the table. Wine dripped onto her chair.

“Oh!” The maidservant’s face paled.

“God’s blood,” Torr snapped.

“I am sorry, milord,” the girl stammered, “but the dog—”

“Clumsy fool! Lady Rivellaux’s garments might have been ruined.”

”But they were not,” Faye added with a reassuring smile. Whatever had occurred, ’twas certainly not the poor girl’s fault. Surely Torr realized that.

Tears welled in the maidservant’s eyes. “I do not know what happened. The dog seemed content. Milord, all of a sudden—”

Torr scowled. “Go fetch cloths to clean up this mess. Go!”

The girl curtsied, then bolted through the throng of curious onlookers.

Shaking his head, Torr muttered, “I am sorry, Faye. It seems you must sit next to me, after all.”

How convenient. “Torr, do you know why the dog yelped and ran at the very moment she poured my wine?”

“Why would I?” He sidestepped the crimson puddle on the dais. “Worry no more about the matter. Come.”

With a frustrated sigh, Faye brushed past the spilled wine. She could walk right past Torr to the vacant chairs at the table’s other end, but, after the incident moments ago, she guessed he would find another way to thwart her. Regardless of how she felt about sitting in Elayne’s place, the servants did not deserve to suffer from Torr’s whims.

Faye draped her mantle over Elayne’s chair back. Then, her posture stiff, she sat.

Torr smiled.

As she smoothed her gown across her legs, a sharp tingle danced down her spine.

Brant had entered the hall.

She tried to deny the immediate quickening of her pulse. She could not. Oh, God, she could not!

Faye raised her gaze, unable to deny a glance. The power of his spell drew her, compelled her, to meet his gaze. Across the crowded hall, he stared at her. His eyes glittered with unwavering determination.

A flush suffused her face. She broke his gaze. Yet, she felt his potent stare as he strode through the crowd of castle folk toward the dais. Each one of his footsteps seemed to match the thump of her heart. The echo of the very life force within her.

He said he desires you, yet he flirted with the servant.

Anger bolstered her resolve. He would not treat her like a fool.

“Ah, there he is,” Torr said beside her.

“Who?” she asked, even though she knew he meant Brant.

“The knave who cannot refuse a wench’s charms,” Torr said in an overloud voice, as Brant approached the dais. Torr chuckled.

Faye reached for her wine. Realizing the goblet had not been filled, she withdrew her hand. Her mouth craved a sip of the piquant liquid. A welcome distraction from Brant.

She tried not to look at him again, but somehow, could not resist. Brant was smiling, a curious, almost smug expression on his face. His head dipped in a curt nod before he stepped onto the dais. After removing his cloak, he slouched into the chair beside Torr.

“A satisfactory meeting?” Torr murmured, yet Faye heard every word. Her fingers curled into the tablecloth.

“Very.” Knave! He did not even try to keep his voice down.

Her face scorched. Next, he and Torr would be discussing the best places to take wenches for a lusty romp.

Her chair squealed on the dais as she stood. “If you will excuse me . . .”

Brant rose. “Lady Rivellaux. You cannot leave.”

“Oh?” She glared at him, a look she hoped delivered the full extent of her indignation. When Torr rose, she remembered she must pretend she had not met Brant until today at Elayne’s grave. “I regret I must. You see—”

Brant clapped Torr’s shoulder. “You will let this lovely lady slip away? I have only just met her.” He grinned in a most charming way. “You must stay, Lady Rivellaux. At least for a short while.”

“I agree,” Torr said. “Here comes the maidservant with your wine.”

Her gaze downcast, the girl rushed to the table, set down the wine jug she carried, then began mopping up the crimson-colored spill with a rag. Reaching over, Torr picked up the jug and filled Faye’s goblet. With an encouraging smile, he handed it to her. “Stay.”

“Aye, stay,” Brant echoed. A note in his voice—a hint of anticipation—made her pause.

More servants approached and set a platter of roasted fowl on the table before Torr. “At least, have a few bites to eat before you leave,” he said, gesturing to the fare.

“Very well.” Faye set down her wine and retook her seat.

Torr set morsels of roasted quail on a bread trencher and pushed it in front of her. “Try some of this. Cook’s best.”

As she slipped a dripping morsel between her lips, Brant glanced at her. His keen gaze fixed to her mouth, as though fascinated by it. The way a ravenous man stared at a decadent treat. A shiver wove through her as she dried her fingertips.

Had he looked at the wench that way? After dining and refortifying his strength, was he planning to go to her, ready to slake his desire?

Movement at the tables below snagged Faye’s gaze. There, by the nearest one, stood the busty servant. With a brazen giggle, she swatted one of the men-at-arms on the shoulder before strolling on to another table.

The lump of quail jammed at the back of Faye’s mouth. Her hand flew to her throat before she choked.

“Is the quail tasty, milady?” Brant asked.

She forced herself to swallow, then washed down the mouthful with wine. She smiled at Brant. “Delicious.” Dabbing at her lips, she said, “Since we do not know much about one another, pray tell, how long have you known Torr?”

Brant’s gaze slid to Torr. “Many years.”

Nodding, he said, “We have been friends since our youth. Brant, his brother Royce, and I were squires at the same earl’s keep.” He laughed. “We shared meals, beds, wenches . . .”

Brant scowled. “We never shared wenches.”

Wiping wine from his lips, Torr grinned. “You do not remember? Ah. You were too besotted from the earl’s vile ale.”

“I may have been drunk, but we never shared women.”

Fury underscored Brant’s words. Faye glanced at him while she picked another morsel from the trencher.

Torr gave a dismissive wave. “As you say. In truth, it does not really matter now, does it?”

Brant shoved a mouthful of gravy-soaked bread into his mouth and chewed hard.

“Brant, Royce, and I even joined the king’s crusade together,” Torr went on, oblivious it seemed, to Brant’s irritation. “Side by side, we fought the Saracens. Saved each other’s lives more than once. However, only two of us returned home.”

“Royce was killed,” Faye murmured.

Torr nodded. “Murdered.”

Brant’s head turned. His gaze hard as stone, he said, “That, too, is a matter that belongs in the past.”

“For some,” Torr said.

A strange note lightened his tone, as though he conveyed some hidden message. Brant shifted in his chair, a movement fraught with annoyance. The delicately spiced quail in Faye’s mouth suddenly tasted bitter.

What had happened between Brant, Torr, and Royce for Torr to make such a remark? The deliberate statement verged on cruel.

She reached for the wine jug. Smiling at Brant and Torr, she said, “More wine?”

Brant shook his head. With a pleased smile, Torr slid his goblet to her.

As she poured, the well-endowed servant walked into her range of vision. She seemed to linger a moment near the dais, toying with her cap’s ties, until Brant glanced at her. Then, with a tilt of her head, the wench indicated the girl delivering more bread to one of the tables.

The slender, pretty maidservant who had earlier spilled the wine.

The jug’s metal handle turned slick in Faye’s hand. Oh, mercy. Brant had not arranged to lie with the wench from the bailey, but with one of the younger women. Did the girl have any idea what had been planned? How much had he paid for the pleasure of her body?

“Careful,” Torr said.

Snapping her gaze back to his goblet, Faye saw it was on the verge of brimming over. With an apologetic laugh, she tilted up the jug, before setting it down with a thud.

“How clumsy of me. We would not want more wine spilled today, would we?”

Torr’s strong fingers slid around his goblet’s stem. He drew the vessel across the linen, his hand shaking slightly. The ruby liquid, dark as blood, quivered in the goblet. A drop welled over the rim. Before it landed on the tablecloth, he wiped it away with his fingertip, as though it had never existed.

Gone, just like little Angeline.

“You are interested in that serving wench?” Torr said, dragging Faye’s attention back to the conversation at the table. Brant was staring at the girl.

“She is the one who has been spoiling Val with the best scraps. I must take the opportunity to thank her.”

Torr grinned before sipping more wine. “Knave.”

Concern and frustration warred within Faye. How galling that when Angeline’s life was in grave danger, Brant thought only of satisfying his own base, carnal urges.

Do not go to her, wept a voice inside Faye. If you desire me, as you claimed at Elayne’s tomb, you will not.

His chair grated. He stood. “Torr, if you will excuse me.” Nodding to her, Brant said, “Lady Rivellaux.”

“Lord Meslarches,” she bit out. She smothered the foul taste of betrayal with a large gulp of wine.

His roguish smile faltered a fraction. He must have noticed her discomfiture. Still, he straightened, smoothed a hand over his tunic, and headed for the maidservant. When he stepped off the dais, light from the keep’s high overhead windows slanted over him, accentuating the broad swell of his shoulders, the sway of his narrow hips, the ripple of well-honed muscles as he strode toward the girl.

Faye’s eyes burned. No maidservant would refuse a handsome man like Brant. To some women, lying with him would be an opportunity to win his affection. If he cared for them, he might help improve their lives.

Adjusting her hold on the bread basket, the girl turned. She saw him and froze. Her nervous gaze fell to the floor. Reaching her side, he smiled and murmured close to her ear.

Faye’s cheek tingled, as if he whispered to her, the warmth of his breath feathering across her skin. When he reached out to run his palm over the maidservant’s slender shoulder, Faye felt his hand upon her own flesh, gentle and coaxing.

She could not sit here and watch.

Pushing aside her wine, she lurched to her feet. She snatched up her mantle.

Disappointment clouded Torr’s expression. He raised his hand, as though to halt her.

“I must leave,” she insisted, hating her wobbly voice. “My headache grows worse with each passing moment.”

“Shall I escort you to your chamber?” He pushed his chair back, as if to rise.

“Please, stay and finish your meal. I can make my own way.” Holding her head high, Faye stepped down from the dais. Her spine rigid, she crossed the hall, skirting the dogs fighting over fallen scraps as well as the servants hurrying between the tables.

She sensed Brant’s sharpened stare, but refused to glance his way. Never would she let him see her turmoil. He must never know how much his empty, cruel declaration of desire had corrupted her senses until she could think of naught but him.

Fie! Her head truly did hurt now.

Faye headed to the kitchens. Standing beside a boiling pot, her reddened face damp with perspiration, the cook beamed. “Lady Rivellaux.”

Faye managed a weak smile. “May I have a soothing infusion? I have a headache.”

The cook’s graying head bobbed while she wiped her face with the corner of her apron. “Of course, milady. One of the maidservants will bring it up ta yer chamber as soon as ’tis ready.” Waving her hand, she yelled, “You, girl, come ’ere and stir this stew. Zounds! Where is that Blythe when I need ’er?”

Faye shuddered. Blythe was no doubt otherwise occupied. With Brant.

After making her way back to her chamber, Faye shut the door, then leaned back against the rough-hewn wood. A sigh rushed between her lips. Fisting her hands against the door, she shoved forward. She would not succumb to selfish regrets. Regardless of what Brant had said, or what he was now doing, Angeline was more important than selfish desire.

Torr would soon be finished eating. Before he left the keep to attend other duties was the ideal time to request a private meeting with him

Faye set aside her mantle and headed to the trestle table at the opposite side of the chamber to pick up her ivory comb, a gift from Elayne. Faye drew it through her tresses. The ivory whispered against her hair, the sound akin to ghostly secrets.

The tines snagged on a knot. She carefully worked out the tangle so her hair fell in a smooth, shiny mass to her waist. The way Torr preferred it.

Unease rippled through her.

Courage, Faye.

A knock sounded on her chamber door. She set down the comb and opened the panel to find a maidservant holding a mug of fragrant tea. The girl dropped into a careful curtsey. “From the cook, milady.”

With a grateful nod, Faye took the infusion and closed the door. She returned to the table, took a long drink and set down the mug. The fortifying brew tasted of the ginger used to flavor the fowl served at the midday meal.

What if Torr tried to touch her when they were alone? Or kiss her, even?

If he desired her, she must use it to her advantage.

Aye, she must.

Fighting a rush of panic, Faye picked up her round, polished steel mirror—one of Elayne’s cast-offs—and looked at her reflection. Her skin looked pale, her eyes huge. She pinched her cheeks with her fingers to elicit a pink flush. Better. A glint of renewed determination shone in her gaze, and she smiled.

When she returned the mirror to the table, sudden, sharp realization charged through her.

She was no longer alone.

Her chamber door closed with a muted click. She faced the doorway.

His hand still grasping the iron handle, Brant stared at her. How imposing he looked, blocking her escape to the rest of the keep. A physical barrier standing between her and Torr. Between illusion and enlightenment.

Dropping his fingers from the handle, he turned before leaning back against the wooden panel, his cloak draped over one arm. His pose indicated he had no intention of letting her past.

“You did not knock,” she said, her words brittle with indignation. “You have no right to enter my chamber.”

He smiled—a bold, brazen tilt of his mouth that caused heat to pool between her thighs. “If I had knocked, Faye, you would have refused to let me in. Bolted the door, even. A risk I could not take, for there is a great deal I must say to you.”

Chapter Thirteen

Brant’s gaze skimmed over Faye. Standing beside the trestle table, her hair cascading in ripples of copper fire about her slender body, he barely resisted the urge to stride to her, sweep her into his arms, and kiss her.

How beautiful she looked. How fiercely proud. Indignation hardened her eyes to a bright, icy green, while her lips formed a stubborn line that forewarned him what he had to reveal to her would not be readily accepted.

Yet, she must accept the truth.

“Brant, get out.”

“You may be angry with me, but you will hear what I have to say.”

“Will I?” In Faye’s passionate refusal, he heard many facets to her fury—grief, loyalty, uncertainty, and resolve as strong as tempered steel.

Very different from meek Blythe, who had almost collapsed in terror when, in the quiet yard outside the kitchens, he had asked her to recount the night she had witnessed Angeline’s abduction. Even the silver, pressed into her palm, did little to alter her fear.

“I told no one,” the girl whispered, her expression wild. “Only . . .” Her mouth crumpled on a frightened moan.

“You need not fear me. I swear, upon my dead brother’s soul, I will not betray you. But you must tell me all you remember. I mean to rescue Angeline, if you will help me.”

Blythe shook as though the ground would open beneath her feet like a demon’s fanged mouth and gobble her for speaking ill of her lord.

“You are the only one who can help,” Brant pressed. “The child’s life may depend on it.”

The girl hesitated a long moment. Then, in a hushed voice, she told what she had seen. Brant handed her more coins, told her to leave as arranged for her mother’s, and to never return to Caldstowe.

Faye’s angry sigh slashed into Brant’s thoughts. “I asked you to leave.”

“So you did.”

“Other women would be far more interested in what you have to say.”

Despite his determination to thwart her anger, the barest grin tilted his mouth. “Is that jealousy I hear, Faye?”

Her breath expelled on a choked gasp. She looked angry enough to spit flames.

“If you mean the woman in the bailey this afternoon—” Brant went on.

She threw up her hands. “Aye, as well as the maidservant in the great hall. Did you think I would not notice? Did you think I would not. . . . care? After what you said this afternoon?” Her voice became a pained whisper.

Brant shoved away from the door. He yearned to embrace her, to smooth his hands down her hair’s shimmering fall, to reassure her, through the most intimate joining between man and woman, she was the only woman he desired. “Those wenches mean naught to me.”

Tears sparkled in her eyes. “Do not think me a fool.”

“Faye!”

“Those wenches were a quick romp behind the haystacks.”

Her wounded fury sapped his mirth, transforming it to self-reproach. “Listen to me, Faye. I did not couple with either of them.”

She rubbed her quivering lips together, doubt still lingering in her gaze.

“I would never lie to you.”

A shaky breath escaped her. “Then why—?”

“I have the proof you demanded.”

“Proof?”

“Torr arranged Angeline’s kidnapping. The maidservant Blythe witnessed it.”

Faye’s mouth fell open. The angry flush drained from her face, leaving her skin ashen. Her arms folded over her belly in a protective gesture. “Oh, God.”

The urge to console her roared in Brant’s blood. Five steps, and he could draw her against him in a comforting embrace. Yet, her anger was still too raw. She would only shove him away.

Hands clenched at his sides, he said, “A few nights ago, when the maidservant returned to the keep by the postern gate, she saw Torr hand Angeline over to two cloaked men on horseback.”

Revulsion shivered across Faye’s features. “Is the maidservant certain ’twas Torr?”

“Aye.”

“’Twas dark. She could be mistaken, could she not?”

Shaking his head, he said, “The girl was terrified. She did not doubt what she had seen.”

Fear sharpened Faye’s gaze, followed by fierce resolve. “Where is this maidservant? I will speak with her myself.”

“After serving the midday meal, she planned to go visit her mother. I gave her some silver, told her to leave, and never return.”

Faye gasped. “How could you?”

“’Tis too dangerous for her to stay at Caldstowe.”

A shrill, frantic laugh broke from Faye. “You believe Torr might kidnap her, too?”

“I cannot say what Torr might do.” That was the truth. The Torr that could abduct his own child was no one Brant knew—and certainly no man Brant wanted to call friend.

“Oh, mercy!” Faye whispered. “Where were the men going with Angeline? Did they intend to harm her?”

“Blythe does not know. She hid in the nearby brush and did not hear all of their conversation. However, they did mention Waverbury.”

“A village two leagues away.” Faye squeezed her arms tighter across her abdomen. “Torr owns a manor home there. When he and Elayne first married, they spent several days there.”

“The riders might have passed through the town, on their way to another village,” Brant said. “However, ’tis possible Angeline is being held at this home.”

“We must know for certain!”

“We will.”

Leveling him a puzzled stare, Faye said, “What of the woman from the bailey?”

“Blythe befriended her. In truth, she is a strumpet from the Spitting Hen Tavern, whom I paid to find work at Caldstowe and see what she could learn about Angeline’s disappearance. Distraught over what she had seen, Blythe confided in her.”

“Your spy,” Faye murmured.

He nodded.

Faye wiped her eyes. Brant sensed her anger wavering, an opportunity he must not let slip away. He crossed to her. When he drew near, he tossed his cloak onto the trestle table.

Right as he turned to draw Faye into his arms, an object fell from the cloak’s folds and hit the floor. The ointment Greya had given him.

What wretched timing. Muttering an oath, he stooped to snatch up the pot.

Squinting through her tears, Faye said, “Ointment?”

“From Greya. For my scar.”

He set the pot on the table. As he turned to face Faye again, she reached out. Her fingertips touched his scarred cheek.

He recoiled, almost stumbling over his own feet.

Her moist gaze widened in surprise. “It still pains you?”

“Nay.” Heat stung his cheekbones.

Her gaze softened, before her head dipped in a nod. She looked about to lower her hand. Then, fingers trembling, she again reached out and touched him. Her fingers feathered over his rough, puckered skin with such tenderness his soul wept.

A tremor lanced through him. Step away, a voice inside him screamed. Ugly, repulsive, murderous bastard, you are unworthy of her touch. He swallowed, fighting the urge to jerk back. Yet, magic shimmered in her caress. Where her fingers moved, warmth tingled across his skin. An answering heat flared deep inside him, akin to a long dead torch flaring to life.

With a ragged sigh, he tilted his face into her caress.

“Oh, Brant.” Her voice shook. “Why did Torr take Angeline? Why?”

He caught her hand and gently kissed her knuckles. “That, I do not know.”

A sob wrenched from her. Brant slid his arms around her waist and drew her close. As their bodies pressed together, a pleasured groan, born in his soul, burst through him. How perfect Faye felt, nestled against him. How right it seemed for her to drop her head against his shoulder. Her floral scent flooded his senses, delicate yet, in its own way, intoxicating.

Her breath faltered. As though a powerful spell had been unleashed, he felt her torment like a sword rammed into his own heart. How well he understood the agony ripping through her. The uncertainty. The brutal self-condemnation vowing that, somehow, the whole incident could have been prevented.

Damnation. She did not deserve to be caught up in such anguish.

“Shh.” He drew her even closer. Her soft, warm breasts pressed against his chest. Lowering his head, he kissed her hair. “’Twill be all right, Faye.”

“Brant,” she whispered. One word. A spell all its own.

A tiny, wary part of him fought her enchantment. Step away. Fight her bewitchment. She is pure light, whereas you are darkness so wretched, you could well destroy her.

Remorse shivered through Brant, even as his hands curled into her gown to prevent himself from walking away and abandoning her when she needed his strength. Even more powerful than his conscience grew his knowledge that the elemental sorcery between them could never be denied.

He sensed the moment her breathing quickened. The moment her anguish metamorphosed into desire.

Step away! Now! Before you can no longer fight her allure.

Her chin tilted up. Her lips, slightly parted, hovered tantalizingly close.

“Brant,” she whispered again.

His mind flooded with the scent of her. With the promise of her dewy mouth.

Stretching up, she kissed him full on the lips.

Lost, his soul wept. You are lost!

Hunger exploded inside him, shattering all reason. Beguiling him beyond rational thought with the lure of sexual fulfillment.

He groaned against her mouth, plunging his tongue deeper. She gasped, shuddered, squeezed even closer to him. In her kiss, he tasted the salt of her tears, along with the desperate yearning to find comfort, to share a moment of mindless oblivion, with someone who understood.

His arms moved from around her waist. Flattened to her body, his hands skimmed down over her gown to the swell of her bottom. She moaned against his lips as his fingers pressed into her flesh, drawing her hips flush against his hardened desire.

“How you enchant me,” he rasped, pressing tiny kisses along her flushed cheek.

“Brant,” she murmured. An invitation for him to enchant her.

With a little growl, he kissed her again. His deft fingers moved, drawing up the fabric of her gown and chemise, fold by fold, until they bunched at her waist.

She quivered against him.

He drew back to look down into her tear-streaked face. “Do you know what you ask of me?” he whispered hoarsely. “Once we begin . . .”

Her shimmering, green eyes stared back at him as her hands swept over his lower back. Then, with only the slightest hesitation, her fingers brushed his arousal.

Fire leapt through his groin. He gasped.

“I know what I ask,” she whispered, and touched him again.

Heat licked through every part of his body. Of course she knew. She was not a virgin, but a widow, experienced in the sensual alchemy between men and women. Ah, God, how he burned to experience the splendor of her magic.

Kissing her, he swept his fingertips up under her bunched garments to her naked back. He nudged her backward, steering her with his body toward her bed. How smooth her skin felt against his, akin to the finest silk. The salty taste of her kiss became sweet, as ambrosial as a powerful potion. He could not kiss her fast enough, deep enough.

With equal fervor, she kissed him in return, each brush of her lips more impassioned than the last. Slipping her hands under his tunic, she fumbled with the fastenings of his hose. When her greedy fingers touched his stomach, so close to his swollen need, heat shot through his loins. “Faye,” he choked out. “Easy.”

“I cannot help it,” she breathed against his lips. “I cannot stop touching you.”

The back of her legs hit the bed. An impatient cry broke from her before she pulled free of his embrace, sat, and then slowly stretched back on the coverlet. Fisting one hand into the front of his tunic, she urged him down beside her.

The bed ropes creaked at his weight, reminding him of the first time they lay together. She had fought him then. Now she seemed to want to explore all of him. Again, her wandering hand slid under his tunic. Her fingers skimmed lightly over his belly, up to his ribcage.

He eased up on one elbow. As he looked down at her beautiful, flushed features, he shifted his weight to gently nudge his leg between hers, easing her bare thighs apart. Her slumberous gaze widened. Uncertainty flickered in her eyes.

The sensual enchantment between them wavered, as though threatened.

“Faye?”

Her throat moved with an awkward swallow. “I . . .” Sucking her bottom lip between her teeth, she turned her head away. Along her lashes, he glimpsed fresh tears.

He leaned over, caught her chin, and turned her face back to look at him. He pressed a tender kiss to her lips. “What is it?”

She swallowed again. “Are you . . . ready?”

Her words pierced him with the agony of a barbed arrow. For a cold, cruel moment, he wondered if she mocked his rampant desire. As the misery in her expression deepened, the true meaning of her words became clear.

“Your husband never pleasured you,” he whispered, aghast.

A mortified stain spread across her cheeks.

“You coupled with him, as he expected of his wife, yet he satisfied only his own needs. He never once tried to please you.”

Nodding, Faye closed her eyes. “I feel so . . . foolish.” Her hand, curled against his chest, dropped away. She reached for her clothing and tried to push it down. “I am sorry, Brant.”

Anger raced through him, as fierce as his desire. He stilled her hand. “Do not apologize. Your husband was a selfish bastard.”

Astonishment registered in her gaze. Dipping his head, Brant kissed her again. His hand skimmed up her body to touch her right breast. She gasped, quivered. Her eyelids fluttered closed. With his fingertips, he traced her hardened nipple. To him, each of her stunned sighs was pure magic.

“If you have never experienced pleasure”—he nibbled her bottom lip—“I am honored to show you.”

She arched against his touch. “Pleasure,” she whispered.

“So intense, you vow your soul has broken into a thousand pieces.”

Her eyes opened a fraction.

“So wondrous, you will crave it again and again.”

A wry smile tugged at her kiss-reddened mouth. “Your prowess sounds exceptional.”

He chuckled. Then, rising over her, his legs spread either side of hers, he bent his head to her breast and sucked her nipple, tasting her flesh through her woolen gown.

She cried out. Her hands flailed. She stroked his hardness through his partly unfastened hose—a touch that stole every glimmer of his well-intentioned restraint.

He bucked above her.

“Show me,” she whimpered, restless beneath him. “I cannot wait.”

“Faye—”

“Please!”

A sigh rushed through his teeth. He trembled, unable to quell a heady surge of anticipation. Later, he would taste the petal soft skin behind her knee, as well as her body’s other enticements.

Now . . .

He worked aside the fabric of his hose. Then, he poised his body over her.

“Please,” she moaned.

He thrust forward. Beneath him, Faye dragged in a breath, a sound of sheer wonder.

Brant groaned as her slick warmth enveloped him. Clenching his jaw, he cautioned himself to go slowly, to prolong her pleasure, but when he flexed his hips, her body curled to meet him. Sensation careened through him. Acute. Delicious.

Enthralling beyond belief.

When he moved again, and Faye moaned in a perfect echo of his own pleasure, he could no longer deny her. Desire consumed him, obliterating all but their exquisite joining. Closing his eyes, he surrendered to the enchantment of sighs, gasps, and skin against skin. The magic raced through him, soared within him, until he shattered on a wave of mind-numbing pleasure.

Through a haze of bliss, he felt her climax around him. “Brant,” she moaned.

He held her, kissing her sweat-dampened brow while she shuddered beneath him. “Faye,” he whispered. “My treasure.”

***

A delicious fog clouded Faye’s mind. She lay with her eyes closed, her hands limp against her coverlet. Brant’s earthy scent lingered, although moments ago he had eased his weight from her. Rubbing her tingling lips together, she savored the lingering essence of his kiss. Her whole body felt as if it glowed from within, warmed by a profound bliss.

No wonder she had felt incomplete after coupling with Hubert. How little she had experienced of true lovemaking. What she had endured in her husband’s bed could not really be called lovemaking at all.

A frown tugged at her brow. Hubert had denied her pleasure. Not once had he implied she should expect more from their couplings, inept as they were, compared to the rhythmic symmetry of her joining with Brant. Had Hubert not realized women experienced pleasure? Or, for some reason, had he not wanted her to know?

She sighed and arched her spine in a languid stretch. It did not matter. Now, in exceptional detail, she knew full well what she had been denied.

Thanks to Brant, her gallant hero, who had conquered her ignorance with astounding finesse.

Eyelids still closed, she stretched out her hand. Her fingers bumped his warm, muscled body. His hand closed over hers. So gentle, his touch, as though she were precious to him.

Faye, my treasure, he had whispered earlier.

Smiling, she opened her eyes. He lay on his side, one muscled leg still draped over hers. What a rogue he looked, with his hair an unruly snarl, his eyes aglow with triumph, and his hose still unfastened, an oversight which suggested he might wish to pleasure her again.

Oh, mercy.

As delicious heat spiraled through her, all the way down to her toes, he grinned. “Well?”

“Well what?” By the saints, she could not be so bold as to assume he wanted to couple again.

Could she?

“Did I speak true about the pleasure?”

She nodded, her hair whispering against the coverlet. “’Twas more wondrous than I ever imagined.”

His grin broadened. How devastating he looked when his gaze narrowed with smoldering intent. He linked his hand through hers and drew it to his mouth. He kissed her fingers, one by one, a slow, deliberate brush of his lips that transformed the sinful heat inside her to a nagging hunger. “Does that mean you would like some more?”

Laughing, she said, “Aye, when I have caught my breath.”

“You need only ask, and pleasure is yours.” He winked. “There is much I can teach you, Faye.”

She pushed up on one elbow, bringing her face closer to his. As she fingered aside sweat-matted tresses, her gaze fell to her naked thighs. Her rumpled gown still rode to her waist. Shyness swept through her. Ridiculous, really, considering the intimacy she and Brant had just shared. Yet, as her face warmed, she sat up, wriggling her hips to tug the gown down over her knees.

Brant chuckled. “Why do you hide your legs? I shall only be tempted to reveal them again, for they are ravishing, shapely . . .”

His words became a blur of sound. A memory seared her mind: her thighs streaked crimson with blood, the day she lost her babe.

With a startled gasp, she pressed her hand to her belly. She shivered, wracked by a chill that leeched all warmth from her.

The bed ropes creaked. Shifted. Brant’s arm closed around her and pulled her against his chest. “What is wrong? Are you in discomfort?”

She shook her head. Her cheek brushed against his tunic. Through the warm fabric, she heard his steady heartbeat, the pulse of life. Her stillborn daughter had never drawn even one living breath.

Faye blinked hard.

“What, then?” Brant’s arm around her relaxed a fraction. “Ah. I understand now. You fear you might have conceived a babe.”

“Nay,” she murmured.

“You worry how you will explain the child growing in your belly”—Brant’s tone hardened—“when you are a widow.”

She hated to hear anger in Brant’s voice, especially after the joy they had shared. Raising her head, she met his wary gaze. “If there is a babe, I will cherish it. I do not care what others might say.”

“If there is a babe—” he repeated quietly.

“—I will consider it a gift. A divine miracle. Especially after . . .” She bit down on her lip.

Puzzlement darkened Brant’s expression. “After what?”

Grief twisted up inside her. For the first time in many long months, though, she wanted to speak of what happened. “After I miscarried my daughter.”

“Faye! God’s teeth, I am sorry. If I had known—”

She took his face in her hands, silencing him by pressing her thumbs to his lips. His eyes moist with regret, he gently kissed her. “Please,” he breathed on her damp skin. “Forgive me.”

With a sad smile, she touched his ruined cheek. “We both have our scars.”

Disquiet flickered in his gaze before he smiled. “We do. However, if I have given you a babe, I will not abandon you, or my responsibility to my child. This I promise.” As though to affirm his vow, Brant drew her forward and kissed her. The tender kiss soothed like a healing balm.

His tongue slid between her teeth, deepening the sensual contact, offering another taste of pleasure. In answer, she met the thrust of his tongue, encouraging his desire. With a hungry growl, he eased her back down upon the bed. His hand slid under her gown, gliding it up her thigh. The friction of the fabric against her skin sped her pulse with anticipation.

A knock sounded on her chamber door.

She lurched, making the bed ropes creak.

Breaking the kiss, Brant drew back.

Turning her head on the coverlet, Faye glanced at the door. She had not locked it after Brant stepped into her chamber, or before their lovemaking.

Another knock.

Brant blew out a breath. “Faye,” he whispered.

“I must answer it,” she whispered back, pushing up.

“Must you?” A mischievous grin pulled at his lips while his hand buried into her hair, twisting it around and around as though to hold her firm.

Another brisk rap. “Faye?”

“Torr!” she gasped.

The teasing mirth vanished from Brant’s expression. He tipped his head toward the opposite side of the bed.

Rising to her feet, Faye nodded. A wise plan. He would hide until she had finished with Torr and he went away.

The bed ropes creaked as Brant swung his legs onto the coverlet. More creaks and groans as he scrambled toward the other side. She smoothed her hair with frantic hands, hoping her efforts would be enough to thwart any suspicions Torr might harbor.

Muttered voices came from outside.

“I-I will be right there,” she called.

The door opened inward.

In the midst of straightening her bodice, she froze.

Torr stepped into her chamber. As his gaze fell upon her, then Brant, poised to lunge off the bed’s opposite side, his mouth hardened. His face twisted into a forbidding scowl. Reaching back, he swung the door closed. The slam reverberated like a crash of thunder.

“Torr,” she said. In the awful silence, her acknowledgment sounded like a curse.

His furious gaze returned to her. With painstaking slowness, he glanced her over, seeming to notice every damning detail: her mussed tresses, burning face, reddened mouth, and creased gown. Still clutching her bodice, her fingers curled so tightly, she vowed her knuckles would crack.

Behind her, bedding rustled. Footfalls thudded as Brant strode around the bed, fastening his hose. Faye dragged her gaze from him, to find Torr’s dagger-sharp gaze still upon her.

“Explain yourself, Meslarches,” he bit out.

Brant stood beside her. “What shall I explain?”

Torr’s lip curled. “Did he broach your chamber, Faye, and try to hurt you? Did he force himself upon you? Tell you not to cry out for help?”

Tremendous rage echoed in his voice. She struggled to hold her head high. “Nay.”

“Why, then, is he in your chamber? Scrambling across your bed, no less, like a knave afraid of being caught with his hose around his ankles?”

Brant raised his brows. The irreverent gesture somehow expressed all of what had happened between him and her.

An angry breath exploded from Torr. “Earlier, you wished to speak with me, Faye. Why? To tell me you have taken a lover?”

He almost spat his question, as though her taking a lover was akin to committing a heinous crime. Anger skittered in a hot-cold flush across her skin. “That is not why I wished to speak with you.”

Brant’s arm slid around her waist in silent reassurance. Strength seemed to flow from his body into hers, bolstering her courage like an elixir. “When I did not answer your knock,” she added, “you should not have entered my chamber. I wish you had respected my privacy.”

Astonishment lit his gaze before his eyes again narrowed. “You seem to have forgotten you live in my keep.”

Faye swallowed hard. In other words, he would do as he pleased.

Torr spread his hands wide. “I do not mean to sound unreasonable, Faye. You must understand I had to step inside. ’Tis my sworn duty, as lord of Caldstowe, to care for those in my household. You complained earlier of a headache. For all I knew, you were too ill to walk to the door. Lying senseless on the floor, even.”

Brant snorted.

Torr’s contemptuous gaze snapped to him. “And you. Were the other wenches not enough to satisfy your lust?”

Anguish lanced through Faye, grazing the tender edge of her soul. She sensed Torr’s malicious intent to wound Brant, to control the situation. Still, she could not help glancing at Brant.

He stared at Torr. A brittle smile tilted Brant’s mouth.

“You were not satisfied with wenches,” Torr went on. “You had to seduce a lady. A widow still grieving for her husband.”

Faye sucked in a harsh breath. When she looked up, Brant’s intent gaze locked with hers.

“I did not lie to you, Faye. I did not couple with those other women.”

“What convincing words.” Torr’s laughter sounded almost smug. “You are a devious rogue, Meslarches.”

Faye tipped her chin higher. “I trust Brant.”

“Do you, indeed? I have known him far longer than you. I vow he would have told you whatever you wished to hear, if it meant you took him to your bed.”

Brant swore under his breath.

Faye gasped. “What a wretched thing to say!”

“Believe me, he is hardly a man innocent of guilt. You have been deceived.”

Aye, so I have, her conscience screeched. By you. With effort, she bit back the hateful words. To lash out at Torr in such a rash manner, to provoke him further, was very foolish.

When she did not answer, he said, “You do not believe me?”

A deliberate taunt. He dared her to challenge him. To argue what a brave, honorable champion she had found in Brant.

His arm at her waist shifted, as though he sensed the disquiet tingling through her veins. Why would Torr taunt her so? What reason did he have to goad her into challenging him?

What did he know about Brant that she did not?

Torr smiled, yet warmth did not brighten his gaze. He looked at Brant. “How well you have hidden your true nature from her.”

Her unease deepened, sharpened by a new confusion. “True nature? What do you mean?”

“Enough.” The anger and pain in Brant’s voice reminded her, for some peculiar reason, of the hint of a secret she had glimpsed earlier in his gaze. “There is no deception between Faye and me,” he said with quiet menace. “Do not insist there is.”

Torr crossed his arms over his tunic. Raising his eyebrows, he said, “Really? For her to have allowed you to couple with her, she must have thought you to be a man of a certain . . . caliber.”

Faye shivered as Brant’s muscled arm at her waist tautened. His fingers clenched into her gown, as though he battled to control his rising fury. “My relationship with Faye is none of your affair.”

“She is an honored guest at Caldstowe. Since she was a dear friend of Elayne’s, I consider her my friend as well. ’Tis my obligation to warn her when I know she is making a grave error in judgment.”

Choking back a furious cry, Faye stared up at Brant’s rigid profile. Fury, yet also intense anguish, radiated from him. Why did he seem in such torment? Did he believe she would never wish to see him again because of what Torr said? Surely, after the magical bond they shared, he did not believe that.

She nudged closer so her hip pressed to his. An offer of comfort, as well as a promise she would not forsake the intimate pledge forged between them. Meeting Torr’s gaze, she said, “Surely ’tis my choice whom I take to my bed.”

Torr scowled. “Listen to me—”

“Leave her be.” Brant took a step forward. Cool air brushed Faye’s hip, separated from Brant’s warmth. How she yearned to reach out and draw him back.

Hands on his hips, Brant said, “Your disagreement is with me, Torr, not her. You and I will speak outside.”

“Very well.” A sly grin twisted Torr’s mouth as he turned toward the door. “Remember, Faye, he is not worthy of you.”

Brant’s breath hissed between his teeth. “And you are?”

His fingers on the door handle, Torr halted. He slowly turned. His face contorted with such terrifying rage, Faye’s hand flew to her throat. He looked about to challenge Brant to a swordfight to the death.

She lurched forward a step, dismay shrieking inside her. How did she stop the disagreement from dissolving into bloody violence? She would never forgive herself if Brant were mortally wounded, or died, because of a disagreement that started over her.

“Torr, please,” she said.

He did not seem to hear her. He continued to glare at Brant, a look that would have sent most men cowering on the floorboards pleading “Forgive me, milord.”

Returning the steely glare, Brant did not flinch. He did not attempt to speak.

An invisible, seething current filled the chamber. A battle of wills between the two men who stood locked in silent combat.

A sense of something transpiring—something crucial and life-altering—shifted the chamber’s mercurial energy. Faye twisted her clammy hands together. If only she understood!

After long moments, Torr laughed, a sound rife with gloating arrogance. Extending his arm in mocking chivalry, he said, “Go on, then. Tell her the truth. Tell her just how unworthy you are.”

His words lashed like strikes of a whip. With his challenge, the atmosphere in her chamber changed again. A dark spell seemed to have been cast, for the rebellion in Brant’s expression wavered. Defiance melted from his posture, to be replaced by resignation.

Faye reached out to touch his arm.

His gaze, when he looked at her, held a terrible bleakness.

Torr’s mouth turned up in a cruel smile. Reaching for the door handle again, he said, “Come, Brant.”

Revulsion flooded Faye’s mouth. Torr commanded Brant as though he were a stupid mongrel who owed him lifelong obedience, not a man with an independent will.

Brant turned toward the door.

“Brant!” The half whisper, half sob broke from her. If he left now, he admitted he was unworthy.

He was not! Honor glowed strong and true in his soul. She did not doubt it.

Hands balled at his sides, he swung back to face her. Torment shone in his eyes, an agony not forged in this conflict. Her own anguish recognized that such misery drove much deeper, and had gnawed at his soul for long, painful months.

“I am sorry, Faye,” he said. “Torr spoke true. I deceived you.”

Brant’s voice sounded like another man’s. A stranger’s.

Tears scalded her eyes. “Do not speak such wretchedness.”

A despairing smile, devoid of all hope, touched Brant’s mouth—the same skilled mouth that had kissed her. Pleasured her. Murmured Faye, my treasure.

“I am not worthy—”

“Brant!” she sobbed. “Cease!”

“—because I am a murderer. I killed my own brother.”

Chapter Fourteen

Brant watched, his palms coated with sickly sweat, as Faye’s pleading gaze widened with horrified disbelief. She drew a sharp breath before she stumbled backward. Against her ashen skin, her eyes looked huge. Dazed.

“You what?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the ugly silence. Yet, those two words echoed in his soul, stabbing like verbal daggers, cutting deeper with each repetition. You what? You what?!

“Aye,” Torr muttered behind Brant. “What did you say?”

Brant raised his chin another notch. His mind reeled with the chaos converging inside him, the knowledge that his world, as he knew it, had disintegrated around him.

His life would never be the same again.

Most of all, his relationship with Faye.

His throat burned as if he had swallowed a fiery torch yanked from the depths of hell. To repeat his words would gouge out another bleeding chunk of his soul. God help him, but there was relief in his confession as well. Tremendous, strength-draining relief that at last, his secret was a secret no longer.

Never again must he bear the merciless weight of his burden.

Or the chafing constraints of his blood oath.

“I am a murderer. I killed my own brother.”

As he spoke, he looked at Faye. She appeared as shattered as he felt. He blinked away the moisture stinging his eyes. How he wished he could have spared her the truth. How he longed to take her in his arms, bury his face in her hair, and weep how sorry he was for the repugnant sin he had committed. For not being able to stop the knife sliding into Royce’s flesh.

Faye, my treasure.

He had vowed he would never lie to her. Of all the wrongs he had committed in his life, he would be proud, until his last dying breath, that he had never kept the truth from her.

For the fleeting magic they had shared, he would be forever grateful. Because of her, he had found the courage to admit what he had done. To break from Torr’s controlling grasp and accept the light of responsibility.

“When did you kill your brother?” Painfully thin, Faye’s voice cut him in a way no physical weapon could.

“Months ago, on crusade.”

“How?”

Bile flooded Brant’s throat. The remembered shouts, cries, and cacophony of that terrible day overran his thoughts. The metallic smell of blood once more tinged his nostrils, turning his stomach. “I . . . stabbed him.”

“Nay!” Faye covered her mouth with her shaking hands.

“I still cannot explain how it happened,” he blurted, her anguish so painful to him, he could scarcely breathe. “I did not want to fight him. I loved Royce. I . . . never meant to kill him.”

Her face crumpled. She whirled around, turning her rigid back to him. Rippling down to her hips, her tangled hair shone like molten fire, tempting him to reach out and smooth it with his hand. An offer of comfort she would most certainly reject.

Silence filled the chamber like a foul smoke. Brant sensed Torr’s livid gaze raking over him. Brant shoved his shoulders back. He would not recant his confession. Nor would he cower when he faced whatever punishment he deserved.

Faye trembled. She was crying, but trying hard to muffle the sound. He blinked harder, fighting the gut-wrenching urge to cross to her, drop to his knees at her feet, and beg her not to look upon him with loathing.

An almost unbearable yearning to feel her body pressed against him, to hear her whisper his name with passion and trust, consumed him.

Mayhap never again.

Grief roared inside him. ’Twould be a punishment harsher than death.

“A murderer,” Torr muttered. “God’s blood.”

Brant forced down a harsh laugh. Bastard!  How cunning to pretend you did not know.

Behind Brant, the door creaked open. A draft wafted over him. Despite his resolve to stand firm, he tensed. Torr might be lord of Caldstowe, sworn to obey the civilized laws of England’s king, but Torr had fought in the east, where rules of battle were far less important than victory. There were many ways to punish a man without killing him, some too vile to contemplate now.

“Guards!” Torr bellowed.

Footfalls rang in the corridor. When the sentries approached, a brutal shiver crawled down Brant’s spine. Tightening his jaw, he shut out the memories swarming into his mind.

The armed guards strode through the doorway. “Milord.”

With an arrogant flick of his hand, Torr said, “Brant Meslarches just confessed to murdering his brother while on crusade. Is that not true, Lady Rivellaux?”

Faye’s head turned. A strand of hair brushed her pale, damp cheek as she nodded. “He did.”

Brant silently begged her to look at him one last time.

She turned away.

“Guards, arrest Meslarches. If he resists, subdue him with all necessary force.”

***

As the sound of footfalls faded in the corridor, Faye released an unsteady breath and shut her chamber door. She hugged herself tight, trying to defray the iciness numbing her like a lethal winter freeze.

Cold. So very cold.

Still, anguish nagged, impossible to ignore, like a sliver of ice poking her heart’s bleeding wound. The memory of Brant’s face when Torr and the guards led him away would be forever etched into her mind. She had dared to look, at the last moment, as, holding his arms at his sides, they escorted him out into the corridor. Such proud resolve in his expression. Not the slightest trace of cowardice.

She squeezed her arms tighter, fighting the urge to channel the emotions inside her into a scream. One moment, Brant was the enchanting lover who had shown her passion. The next, he confessed to taking his brother’s life. A revelation she had never expected.

To insist Brant was not a murderer would be senseless. He had admitted his guilt. He had confessed, before herself and Torr.

Yet, his hands sweeping over her had not been rough, but exquisitely tender. His murmured voice held not a trace of brutality, but silken gentleness.

She pressed a hand to her aching breast. His compassion was no more than a captivating illusion cast by a rogue skilled in seducing women. He had murdered his own brother. Not in some unavoidable accident, but by stabbing him with a dagger. An act of will.

A vile secret he had managed to keep from her—and even Torr—until now.

Chills skittered over her skin that once glowed from his lovemaking. She had lain with a murderer. With shaking fingers, she threw the bolt on her door, then hurried to the table to pour a bowl of water. She stripped off her gown and chemise and washed with a linen cloth and soap. She scrubbed her mouth until no trace of Brant remained.

At least, not on her skin. The pleasure he had shown her still tormented her thoughts.

Shivering as the numbness inside her deepened, Faye stumbled over to her linen chest and drew out her last, plain blue gown Hubert had bought her. After donning a fresh chemise and the gown, she returned to the table to draw her brush through her hair. She forced the unruly strands into order, obliterating all trace of Brant’s hands burying into her tresses.

Finished, she set the brush down. When she turned from the table, her gaze fell to her rumpled coverlet. There she had found pleasure, ensorcelled by a murderer.

Oh, God!

A low moan broke from her, just as a knock rattled her door. “Faye.”

Torr’s concerned tone urged her to let him in.

She did not want Torr’s companionship. However, she must heed him, for he had already proven he would not be denied entry to her chamber. Moreover, she must still rescue Angeline. Whatever Torr knew about the little girl’s disappearance, she would find out.

She drew the bolt and opened the door. Torr stepped inside, his expression as grim as when he had ordered Brant arrested. When his gaze traveled over her clean garments, she turned away, but his hands pressed down upon her shoulders. His fingers gently kneaded through her gown.

“’Tis over,” he said.

She nodded. The consuming numbness slipped down into her belly, transforming the pit of her stomach into a frozen knot. Even tears refused to dampen her eyes. Strange, how her body felt as though it belonged to someone else.

Torr’s fingers kept kneading, a touch no doubt intended to soothe her, yet it did the opposite. “The news has shocked both of us,” he murmured. “Especially you, I imagine.”

She stepped out of his hold and faced him. “You were with Brant on crusade, were you not?”

Torr’s gaze shadowed before he said, “Aye. Brant, Royce, and I went together.”

“Did you”—She swallowed, barely able to speak the terrible words—“know about the murder?”

“I knew Royce was killed, but I believed . . .” His face contorted with disgust. “I was told a Saracen prisoner escaped in our camp. He fled into the tent Brant and Royce shared, a fight ensued, and Royce died. For the crime, the Saracen was executed.”

“But Brant killed Royce,” she whispered.

Torr dragged his hand through his hair. “To think I trusted him as a friend, welcomed him into my keep, let him dine at my table . . .”

Torn by the agony in his voice, she pressed her hand to his arm. “He deceived us all.”

“He did.” Fatigue lined Torr’s handsome face. He smiled at her. “After all that has happened, I vow I need a goblet of wine. Care to join me?”

The familiar invitation, extended again.

A refusal flew to her lips. Yet, to find Angeline, she must accept. If luck was with her, Torr would reveal a vital detail during their conversation. Mayhap even inadvertently confirm Angeline was at Waverbury. Or, Faye might discover other evidence in his solar.

Above all, drinking wine with Torr would be far simpler than staying in her chamber and being constantly reminded of Brant. “I would enjoy a drink,” she said.

His smile broadened, and she smiled back, despite the disquiet weaving through her. “Come, then.” Torr’s arm slid around her waist. Drawing her against him, he guided her out into the passage.

Reed torches along the walls flickered as they walked. Head held high, she strode alongside Torr, blinking as the hazy smoke stung her eyes. Memories of Brant taunted from the fire kissed shadows, but she blocked them out.

She would feel naught. Only numbness.

Moments later, they reached the massive wooden doors to Torr’s solar, flanked by two guards. Sliding his arm from around her, he stepped ahead and spoke quietly to the men. They bowed and moved aside. Glancing back at Faye, he pushed open his chamber doors and gestured for her to enter.

When she walked past him into the dimly lit chamber, a woolen rug softened her footfalls. A fire crackled in the hearth at the room’s opposite end, warming the high-backed chairs turned toward the blaze, the rug in front of the fire, and the massive bed. The same bed he had shared with Elayne until her illness progressed to nightmarish fits separated by periods where she lay staring at the wall, her eyes vacant, her face devoid of all expression. With a gracious nod, he had given permission for the servants to move Elayne to a chamber near Faye, where she could care for his wife on a constant basis. There, she had died.

In the solar’s shadows, though, Elayne’s presence still lingered.

Clasping her damp fingers together, Faye turned to look at Torr. His back to the doors, his hands behind him, he pressed the two panels closed. A charming smile touched his face before he eased away, motioning to the hearth. “A drink, then.”

Nodding, she headed toward the fire. Before she even sensed him beside her, he linked his arm through hers and escorted her to the fireside, where a jug of wine and silver goblets rested on a small table.

He poured a goblet of the crimson colored vintage. His gaze slid to hers before softening in the flickering light. “You look exhausted.”

“I am.” She fought the confusion and heartache threatening to batter through her numbness, hating that even now, she yearned for Brant.

Torr handed her the filled vessel, then poured wine into the empty one. His hand, she noted, was shaking. As he moved to return the jug to the tabletop, wine splashed onto the wood. The liquid glistened like blood. “Sometimes events happen for the best, aye?” he said.

Sipping the piquant wine in her goblet, she frowned. “How so?”

“If we had not discovered Brant’s deceptions tonight, well . . .”—his mouth flattened—“he would have made an even greater fool of you. Better to find out now that he is a wretched murder and liar than . . . later.”

Anger tingled through Faye, coalescing in her fingertips pressed to the cool goblet. He would have made an even greater fool of you. Torr made it sound so pragmatic. As if her heart were not involved.

She began to tremble. A sudden urge to lash out at Torr welled inside her. Nay. ’Twould be foolish. Arguing with him would hinder her goal of learning Angeline’s whereabouts. Forcing down her resentment, she sipped more wine.

A rasp caught her attention. With shaking fingers, Torr unfastened the top of a flask. With an almost greedy smile, he raised the container to his lips and took a long swig. Closing his eyes, he swallowed, then sighed—a sound of immense relief.

His chronic pain must be bothering him.

Noticing her stare, he smiled. “This tonic is very calming to the nerves. Would you care to try some?”

“Nay, thank you.” Lifting her wine goblet again to her lips, Faye drank that instead. Still, she could not keep from trembling.

“Tsk, tsk,” Torr murmured, sounding sympathetic.

Faye forced a laugh. “I am fine. Merely tired.” Courage, Faye. Now, more than ever, you must not yield to resentment or despair.

The fire popped and spat up a cloud of sparks, a welcome distraction. As the bright flare dissipated, she sank into one of the chairs.

Torr knelt beside her, again offering the flask. “’Twill not harm you. ’Tis soothing.”

His shaking hand had steadied. Whatever the tonic contained, ’twas certainly potent.

“What is it made of?”

“Herbs.”

Something about his one word reply—a half breath of hesitation, mayhap—brought her gaze up from his fingers curled around the flask. “What kind of herbs?” she asked.

He smiled. Clearly, he found her reluctance amusing. “Wormwood. Poppy. I cannot say all of the ingredients, for I do not really know. My healer is quite secretive about his concoctions.”

Torr paused, as if to gauge how much—or little—she accepted of his explanation. Her fingers tightened around her wine goblet, and she struggled not to let him see her unsteady grip.

His wry chuckle teased her. “’Tis not as though I offer you poison.”

“I know, but—”

“’Twill not hurt you. Why would I wish to cause you harm?” In the light cast by the fire, his expression softened with adoration. “You must realize how important you are to me.”

She coughed away a nervous tickle. “Torr, you mean a great deal to me, as well. After Hubert’s death, I do not know how I would have fared without Elayne and you. You are a dear, generous friend.”

“Friend,” he repeated before smiling. Yet, she sensed stiffness in the tilt of his mouth. “Indeed, a friend who is concerned about you.” He held out the flask again. “Drink. You will be astonished how much better you feel. I promise.”

His voice held an edge. If she refused to drink, he might take offense, and she had not had the opportunity to ask about Angeline. “Very well.”

Their fingers brushed when she took the flask. For one, excruciating moment, she remembered Brant’s skin brushing hers. His touch had held the power to charm her, to seduce away all reason, while Torr’s sent disquiet shivering through her.

Guilt drove as deep as an arrow. Her relationship with Brant was over. Never again would they share the special magic between them. She struggled to remain numb, to keep her emotions suppressed, even as the fire before her became an orange-yellow blur. With her emotions strained to near breaking, the wine had affected her with unusual potency.

Mahyap the herbal drink would help.

She set her goblet on the table and raised the flask to her lips. Torr watched, his gaze keen. A sharp odor accosted her, eliciting an instinctive urge to recoil, but she resisted, pushed the flask to her lips, and sipped.

Bitterness flooded her tongue. She tasted the hurt festering inside her, pent-up rage, as well as the misery of Brant’s betrayal. Her body rebelled, denying her the privilege of swallowing.

Torr smoothed his hand over her back. “’Tis bitter at first, but that fades.”

Merciless tears stung her eyes. The drink’s sinister odor wafted again. In the potent herbal aroma, she caught something familiar: an element in the tonics made and given to Elayne in the days before she had perished. Faye smelled . . . death.

She lurched out of the chair, barely aware of Torr’s muttered oath, his grab for the flask keeling toward the floor, the thud and splash as the vessel hit the floorboards. The awful smell surrounded her, rising from the puddle near her feet.

Clutching the stone fireplace, she bent forward and retched into the fire. The flames spat and sputtered, releasing a shroud of smoke.

She scrubbed her mouth with her fist. “Fie!” she rasped.

Torr reached her side. He massaged between her shoulder blades as he handed over her goblet of wine. Taking a sip, she rinsed out her mouth, then swallowed.

“The second time ’twill taste better. You will come to enjoy it.”

“I never intend to drink it again.”

Displeasure glinted in Torr’s gaze before he shrugged. He had retrieved the flask from the floor. Cradling it with reverent fingers, he shook the container. “Empty.”

His narrowed gaze shifted from her to the far side of his chamber. He spun on his heel and hurried to the side of his bed.

“Torr?”

“You can keep a secret, can you not?” Greedy desperation sharpened his voice.

Faye’s pulse jumped. She silently begged for word on Angeline, even as she said, “What kind of secret?”

“You must not say a word about what you see. I know you will not.” Without waiting for her answer, he dropped to his knees on the floorboards. With frenzied movements, he swept aside the rug alongside the bed and pressed his palms to the floorboards. A faint click, and two of the boards lifted free.

Eyes widening, Faye edged closer.

Torr thrust his hand into the cavity and drew out a flask similar to the one he had drained. In the shadowed light, his frantic expression eased.

As though realizing anew she stood nearby, he glanced at her over his shoulder. “You will not tell where I keep my flasks, will you?” His grin hardened as he snatched up the wooden boards, slotted them back into place, and replaced the rug. “If they go missing, I will know who is responsible, Faye.”

Misgiving flooded through her, for she did not mistake his warning. With a little laugh, she said, “You are lord of this keep. No one dares take what is yours.”

“True.” Pushing to his feet, he gazed at her, before thrusting the flask at her. “Go on. Try the drink one more time.” He winked. “For me.”

She shook her head. “I cannot.”

A frown creased his brow. He moved closer.

Back away, her mind shrieked. Do not let him touch you. Do not let him convince you to drink that vile, dangerous brew. Smothering her apprehension, she watched him approach, even as anxiety threatened to dissolve her numbness to a quivering puddle in her belly.

She could not flee. She must stay. For Angeline.

Smiling down at Faye, Torr caught a length of her hair. His heavy-lidded gaze traveled the length of the strands to linger on the swell of her breasts. “Why do you deny me? I trusted you with a secret. Now, you will return my trust.”

“Torr, after all that has happened today—”

“—I am concerned for your well being. The drink will help you—”

A knock sounded on the solar door.

Faye gasped.

“They knew not to disturb me,” Torr snarled.

The brisk rap came again.

“It must be important.” Relief rushed through Faye.

Spitting a curse, Torr headed across the chamber, his boots thundering on the wooden planks. The doors creaked open, she heard a muttered exchange, and then the doors slammed.

An odd glint in his eyes, Torr returned to her side. He was trembling. Opening the flask, he took a long sip, before dragging his hand over his mouth. “There is a matter I must attend. I trust ’twill not take long.” Reaching out, he cupped her chin in his hand. “You will stay here and wait for me.”

She forced a compliant smile. “Of course.”

He grinned and handed her the flask. “Take good care of our drink.” Without waiting for her reply, he turned and strode for the doors. The panels opened, then shut.

She was alone.

Shoulders sagging, Faye blew out a shaky breath. She glanced down at the flask, secure in her fingers. Again, her mouth burned with the elixir, as sinister as . . . Torr himself.

Disquiet raced with renewed urgency through her veins. He would be returning soon.

She must work fast.

Hurrying to the table, she set down the goblet and flask. Then, drying her clammy hands on her gown, she crossed to Torr’s bed. After pushing aside the rug, she knelt as he had done. Her hands pressed upon the wooden boards.

Naught.

She tamped down a surge of impatience. She searched again, gliding her palms over the cold, rough-hewn boards, worn smooth over time. If only she knew what to look for.

Her fingertips brushed over the browned knot in the panel to her right. There. A slight depression. A hint of lighter-colored wood at the panel’s edges. Bending closer, she pushed her finger down into the knot.

The panel shifted. With a sharp tug, the floorboard came free. From the darkness below, the faint odor of Torr’s drink floated up to her.

Leaning back on her heels, she sucked in a fortifying breath. Then, before her mind conjured images of what creatures or dark mysteries might lurk in the hiding place, she reached down inside. Her fingers bumped against leather flasks. She removed them, one by one. Ten, she counted, crowded together by her right knee. Some full. Some empty.

Plunging her hand in again, her fingers closed on a narrow object. She drew it into the dim light. A leather sheathed dagger. Sliding the blade from its sheath, Faye caught her breath, for she recognized the knife.

Elayne’s dagger. She had kept it with her always, until illness robbed her of the ability to even lift her hand. Torr had obviously kept the weapon to honor her memory. An unusual choice, considering Elayne’s love of jewels and fashionable trinkets.

When Faye reached in again, her skin swept against something smooth and cool. Jerking her hand back, she fought a startled shriek. Whatever she had found, she must look at it, for Torr considered it important enough to keep secret.

She carefully raised the object into the light: a small, leather bound book.

Setting it in her left palm, she raised it to her eye level. A dark stain spattered across the book’s cover. A mark caused by spilled ale. Or . . . blood.

Her unease drove deeper, furrowing like a crack in a sheet of melting ice. She opened the leather cover. On the first page she found a neatly scribed name: Royce Meslarches.

“Oh, God!” she whispered, flipping to the next page, and the next. Notes, sketches, even a few lines of a chanson de geste were scribbled on the pages.

She had found Brant’s brother’s journal.

The one Brant had told her was lost on crusade after Royce died.

A horrible shudder snaked through her as she shut the book. Brant believed the tome, containing Royce’s notes on the Arthurian treasure, had been lost in the eastern desert. How had Torr come to possess the journal? Why had he kept it hidden away, rather than telling Brant?

Questions she could not answer. Yet, she could not ignore such a loathsome betrayal. A lie that seemed as vile as Brant’s confession of murder.

A lie that, somehow, must be linked to Angeline’s abduction.

Fear shivered through Faye. If she told Brant about the journal, Torr might find out. He would never forgive her for rummaging through his possessions.

However, Brant deserved to know about the journal.

He is a murderer, the rational voice inside her shrilled. He deceived you, and you owe him naught. But another, more passionate cry, insisted: He showed you pleasure, with no demands in return. His desire for you was honest. If you do not tell him about the journal, it will forever weigh upon your conscience. Tell him now, before ’tis too late.

Aye, she must tell him.

Faye started to return the knife to the cavity. Then, on second thought, she tucked it inside her shoe. The weapon felt strange pressed against the side of her foot, but also provided reassurance, for she had a means to defend herself if necessary.

Working with haste, Faye returned the flasks as she had found them. She fitted the wooden boards back into place, moved the rug, and pushed to her feet. Clasping the journal in her right hand, she slipped it under the broad hem of her sleeve, concealing it from view. She turned on her heel and hurried toward the closed doors.

The panels opened with the faintest creak. Faye stepped into the torch lit corridor. The two sentries outside turned to glance at her.

“I must return to my chamber for a moment,” she said.

One guard raised an eyebrow. He looked about to question her intentions, but she met his stare very directly, a deliberate reminder he had no right to question a woman of superior birth.

He nodded. “Milady.”

She swept past him. Her footfalls on the stones sounded faintly like voices whispering of what she was about to do. Her hand clenched even tighter on the journal, for by the saints, she would not turn back now.

Torr would most likely have sent Brant to the dungeon. She must get down to the prisoner cells without the guards or Torr stopping her.

Somehow . . .

The journal’s cover felt slick against her wrist. She prayed it would not slip from her grasp at the wrong moment and betray her.

Reaching the wooden landing that overlooked the great hall, she made her way down the steps and hurried across the hall. Gathered around one of the far trestle tables, a group of maidservants chattered while they scrubbed the tabletop.

“A murderer,” one said, aghast.

“A knave, ta ’ave deceived ’is lordship,” another said, with a disgusted snort. “’E deserves ta be ’anged.”

Keeping her head down, Faye headed for the forebuilding. Just as she approached the stairwell, she became aware of a scuffling noise close by, followed by muttered cursing. Turning, she dared to take a glance, and almost walked headlong into the busty maidservant who had called to Brant in the bailey.

The woman lurched to a halt. Eyes wide, perspiration glistening on her brow, she choked out, “Milady!” before dipping into a curtsey.

“Sorry.” Faye grasped for the journal tilting toward the rush-strewn floor.

A soggy, honey-colored animal darted under her gown, almost knocking her off balance. She stumbled back. Tail between his legs, Val bolted under the nearest trestle table. He sat on his haunches, eyes huge, looking lost.

The woman clucked her tongue. “’E’s missin’ ’is master. ’E went frantic in the kitchens when ’is master was led through. ’Ad a merry chase, we did, trying ta catch this li’l wretch. ’E knocked over a bucket o’ well water and near spilled the pottage.” Tears glinted in the woman’s eyes before she hiked her gown up and crouched to peer under the table. “They would not let ’im take ’is lil’ dog. Punishment, they said, fer a murderer sent ta Caldstowe’s tower.”

“Tower?” Faye repeated, unable to conceal her dismay.

The woman nodded. “Best place fer a murderer, ’is lordship said.”

The maidservants across the hall tittered, and then moved on to another table, their conversation softening to a murmur. Several stole glances at Faye. They were gossiping about her liaison with Brant. By now, the entire castle probably knew.

Faye’s fingers tightened on the journal until pain lanced through her wrist bones. Refusing to be distracted from her quest to visit Brant, she thought of the austere tower. ’Twas rumored that in the years following William the Conqueror’s reign, it had secured the most valuable prisoners. Some had died there.

“Oh, God,” Faye whispered.

Still squatted on the floor, the woman thrust her hand toward Val. “Come to Deane.” She wiggled her fingers, suggesting she had a juicy morsel. “Come ’ere, ye silly mongrel. Ye cannot stay ’ere with ’is lordship’s ’ounds.”

Val whined before scooting further under the table.

“Let me try.” Faye crouched too, careful to keep the journal hidden under her sleeve. The odors of musty rushes and rotting food scraps wafted on a draft, making her eyes sting, but she did not take her gaze from the little dog. “Here, Val. You remember me, do you not?”

The mongrel whimpered. His tail moved in the barest wag.

“Val,” she said gently, stretching out her hand. “I will care for you now. You will be my dog, until you can be with your master again.”

Val licked his lips. His tail thumped harder. The uncertainty in the animal’s expression—despair so similar to what she had seen in Brant’s gaze—brought a lump to her throat. “I promise.”

The dog hesitated. Then, his belly to the rushes, he scooted across the floor toward her.

She scratched his fuzzy head. “Good Val.”

Pressed against the side of her leg, he whined.

Deane’s mouth crumpled. “Imagine, not lettin’ ’im be with ’is master. ’Tis as cruel as sayin’ the man’s a murderer.”

Rubbing Val’s ear, Faye glanced up at her. “Brant admitted to killing his brother.”

“I do not believe it. ’E’s a good man.” Deane shook her head. “’E paid me in silver ta leave that wretched Spittin’ ’En Tavern, ta start a new life. What man ’ad do that fer a strumpet like me?”

Faye drew a startled breath. “I remember now. He told me he had paid a woman to come to Caldstowe and spy for him.”

Deane nodded. “’Is only request was fer me ta listen fer news on ’is lordship’s li’l girl. I was glad ta do it. Gladder still when I ’ad some news fer ’im.”

Faye’s hand, sweeping through Val’s fur, stilled. “That is why you wanted to speak to him earlier.”

Deane grinned, revealing her crooked teeth. “I hoped fer a lusty kiss, but ’e would not give me one. ’E’s a man enchanted.”

“Enchanted?” Faye said, unable to tamp down a wave of anguish.

“By another who ’as captured ’is ’eart.” Pushing up from the floor, Deane stood, wiping her hands on her apron. “I ’ad best be back ta work. Take care of ’is master’s dog, now, milady.” She curtsied, then strolled away.

Adjusting her hold on the journal, Faye stood. Across the hall, several of the maidservants stared at her before dropping their gazes to the table they were washing.

Bending down to give Val a pat on the back, Faye murmured, “Come on. You and I are going to the tower.”

Chapter Fifteen

“No one is to visit Meslarches, milady,” the older guard said yet again, his face set in a forbidding scowl. “’Is lordship’s orders.”

Faye bit back an unladylike oath. Waving away the torch smoke drifting into her eyes, she glared at the two sentries barring the door to the tower’s lone chamber, built at the top of a steep stairwell. The men stood on either side of the rough-hewn, iron-barred wooden panel that looked strong enough to withstand an army. From the scorch marks burned into the door, at some point, it probably had.

At her feet, Val growled. The sound carried in the small area outside the chamber. The men glanced at the little dog with guarded wariness, but did not move.

Refusing to let her determination slip, Faye tipped her chin higher.

She had to find a way in there.

“’Tis clear you do not understand the complexity of my task.” Keeping her tone cool, as the men would expect of a lady who had just discovered her lover’s treachery, she said, “I shall try to explain it again. Lord Lorvais sent me. He is aware that the criminal has . . . feelings for me. I am to visit Meslarches and win his confidence, so he will reveal to me all the details about the murder.”

The guards looked at each other. “Lord Lorvais did not mention this plan to us.”

“Hardly surprising. A man of his authority is very busy. He is attending to an important matter right now, after giving strict orders he did not wish to be disturbed.” She glanced at her nails, then smiled at the two men. “If you do not believe me, go ask him yourself.”

More suspicious glances.

Throwing up her hands, allowing desperation to bleed into her tone, she said, “Why would I lie to you? Why else would I have come here? I do not wish to see that . . . that lying, murderous bastard ever again.” She sniffled, then dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Lord Lorvais got nowhere with his interrogation. If I can be of duty to my lord, then”—she shuddered—“I must.”

“There, now, do not weep.” The older guard shrugged his shoulders as though to relieve an uncomfortable burden. He reached for the key hanging on a peg rammed into the mortar between two stones. “I will let ye in. Knock three times on the door when ye wish ta come out. All right?”

“Thank you.”

The keys jangled, the sound shrill in the area’s narrow confines. Metal rasped against metal, a click, and then the panel groaned inward. Faye stepped inside, Val at her heels.

She hardly heard the guard’s parting words to her, or the door boom shut. As her gaze fell upon Brant, a dull, agonizing ache washed through her.

He sat on the rough wooden floor, his legs drawn up, arms crossed over his knees. His bowed head rested upon his forearms. Against the fabric of his tunic, his dark hair spilled wild and untamed, and she wondered, when he raised his head, if in his eyes she would see a similar wildness.

Chains trailed from his wrists and ankles to bolts in the wall. Grooves in the floorboards revealed how far he could reach before the chains held him firm. Not very far. A relief, to a certain point, for if she stayed beyond the gouged line, he could not touch her.

Yet, to see him fettered like some kind of beast . . .

He is a murderer, Faye. Never forget that.

Even Val seemed reluctant to approach him. The little dog sat at her feet, his little body quivering while he stared at Brant.

With unsteady fingers, she pushed hair back behind her ear. The fabric of her gown whispered, and then . . . more silence. He did not seem to realize she and Val were there, or he did not care to acknowledge them. Rubbing her arms against the breeze blowing in through the crooked shutters blocking the one, small window, she took another step forward. The room held no furniture—not even a pallet to sleep on—only bare, stone walls. By nightfall, ’twould be near freezing.

Val’s clawed footfalls echoed. Whining, he scooted over to Brant. He pushed his little nose against Brant’s leg.

Slowly, with what seemed painful effort, Brant lifted his head. “Val.” The chains clanked as he reached down and scratched the little dog’s head. Val squirmed and licked his hand.

Faye smothered a moan. As touching as ’twas to see him comfort Val, she should not pity Brant. He was a ruthless criminal. Even as she had succumbed to his sensual spell, believing him to have the soul of an honorable warrior, he had kept his horrific crime a secret from her.

The sharp bite of betrayal tightened her jaw. She would tell him about the journal, and then she would leave, never to see him again.

Brant seemed to be aware of her silent condemnation, for as his fingers gently plowed through Val’s fur, his mouth tightened. Still, he did not look at her.

“Brant.”

“You should not be here.”

How thin his voice sounded. A ghostly echo of the mesmerizing, arrogant man she had known—and taken to her bed.

“I had to see you.”

“To be sure I am properly imprisoned?” His bitter laugh ricocheted off the cold walls. “Torr made certain of that.”

She shifted her hold on the journal. Anticipation quickened her pulse, as well as wariness. How would Brant react when she told him of the journal? Would he become enraged?

If he could kill his own brother, might he harm her?

Nay. He would not hurt her.

Brant’s gaze met hers. Red rimmed, his eyes glittered with anguish. For a moment, as he looked at her, his expression softened. Then he glanced away. “I know I have no right to ask. Yet, since he cannot ask himself, I must do so for him. Please . . . see that Val finds a home, milady.”

Milady, he had called her. Not Faye. His way of enforcing emotional distance between them. Steeling the foolish disappointment from her tone, she said, “Do not worry. I will care for Val.”

“Thank you.”

Val whimpered. With a last pat, Brant lifted his hand away. “Go, Faye.”

“Not yet.”

“Go. Now!”

His roared command stung like a slap. She did not whirl around and stride to the door, however, for she knew why he spoke with such force. He was turning her away—to protect her. To prevent her from being hurt any further by his actions.

An odd act of conscience for a man guilty of cold-blooded murder.

With a low groan, Brant dragged his fingers through his hair. Her throat ached as she stared down at his tousled head, bent once more, hopelessness undermining the proud set of his shoulders. What she would give to know what had happened between him and Royce on crusade that led to the killing.

Despite the caution and anguish warring inside her, she walked closer. Iron links rattled. He lurched to standing, faster than she thought possible for a chained man. Turned to her in profile, he strode the few yards his bonds permitted.

She halted, close enough to touch his rigid back.

He was trembling.

“Brant, look at me,” she said, hating the plea in her voice.

His chained hands balled into fists. “I should never have let myself care for you. I should not have lain with you. For that I am sorry.”

She forced down the impulse to say how wondrous her time with him had been.

Faye, my treasure.

The sense of moments slipping away, the knowledge that Torr would soon return to his solar and find her gone, spurred to her to forge ahead. “There is something I must show you.”

“God’s blood, Faye.” He swung around, dark hair tangling over his wet eyes. “Go. Please!”

He shook like a man struggling to hold back a tremendous emotional wave—one that could very well swamp him and demolish his last shreds of reason. Seeing the journal might shatter his self-control.

Yet, she could not—must not—let her risk be in vain.

Faye freed the journal from her tunic sleeve. She held the tome out to him.

Beneath the tangled shadow of his hair, his gaze narrowed. “What is it?”

“Open it and see.”

He stood motionless. She sensed him studying the journal. Knew the precise moment shock jolted through him.

The chains clanked. Reaching out, he took the journal.

Cradling it in his left palm, he ran his hand over the soiled cover. His disbelieving touch lingered over the dark stain. He blinked hard, then drew the journal open.

“Mother of God.” His head snapped up. Fury and confusion gleamed in his eyes. “How did you get Royce’s journal? Where—”

“I found it in Torr’s solar.”

“Torr’s solar?” Brant whispered hoarsely. “How did you come to be in his chamber?”

She struggled not to shudder at his furious tone. Deciding not to answer his last question, she said, “Torr keeps his flasks of tonic in a secret hiding place under some floorboards. I found the journal there.”

“How long have you known about the journal?”

Brant’s accusatory tone slashed deep, but she refused to avert her gaze. “I only found it moments ago. I brought it straight to you.”

He swallowed before his gaze returned to the journal. “The lying whoreson! He kept it all these months, when I thought it lost. God’s teeth!  How long had Royce been dead before Torr took the journal? Or, did he steal it before my brother died?”

“I wish I could tell you,” Faye said. “Why did Torr keep the journal secret? Why did he not give it to you?”

Brant’s fierce gaze fixed on her. “What else did you find?”

Such fury radiated from him. A tremor wove through her, prompting her to take a step back. “A knife.”

“Show me.”

She bent and slipped the dagger from her shoe. “’Twas Elayne’s. She kept it with her always.”

“It, too, used to be my brother’s.”

“Your brother’s? How did Elayne come to have it?”

Brant’s mouth flattened. “I do not know, but I mean to find out.”

“The journal, the knife, Angeline’s disappearance. All are connected somehow.”

He nodded before his expression hardened. “Now, more than ever, you are in grave danger, milady.”

“From you?” she blurted, before she could catch herself.

Surprise lit his gaze, revealing the barest glimmer of the pleasure they had shared. Then he scowled. “From Torr. He will know, when he finds the journal and dagger missing, that you betrayed him. He will be very angry.”

Fear shivered through her. Brant spoke true. Still, she must not be blinded by panic. Not now, when she needed her wits about her. “The journal and knife were at the back of the recess. He may have forgotten about them. He may not even notice them missing.”

Brant’s scowl deepened, as though she babbled like a fool. “Faye.”

“I am not witless. By this eve, I plan to be long gone from Caldstowe.”

In the midst of crossing his arms, he froze. “What do you mean?”

She rubbed her lips together, determined not to lose her resolve. “I am riding to Waverbury to see if Angeline is held captive there. I promised Elayne I would protect her little girl, and the days are passing. Right now, ’tis my only clue to her whereabouts.”

Brant’s arms dropped to his sides. “You cannot travel alone. ’Tis too dangerous.”

”No more dangerous, I vow, than my staying at Caldstowe.”

“Give me the knife, Faye.”

Shock convinced her to take a step back. “Never! You are a murderer.” If he lunged for her now, he might catch her before she reached safety.

Faye sucked in a breath to scream for the guards.

Brant made no move to pursue her. He shook his head and looked disappointed that she distrusted him. “I will not harm you. I will use the dagger to break the locks on the chains.”

She released her held breath. “If you try to run from here, the guards will kill you.”

“I will wait for the right moment to escape. Faye, my life is already forfeit. I would rather die finding out the truth about the journal than rotting in the king’s dungeon.” A roguish smile curved his lips. “Surely you understand that?”

How she wished he was not so handsome when he smiled. “I do, but—”

“My escape will also provide a distraction. I will keep Torr occupied, so he and his men will not pursue you on your journey to Waverbury.”

Voices carried from beyond the door. The guards were growing impatient. Any moment, they might step inside and tell her to leave. If they found her with the knife—

She thrust the dagger into Brant’s hand. Relief and gratitude shadowed his gaze, as well as something else she could not define. “I hope you get your answers,” she whispered, unable to voice all of the emotions welling up inside her. This was likely the last time she saw him.

He nodded. Then, unsheathing the knife, he dropped to his knees and shoved the dagger tip into the lock at his ankle.

Disquiet tingled at the base of her skull. She had assumed Brant would hide the knife in his garments. Why did he not wait until she had left before he unfastened his chains?

The voices outside rose. One sounded concerned, as if they wondered what might be happening to her.

Drawing in a calming breath, she crossed to the door. Shutting out the muffled clink of chains behind her, she smoothed her damp hands over her gown. She had accomplished what she had come to do. Now, she must focus on her ride to Waverbury.

Goodbye, Brant.

She raised her hand to knock. “Come, Val.”

The barest whisper—no more—alerted her of movement behind her. Before she could spin around, a muscled arm locked about her waist. Brant jerked her back against him.

The dagger’s cold blade pressed to her throat.

Brant’s voice rasped against her ear, “Tell the guards to open the door.”

Chapter Sixteen

Faye froze as the knife pressed against her skin—not hard enough to pierce her flesh, but to ensure she obeyed him. Her pulse pounded so fiercely, she imagined he could hear it, too, hammering like a fist upon a tabor.

Her bottom touched his thighs, while her shoulders pressed against his broad torso. A damp chill raced over her skin, moistening her brow, hands, and soles of her feet. How stupid to have let her emotions overrule her common sense. Now, she was Brant’s hostage.

Fie! She had returned his brother’s journal, given Brant a knife to free him from his chains, and he showed his gratitude by taking her captive?

His arm around her waist tightened. “Knock,” he growled against her hair. His tone warned he would not tolerate refusal.

Do not heed him, her conscience shouted. Scream!  Warn the guards he is free.

If she disobeyed him, he might harm her. She could not rescue Angeline if she were dead.

Raising her fist, Faye rapped twice on the wooden panel. The guards had instructed her to knock three times. Mayhap they would realize something was wrong. Or, would they believe she had forgotten what they told her?

“Milady?” a guard outside said, his voice muffled through the wood.

“I wish to leave now,” Faye called back, praying he understood her signal.

“You did not knock three times.”

Oh, God!

“Faye,” Brant snarled in her ear. He sounded so ferocious, she moaned.

“I forgot!” she yelled through the door. “I-I am sorry.”

Silence. Muttered conversation. The key rasped in the lock.

“Well done,” Brant murmured, his breath stirring her hair.

The door swung inward.

Before she could cry out, Brant kicked the panel fully open. It crashed against the chamber’s stone wall. From outside came the ominous squeal of swords being drawn.

Brant dragged her through the doorway. Val scampered beside him.

The younger guard faced them. “Halt! Milady, you helped him escape. You tricked us.”

“I forced her to aid me,” Brant said.

Faye barely held back an astonished cry. Brant had lied to protect her—a curious moment of chivalry. Yet, her surprise fled on a growing sense of trepidation, for a lethal tension suffused the smoky air. There was little space between the doorway and the stairwell. As, judging by the guards’ smirks, they well knew. Fighting in such a confined area meant someone would be gravely injured. Or die.

“Let her go, Meslarches,” the older guard said, raising his weapon. Torch light flashed down the steel blade.

“Stand down.” Brant’s fingers flexed on the knife handle. “Do as I say, and Lady Rivellaux will not be harmed.”

Val growled.

The knife eased away from her throat a fraction. Run, Faye! Now, her mind screamed. She stomped on Brant’s foot and wrenched sideways to break free of his hold. Brant grunted, a sound of surprise. Faster than she imagined possible, his arm slammed her back against him.

“Foolish, milady,” he snarled.

The guards exchanged glances. As the younger man edged forward, Val growled again. Teeth bared, the little dog lunged. He bit the man’s calf.

“Ow!” the sentry bellowed. Raising his sword with both hands, he pointed the tip downward to plunge into the little dog.

Faye gasped as Brant lurched her sideways. Struggling, she glanced over her shoulder, to see Brant’s booted foot smash into the young man’s chest. He cried out as he flew backward into the wall. His head lolled. With a groan, he slid to the floor. His sword clanged down beside him.

“You killed him!” Faye choked out.

“He still breathes,” Brant said. “He will feel rotten, though, when he wakes.”

A challenging roar echoed. Brant spun her again. Her body shielding his, they faced the second guard. Digging her nails into his tunic sleeve, she clawed at Brant’s hold. He did not seem to notice.

Down at the sentry’s feet, Val growled, hunkered down, and prepared to leap at him.

Scowling, the guard kicked out. The dog darted to the side, but not fast enough. The man’s boot connected with Val’s ribs. Yelping, the little mongrel landed on his side. His eyes rolled. His legs flailed, as though he could no longer stand.

“Val!” Faye cried.

Brant cursed. Rage flowed from him, so fearsome, she could not suppress a panicked moan.

Panting, Val struggled to his feet. Baring his teeth, he trotted behind the sentry.

The guard edged between Brant and the stairwell, blocking the route of escape. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Release the lady,” he said, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder at Val. “’Twill not bode well for you if she is wounded.”

“Or you,” Brant growled. His arm tightened possessively around Faye’s waist.

The man adjusted his grip on his sword, clearly preparing to attack. “I will not ask you again, Meslarches. Let her go.”

“I cannot.”

Faye sensed the barest flick of Brant’s hand at her waist. A signal. When the sentry lunged forward, Val leapt up. His teeth sank into the guard’s buttock.

The man howled. Staggered back. “God forsaken little—”

Val jumped away. In that same instant, Brant spun Faye to one side and kicked the man’s sword arm. The weapon keeled sideways. With a pained grunt, the guard recovered his hold on the weapon, but Brant delivered another swift kick.

Groaning, one arm clutching his stomach, the man staggered. He stumbled over his fallen comrade and sprawled on the floor. Spitting a foul oath, he drew himself up to his hands and knees. He grabbed for his sword that had skidded a hand’s span away.

“No one kicks my dog,” Brant said. Another kick, and the guard crumpled to the floor.

Eyes bright, Val scampered over to Brant.

“Good work,” Brant murmured, and the little dog’s tail swayed.

Blinking hard, Faye stared at the stone wall. She would not regret that Brant had once spoken to her with affection. That he had treasured her.

Behind her, he drew in a breath and slowly released it, a sound of both relief and anticipation. When he exhaled, hair tickled her cheek. She reached up to smooth her tresses back into place.

Brant’s wry laughter rumbled against her back. “Now, now, milady.”

She stiffened, telling him with her defiant posture how much she despised being held hostage. “I will not go with you.”

“Aye, you will.” The knife again pressed against her throat. She hardly dared to breathe.

“Walk.” He half shoved, half hauled her toward the stairwell. “Careful. Do not trip over that guard’s legs.”

“Knave,” she muttered under her breath.

“Do as I ask, Faye,” Brant said, regret in his voice.

She resisted the answering little tug of her heart. “I will never forgive you for using me in such a loathsome fashion.”

He jerked her to a halt. “Use!” From his lips, the word sounded like the coarsest oath. His hand at her waist curled into the fabric of her gown, as though he struggled to restrain something more—something crucial—he wished to say.

As though it cost him great effort, his fingers relaxed. His strides brisk, he pushed her toward the stairs. “Move.”

***

Step by uneven step, Brant maneuvered himself and Faye down the stairwell. With each movement, her body brushed against his. Her tresses tickled his jaw. Her delicate fragrance teased him every time he inhaled. He could lose himself in the bewitching sway and scent of her. That is, if he were not concentrating on keeping her under control with the dagger, while making sure he did not cut her.

The thought of piercing her skin, even accidentally, made him shudder. He would die before he hurt her, although she must not perceive his true feelings. She must believe him the desperate criminal she imagined him to be, until he had her away from Caldstowe.

Genuine fear could not be feigned. If she did not fear Brant—totally and completely—Torr would suspect she helped him escape.

“Where are you taking me?” Faye demanded, her voice sounding strained.

“Wherever I wish.”

“Let me go. Please.”

Never, a voice inside Brant answered. You will always be mine, my treasure.

“I will not tell anyone you are free. I swear it, upon my soul.”

Aye, she might keep his secret. As long as she could. However, once the guards at the top of the stairs regained consciousness, they would pursue her for the full details of his escape. Furious, wanting Brant recaptured as soon as possible, Torr might permit his men to wrest information from her through any means.

A frightening thought.

“Brant.”

“You will come with me, milady.” Faint light stole into the shadows below. “Quiet, now,” he said. “I do not wish to draw any more attention.”

“You do not,” she muttered.

He resisted a smile. “I would hate to injure anyone else—or have to kill them. If you obey me, we can avoid bloodshed.”

She quivered against him, but said no more when he propelled her down the dank stairs. He halted several steps above a stone landing separating the upper and lower portions of the stairwell. To the left, an arched entry opened into a torch lit corridor. Once, judging by the hinges still bolted to the stone, a door had barricaded the steps up to the tower chamber. While that door no longer existed, the passage threshold was the ideal place for Torr to post guards.

Pausing too, Val glanced back at Brant, as though seeking direction.

Turning Faye, releasing her just enough to nudge his body around in front of hers, he pressed her back against the wall.

Holding the knife to her neck, he tilted his head to listen to the sounds coming from the corridor. Wretchedly difficult to concentrate, with her breath fanning across his neck, short, nervous pants that forced her breasts against his tunic. Despite his need to focus, his gaze dropped to her bodice. The sight of her bosom, squeezed against him, sent wanton heat surging through his loins.

A trembling sigh broke from her lips. The sound rippled inside him with delicious aftershocks, for she had made sounds like that when they coupled.

Narrowing his gaze, he mentally shut out the sensual barrage. ’Twas not only his life under threat, but hers. He had vowed to protect her. He would.

A sound echoed in the near distance. Brant strained to hear. Clipped footfalls. Laughter. Guards. From the increase in the noise level, he deduced they were walking toward the stairwell.

He glanced at Faye. Judging by her eyes’ glint, she had heard the sentries as well. Her cool stare conveyed an outward façade of obedience, but he sensed mutiny simmering within her. He fought the gut-wrenching urge to dip his head and kiss her. To thwart her fury with stronger magic of his own. To insist the intimacy they shared was very special to him, and always would be.

Brant drew back. Now was not the time for tenderness. Knowing Faye, she would take advantage of such a moment to knee him in the groin and bolt toward whoever approached.

A warning growl rumbled from Val. The footfalls were louder.

Drawing the dagger from her throat, he motioned for her to move away from the wall. Her gaze spitting fury, she nonetheless seemed to remember his threat to cause injury or kill if need be, for she complied. He locked his arm around her waist, hauled her across the landing, and forced her down the lower stairs. Val scampered ahead.

From the corridor above, he heard two men talking. Any moment, they would reach the opening into the stairwell.

“Faster,” he growled in Faye’s ear, rushing their descent. The rustle of their garments seemed eerily loud, as did the scratch of Val’s claws.

Their legs tangled. She wobbled. Gasped.

Whipping the knife away from her neck, he steadied her before she pitched forward. He pulled her back against him, ignoring her indignant huff.

“Who goes there?” a man bellowed from the corridor.

Cold air gusted from the dark stairs below, bringing the earthy scents of dirt and horse. Further down, the stairwell opened into the bailey.

The guards’ footfalls sounded on the landing. “Who goes there? Answer!”

Brant shoved Faye onward.

Steel rasped. The guards had drawn their swords. “Halt!”

Pounding footsteps echoed.

“Run,” Brant snapped. His and Faye’s harsh breaths echoed back from the inky darkness. They seemed to be descending into near blackness, when the shadows began to thin.

A stout, wooden door came into view.

Brant grabbed the iron handle. He yanked the door open. Sunlight streamed into the stairwell. As he dragged Faye into the bailey, Brant glanced over his shoulder, to meet the gaze of a guard several yards behind.

“Milady!” the man cried.

“Stay back,” Brant growled, pulling Faye toward the thatch-roofed stables. “If you do not, I will kill her.”

Another armed guard broke from the stairwell, his expression grim.

Stones skittered beneath Brant’s boots while he continued his determined path toward the stables. “Do as I tell you, Faye,” he snarled against her hair.

“Do I have a choice?” she shot back.

Ears pricked up, Val loped toward the stables, where horses drank from a long trough. Brant’s destrier stood tied to a nearby post. A gangly stable hand, a lad of about twelve summers old, paused in the midst of running a brush over the horse’s gleaming coat. Such thorough grooming denoted possession.

Torr had already claimed the destrier for his own.

Bastard.

Struggling to control his anger, Brant glanced back at the guards in pursuit. More sentries stalked him now. Step by step, they backed him toward the stables. Val’s excited barks, along with nervous whinnies, came from the direction of the water troughs. Val, it seemed, was doing his best to provide a diversion.

A wry smile touched Brant’s mouth before he spied a man running along the wall walk, heading toward fellow guards. No chance now of a quick, surprise escape. Dread, hard as stone, plummeted into Brant’s gut.

Val brushed against his leg. Tongue lolling, the little dog darted toward the surrounding men and growled, clearly looking forward to a fight.

Brant’s gaze locked with the closest guard’s. “Tell the lad to ready my destrier.”

“Release the lady. Then we will discuss your horse.”

Brant snarled. He forced Faye’s head higher with the knife. A little moan broke from her, while her hands flew wide, fingers outstretched in shock. Her body quivered against him.

“Ready my mount,” Brant said. “Now.”

His gaze sharp with concern, the man looked from Brant to the destrier. The stable hand stood wide eyed, his mouth gaping. The brush dropped from his hands and landed in the dirt.

A shrill wail erupted to Brant’s right. Maidservants drawing water from the well stared at him in horror. Hands flailing, an older woman dropped her basket of washing. “Lady Rivellaux,” she sobbed, collapsing on the well’s stone rim.

Snapping his gaze back to the guard, Brant said, “I will count to three. If you do not give the order to saddle my horse—”

“Please!” Faye gasped.

“One,” Brant growled.

“Oh, Brant,” she sobbed. “Do not—”

He ignored the sharp stab of his conscience. “Two.”

Crying out again, the woman covered her face with her hands.

The guard cursed, then nodded to the boy. “Go.”

The young man disappeared into the stable to return moments later with the tack. His face white as linen, he dragged over a wooden mounting block and began to saddle the destrier. Another lad led the other horses back into the stable.

Each jingle of metal, each creak of saddle leather, wore upon Brant’s fraying patience. Tension, thick as fog, stretched across the bailey. The passing moments seemed suspended, gripped in an eerie spell that threatened to erupt into bloody confrontation.

“Hurry,” Brant growled at the boy.

While Faye trembled in his arms, guards herded the maidservants toward the bailey wall, while they in turn comforted the weeping woman. Huddled in the far shadows, clinging to cloth dolls, children condemned Brant with their unwavering stares.

The wall walk, he noted, was now crowded with guards. Archers sighted along arrows nocked into bows. Sweat dampened Brant’s upper lip. The archers would try to slay him as he mounted the horse. If not before.

“Horse is ready,” the boy said.

Walking backward, Brant dragged Faye with him. Her legs buckled, but he halted and steadied her so she regained her balance. A kindness, he realized, that cost him distance between him and the nearest guards.

Signaling to Val, Brant pulled Faye to the destrier’s side. The little dog paced to and fro, teeth bared and growling, while Brant checked the saddle and bridle’s fastenings. Then, his arm firm at Faye’s waist, he whisked her around the horse’s hindquarters into the space between the animal and the stable, removing them from the archers’ clear sighting range.

Keeping watch on the lads peering out from the building’s shadows, Brant lowered the dagger from Faye’s throat. “Get on the horse.”

Outrage sizzled in her gaze. “May you roast in hellfire.”

He bit back the commands that would force her to his will. Her lips parted, no doubt to verbally flay him, but he caught her around the waist, yanked her to him, and covered her mouth with his own. His tongue forged deep, plundering the remembered sweetness of her. Reminding her of their shared pleasure.

Her rigid body lurched in his hold. She screamed beneath his mouth. Then, with a stubborn, yielding little groan, she surrendered to him.

I love you, Faye, he told her with his softening kiss. I love you, my treasure, and always will. His eyes stung with the fierceness of his emotions.

Breaking away, he pushed her back against the horse’s side. Breathing hard, eyes glazed, she stared back at him, desire etched into her beautiful features. She blinked, clearly trying to discern what had just happened. Seizing that moment of compliance, he sheathed the knife and pushed her up into the saddle. He whistled for Val. Bending down, he snatched up the little dog and swung up behind Faye.

God’s holy blood, the guards were everywhere. As thick as flies on a corpse.

Eyes narrowing against the wintry sunshine, he studied the pebbled ground between the stable and the gatehouse. Between death and freedom.

Faye squirmed against him. He sensed her intentions before she slid part way out of the saddle, intending no doubt to drop to the ground and run. He snaked his free arm around her, pulled her securely into the V made by his thighs, then said, “Take Val. Tuck him into that leather bag by your leg.”

She crossed her arms. Her shoulders hunched in blatant refusal. She had obviously figured out he could not reach around her to stow the little dog; he risked her shoving him off the horse.

Sighing through his teeth, Brant loosely wrapped the reins around his hand. With the same hand, he withdrew the dagger and set it against her neck. “Take Val.”

“I hate you,” she snapped back. “Oh, how I hate you!”

The last word ended on a sob. Brant forced himself to ignore the crushing pressure in his chest. Once they had escaped Caldstowe, he would explain his actions to her.

Right now, he had a more vital concern: to get them both out alive.

Twisting a fraction, her face white with anger, Faye took Val from his arms and lowered him into the leather pouch. Val’s fuzzy little head popped out of the top. Bright eyed, he peered around him, nose wriggling.

Straightening in the saddle, Brant looked out over the guards standing in the bailey. “I warn you,” he said in an icy, clear voice, “lower the drawbridge and stand aside.”

“Meslarches!” Torr’s roar rumbled across the bailey like thunder. Several guards cringed.

An answering urge to flinch—so well learned over months as Torr’s lackey—welled inside Brant. Lip curling, he denied the impulse. He forced his chin up.

Torr stepped from the forebuilding and slammed the door. Sunlight struck his face, revealing the snapping rage in his eyes and the brutal set of his mouth.

He stormed toward Brant.

Flexing his fingers on the knife handle, Brant tamped down the questions boiling inside him: how Torr came to possess the journal, why he had kept it secret, and what he intended to do with it. Later, in the final confrontation that had only one resolution—Brant’s death—he would have answers. Before the blood ran from his broken body, and he drew his last breath, he would know the truth. By God, for himself, and Royce, he would know.

Torr marched ever closer. Drawing a deep breath, Brant focused on the calm conviction that had filled him from the moment he broke his blood oath. No longer would his will be enslaved to Torr’s command. Never again would his sense of duty, honor, and integrity be twisted by this corrupt bastard.

“Out of my way!” Torr snarled, shoving a guard out of his path. Stones crunched beneath his boots, the sound akin to snapping bones.

“Oh, mercy,” Faye whispered. In her words, Brant sensed a plea that Torr had not found the journal missing.

Torr halted a few yards from the destrier. “Drop the dagger, Meslarshes. Let Faye go.” Despite the cool day, sweat streamed down his face. When he swiped hair from his brow, his hand shook, a sign no doubt of barely controlled fury.

“She comes with me,” Brant said.

Lowering his hand, Torr clenched and unclenched his fingers. His gaze slid to her. Anger, concern, possession, all fought to govern his expression. “How did this whoreson come to hold you prisoner, Faye?”

His tone held deceptive tenderness. Cloaked in false concern was a demand for answers.

Brant felt a shudder ripple through her.

“The blame is mine. I betrayed her,” Brant said. “Manipulated her.”

“Ah.” Torr’s lips flattened. “Somehow, Faye, you got past the tower guards. Never did I anticipate treachery from you. What, pray tell, convinced you to visit him? How did you manage—?”

“Order your men to lower the drawbridge,” Brant cut in.

Astonishment widened Torr’s eyes. Throwing back his head, he laughed. Shrill, almost maniacal, the sound scraped like splintered wood over Brant’s raw nerves. “You believe I will let you ride away? With all these guards at my command?”

“I do.”

Torr’s laughter abruptly stopped. “Stupid bastard.”

His fingers curling tighter on the horse’s reins, Brant leveled Torr a cold stare. “I see. You care naught for Faye, then?”

“What?” Torr’s eyes narrowed.

Blocking out the sound of her terrified gasp, Brant shifted the angle of the knife. “If you do not give the order, I will slash the vein at the side of her neck. A lethal wound.” Forcing a brittle grin, Brant said, “Within moments, she will die, while you watch.”

Murmurs rippled through the guards.

Faye moaned.

Mocking laughter broke from Torr. “You will not harm her.”

“I am a murderer.”

Unease shone in Torr’s gaze before he reached a shaking hand to his belt. He drew out a leather-wrapped flask and guzzled the liquid inside. “You do not fool me, Meslarches.”

The faintest doubt darkened Torr’s words. By God, not enough!

“A man who murders once will do so again,” Brant added, letting the tip of the knife trail over Faye’s shoulder. The fabric of her gown sliced like warm butter. “Her death will rub like a stone upon your conscience, day, after day, after day. And at night . . . you will be haunted by her last, dying breaths.”

Faye quivered against him. How he wanted to offer reassurance—the barest touch, the softest press of his lips to her hair—but he did not dare betray his true intentions. Both of their lives hinged on the coming, tenuous moments.

She made a choking sound and wavered as though she were about to faint. “Please, Torr, I beg you. Do as he says.”

Torr snorted. His mouth twisted in a careless grin. “’Tis trickery.”

“Nay!” Her tone sharpened with panic. “Please!”

“Tsk, tsk. See how little your life means to him,” Brant muttered.

His face reddening with fury, Torr said, “Faye is more important to me than you can possibly imagine.”

“Ah, but I can imagine.” Brant smiled.

Shaking as if wracked by palsy, Torr roared. The cry echoed through the bailey. Violent, impulsive, it voiced what Brant suspected: Torr knew about the missing journal.

“You care for Faye, then.”

“I . . . Of course! She is—” Torr spluttered. “I—”

Daring to push the knife a fraction further, Brant rested the sharp tip against her smooth neck. A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. “I will not ask again. Give the command, Torr, or she is dead.”

Chapter Seventeen

Her heart slamming against her ribcage, Faye awaited Torr’s decision: release the drawbridge, or force Brant to slash her neck.

Oh, God. Oh, God!

The moments dragged like an ogre’s footsteps. Strange, how the tip of the dagger no longer felt cold against her skin. She could almost imagine ’twas not there at all, save for the guards gaping up at her with the fascinated horror of a crowd watching a macabre play.

And the silence . . . Intense. Unnatural. Eerie, like the moments before a tempest.

She forced herself to blink. To breathe. As she inhaled, the sound rattled at the back of her throat. She exhaled through tight, dry lungs.

By her knee, Val shifted. He whined.

The last sound she might hear before she perished.

The bailey blurred before her eyes to become a sea of muted grays and browns. Anger and regret crushed the foolish memories still lingering in her mind: Brant tipping up her chin to kiss her; his roguish grin as his fingers swept over her breast; and his gaze darkening with passion while he lowered himself onto her with delicious determination, a master of the intricate sorcery of lovemaking.

She closed her eyes, mentally shutting out the visions and staring faces. The Brant in her memories existed no longer. Like a spell gone awry, he had transformed from a loving protector into a ruthless murderer bent only on self-preservation.

How stupid she had been to fall in love.

Elayne, forgive me. I failed myself. You. Angeline.

The bailey’s silence became a roar in her ears akin to the hiss of fast-flowing water. It catapulted through her body with blessed numbness, carrying her along in its wake—

A shout, followed by a shrill sound.

A scream?

Aye, her own cry, torn from her as the knife sank into her flesh. Her last, dying breath, voicing every last shred of her frustration and . . .

And yet, the harsh sound seemed more like metal rubbing against metal. No piercing pain stabbed her neck. Nor did she feel the warm gush of blood.

She lurched. What—?

“Faye.”

She recognized Brant’s worried voice close by. The sound of rushing water faded. Gasping, blinking her eyes open, she surfaced to see the bailey. The armed guards still stared up at her, but not with stark horror.

“Stay with me,” Brant whispered against her hair, his words barely audible over the clip-clop of hooves.

As her hazy mind cleared, she realized he no longer pressed the knife against her skin. The guards around them had stepped aside, leaving a clear path to the gatehouse. The sharp sound she had heard was the portcullis rising to let them ride out over the lowered drawbridge.

Torr had spared her life.

Tears in her eyes, she searched the crowd. He stood nearby, hands on his hips, a scowl blackening his features. His gaze locked with hers, and she smiled with all the gratitude careening through her. His lips tilted upward in return although she sensed displeasure in his taut grin. He had not wanted Brant to escape. Or her.

Torr knew about the journal.

Her smile faltered. She looked away, fear freezing the warm glow of relief.

For now, Torr had let them escape. Why should he not? Two riders on one horse would tire the animal long before dusk. They had no food or water. Moreover, they rode in Torr’s land. Every farmer, townsperson, and peasant owed fealty to him.

His pursuit was not over.

It had only begun.

The destrier’s pace quickened to a canter. In his leather bag, Val bumped against her knee. Shifting in the saddle, she secured the bag with her leg, stopping it from bouncing as much as they rode through the gatehouse’s shadows, under the rising portcullis, and across the drawbridge.

Brant’s arm at her waist drew her more firmly against him. Kicking his heels, he spurred the destrier to a gallop.

“Are you all right?” he called over the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.

She bit back a scathing retort. How ludicrous of him to ask after her welfare, after he had threatened to kill her. Stiffening her shoulders, she pointedly ignored him. She tried to scoot forward, to put distance between where their bodies touched, but he drew her back.

“Torr’s men will be after us,” Brant went on. “With luck, we will lose them.”

Faye’s fingers tightened on the mane. Saints above, she would do her utmost to lose him. In the forest fringing the road several leagues ahead she would get her chance. If she dropped from the horse and ran as fast as she could, she could elude him in the underbrush. With Torr’s men in pursuit, determined to recapture or kill him, Brant would not linger to hunt her down.

A bitter ache slashed through her. Brant had no reason to pursue her, for he did not need her any longer. He had Royce’s journal, as well as the gold goblet. He would ride off to a distant part of England where no one knew of his loathsome crimes, sell the chalice, and live as richly as a king, while searching for the rest of the lost treasure.

Most likely he would never be captured and tried for Royce’s murder. Or for taking her hostage. Or threatening her life. Or deceiving her with such magical finesse she had once believed she . . . loved him.

How could she have been so wrong about him? How could she have so badly misjudged his intentions, and his desires?

Her throat burned with a silent scream. She forced herself to remain mute, to draw strength from the fury seething inside her—a torment in itself. With each of the horse’s strides, her bottom brushed against his groin. Her thighs rubbed his, an intimate reminder of how she had once welcomed his touch. How, of all treacheries, part of her still relished the intimate contact.

Fie! Brant might escape to live like a king, but his crimes would fester in his soul until the day he died. How she hoped his every waking moment was sheer misery.

Fingering hair from her cheek, she glanced down at Val, cocooned in his leather bag. He peered up at her with intense scrutiny, as though he somehow read her thoughts. She looked away.

On and on the destrier galloped. Brant followed the river, she noted, when he guided the horse onto another stretch of road. What strange coincidence that so many moments in her life focused on this waterway; at different points along it, she had lost her babe, and Angeline had unearthed the gold chalice.

With each passing league, the landscape changed. Fields merged onto boulder-strewn areas beside the riverbank. Walls of rock lined the river, showing that over the centuries, water had worn through the stone like a knife slicing cake. A damp smell pervaded the air. The breeze, too, held an earthy tang: the scent of a brewing storm.

Leafless trees clustered along the road ahead—the outer fringes of the forest.

Soon, she would be free of Brant.

Soon, he would no longer be part of her life.

Soon, she would be alone. Again.

Tamping down an unwelcome twinge of remorse, she wiggled her toes to ease a pinched muscle. She could not run with cramped limbs. Of all indignities, her right buttock had gone numb.

Behind her, Brant grunted, as though irritated by her fidgeting. He suffered a little discomfort? After forcing her to endure a knife at her neck and the fear of being killed? Ha! She shifted position again, ignoring his sharp indrawn breath and the tightening of his fingers at her hip.

“Faye,” he growled.

She fought a grin, along with the urge to squirm again, just for spite. If she wished to elude him, she must appear completely at his mercy. Obedient, so he would risk leaving her unwatched for a moment.

The destrier’s pace slowed a fraction, and he cantered off the road into a field of browned grasses. The thunder of hoofbeats softened to a muted thud.

Faye straightened in surprise, jerking away as her back brushed his torso. “Where are we going?”

Wry laughter rumbled behind her. “Your voice has returned, milady.”

Ahead, the river glistened, silver gray under the darkening sky. “Brant,” she snapped over her shoulder, “why did you leave the road? Why—?”

“My horse needs a drink,” he said. “Val needs to stretch his legs. As, I vow, do you.”

How astutely he had read her needs. Wretched man.

He slowed the horse as he approached the river. An icy gust buffeted her, sweeping up inside her sleeves and over her calves. Shivering, she huddled against the cold.

With a gentle shift of his hand, Brant steered the destrier along the river’s edge, keeping it close to the trees to shield them from view from the road.

“We will not stop for long,” Brant said. “With a storm coming, we may not be able to travel much further.”

Faye fought rising dismay. Traveling in a tempest was indeed treacherous. Yet, if she were to escape him, she must take that risk.

“Stopping here also gives us a moment to talk,” Brant added.

Talk? What did he imagine they had left to say to one another?

He guided their mount down through the scattered rocks and boulders to the water’s edge. Faye released the strands of mane still gripped in her fingers. The destrier dipped his head, eager to drink.

Brant shifted behind Faye, and the saddle creaked. His warmth vanished from behind her as he slid down from the horse, leaving her to endure the full brunt of the breeze against her back.

Stones rattled as he straightened. Hair tangling about his shoulders, he looked up at her, his expression cautious, his scar stark against his cheek.

He stood near enough that if she kicked out, she would catch him full in the ribs and send him staggering backward. A simple matter, then, to snatch up the reins and ride off.

Not so simple, though, to follow through with such a daring plan with a tired, thirsty horse trained to obey his master’s commands. Moreover, before she rode three paces, Brant would yank her out of the saddle.

Better to wait until a more opportune moment to flee.

Brant seemed to sense the dangerous path of her thoughts, for he leaned forward and flattened his palm to her leg, holding it where it pressed against Val’s leather bag. An acute physical awareness tingled up her flesh, reminding her, with shocking potency, of the spellbinding pleasure of his touch.

Inside the bag, Val yapped, demanding to be let out.

“Patience, Val,” Brant said before stretching up his hand to her. “I will assist you down.”

An addled part of her yearned to slip her hand into his, to reclaim that wondrous bond between them that had been richer than any other joy in her entire life. How could she place her hand—and her faith—in him again?

Nay.

Glaring down at him, she said, “You have done quite enough for me.”

His brows arched. Bowing his dark, tousled head like a chivalrous courtier, he swept his arm to encompass the rocks and trees surrounding them. “By your leave, milady. Do as you wish.”

She pursed her lips. “You will not draw that dagger on me again? Force me to do as you bid?”

He straightened. His jaw clenched. Setting his hands on his hips, he toed one of the rocks by his boots. “I may deserve that remark—”

She arched her brows in answer.

“—but mayhap after I have explained, you will understand . . . and forgive me.”

“Or not,” she muttered.

Anguish darkened his gaze. He shrugged, faced the water, and dragged his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to straighten it. In that moment, he seemed bone-deep weary.

Taking care not to hurt Val, Faye shifted in the saddle, swung her leg back, and slid toward the ground . . . much faster than she imagined. Her skirts bunched, at the same time her leg muscles seized up. With a frantic squawk, she grabbed at the saddle.

Strong, sure, Brant’s hands closed around her waist, easing her back against him while her shoes connected with uneven stones. Without his intervention, she would have fallen on the rocks.

“T-thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure.”

His tone suggested he did, indeed, find assisting her to be pleasing. Another element resonated in his words as well, a complex nuance of emotion that suggested her well-being was vital to him. That he . . . cared.

How could she imagine he cared for her, when he had threatened her with a knife?

She stepped away, out of his hold. A sigh broke from him. Turning back to the horse, he loosened the leather bag. Val’s fuzzy head popped out before Brant reached in, lifted him out, and set him on the ground. Tail wagging, Val bounded along the water’s edge.

Tucking hair behind her ear, Faye glanced at Brant. Their gazes locked with the force of two waves crashing together, a connection so intense, she gasped and stumbled back.

“Do not run from me, Faye.”

The raw plea in his voice shuddered through her. Shaking her head, she took another step away from him. “You took me hostage. You held a knife to my throat.”

“For that necessity, I am sorry.”

“Sorry?” she squeaked, throwing out her hands in disbelief. A raindrop splattered on her open palm, as if the heavens wept for her and Brant.

“I could not leave you behind at Caldstowe.”

“Brant—”

“Your plan to ride to Waverbury was flawed. Torr would never have let you leave the keep. He knows you took the journal.”

Dread dissolved the rest of her defiant words. Slowly, she nodded.

“Never could I let you face Torr alone. After arresting you, he would demand to know why you took the tome and gave it to me. Physical punishment is only one of the methods he would use to manipulate you.”

“Do not speak to me of manipulation,” she muttered.

“I know you are angry with me, Faye. Believe me, if there were any other way to protect you—”

Fury burned so hot inside her, her mouth burned with the taste of it. “Protect me? By threatening to murder me?”

“’Twas the only way I could think of to get us both out of Caldstowe alive.”

“One wrong move, one slip of the dagger, and—”

“I would never harm you.”

So angry she could barely speak, she bit out, “Why should I believe you?”

A despairing laugh broke from him. He looked across the water, his rugged, beautiful profile outlined by the waning light. “You are the most precious thing in my life, Faye.”

His declaration hit her with the force of a slap. She lurched backward, stumbling over a rock.

“Standing here, I long to touch you. To brush my fingers through your hair, to run my hands down your back, to . . .”—he swallowed—“to love you as I did in your chamber, what seems like years ago.”

“Stop!” Her innards twisted with each word, tighter and tighter until bile leapt to the back of her mouth. Oh, God, she was going to vomit!

He reached for her, as if to catch her elbow and offer support.

“Nay!” she cried, twisting away from him.

Shaking his head, Brant swore under his breath. His arm lowered to his side. When she straightened, his glittering gaze met hers. “I took you from Caldstowe because to think of you being forced to Torr’s will, suffering for his deceptions . . . I had to spare you. Bound by my blood oath, I did his bidding for many months. I would gladly die, Faye, rather than see you enslaved to him.”

“Instead, I am to live as your hostage?”

A sad smile touched Brant’s mouth. “Only for a little longer.”

A grim finality tainted his words. A raindrop fell on her cheek, an icy reminder of her tears when he had confessed to murder, before she wiped it away. “Where are you taking me? What . . . shall you do with me?”

He glanced down the river to a distant point, as if he saw into the future. “I am taking you to Waverbury.”

Relief rushed through her, quickly submerged by wariness.

“I will ensure you a safe journey. Together we will rescue Angeline, and thus I will fulfill the agreement I made with you days ago. Then, we will part ways.”

He spoke matter-of-factly, without a trace of the volatile emotions she sensed coursing through him. Still, his words chilled her. There was more to his plan than he had voiced. She sensed it as keenly as the unraveling storm.

“What are you not telling me?” She fought unwelcome panic. “After we separate, what will you do?”

Brant’s mouth tilted in an anguished smile. Reaching up, he trailed his fingers down the side of her face. His fingertips skimmed her healing bruise in a touch so tender, she wanted to weep.

She should slap his hand away. Shriek and tell him never to touch her again. Somehow, she could not. In his gaze, she caught the memory of their most intimate joining, the moment their bodies and souls had fused in exquisite pleasure. A glorious revelation she would cherish until the day she died.

Faye, my treasure.

She trembled, remembering his husky endearment, as well as the enchantment of his touch that had spread warmth to the forgotten reaches of her soul. Her body quivered, yearned, with painful recognition; this would be the last time he touched her.

How she wanted to fall to the stones and cry that their relationship, once bright with promise, had disintegrated to the insignificance of a handful of dust.

She caught her bottom lip, sucked it into her mouth.

Brant’s gaze dropped to her lips. Then, with obvious reluctance, he withdrew his hand.

“Brant,” she whispered.

Already the intimacy between them had vanished, as if swept away by the wind. Now, his gaze held the determination of a fierce warrior. “To answer your question,” he said, “after we rescue Angeline, I will return to Caldstowe. Torr owes me an explanation for Royce’s journal. Before I die, I will have one.”

Chapter Eighteen

When Faye’s face drained of color, Brant fought an answering tightness within his chest. Seeing her so distraught, he vowed his heart would rend in two. His arms ached to hold her one last time, to kiss her until they were both breathless, to tell her that loving her was the best moment of his entire existence.

His tender admission would not be welcome.

Nor would it be wise, when very soon, he would be dead.

Wind whistled past the walls of rock, a sound as eerie as a dirge. She stared at him, her skin pale against her hair’s coppery hue. Stirred by the strengthening breeze, her tresses tangled about her shoulders. He savored the wild beauty of her. Committed her loveliness to memory, so, in his last, dying moments, she would be with him.

Hugging herself, she said, “You cannot return to Caldstowe.”

“To know the truth, I must.”

She shook her head. Such anguish shone in her eyes, he curled his fingers into fists to stop himself from embracing her.

“I must know why Torr denied me Royce’s journal. There is no reason for him to have kept it. Save one.”

“The treasure,” Faye whispered.

“Aye.” Rage he could not suppress trembled in Brant’s voice. To think of his brother’s tome, the sum of his dream, secreted away because of Torr’s greed—

“I do not understand. Why would he covet the lost riches? His wealth and authority exceed those of most lords in these lands. He can have whatever he desires.”

Brant raised his brows. “Can he? Mayhap he wants most what he cannot have.”

Thunder growled in the near distance.

“On crusade, Torr and Royce often discussed the treasure. What kind of gold artifacts they might find. The most likely locations of the treasure, judging by Royce’s notes and sketches. The notion of discovering a lost treasure—riches of an ancient king so extraordinary, he is a legend even to this day—fascinated Torr.”

Shivering, Faye rubbed her arms. A raindrop hit Brant’s shoulder, and he frowned up at the darkening sky.

“Torr does not seem a greedy man,” she went on, “and yet . . .”

“Yet?”

“I did not imagine you to be a murderer, either.”

The condemnation in her gaze lashed like a knife. Suddenly, again, the stinging bite of Torr’s dagger sliced Brant’s cheek. “’Tis the only way to avoid suspicion,” Torr had muttered inside the tent, as Brant had recoiled to gape at the blood staining his tunic—the same hue as the crimson pool surrounding Royce’s body. “Remember, the Saracen cut you when you tried to stop him from killing Royce.”

Brant gritted his teeth. If only he could change his past. If only he could be the honorable man Faye deserved. But he could not.

Turning away, Brant reached for the destrier’s reins. The horse had finished drinking. Before the storm unleashed its fury he must find them all shelter. At least the rain would wash away all trace of their journey, as well as their scent, making it harder for Torr to find them.

Striding past Faye, he led their mount into the trees. “This way.”

Brant did not hear the clatter of stones behind him to indicate she followed. Halting the horse, he looked back to see her standing where he had left her.

At the river’s edge, Val raised his head. He glanced toward the road and growled.

A faint sound carried on the wind. Brant strained to hear.

The baying of dogs.

Faye’s eyes flared with panic.

He grabbed for her arm. “Get on the horse.”

She jerked to one side, evading his grasp.

“Faye!” Brant glared at her edging away from him, clearly preparing to run. “I will not leave you here. Torr and his men will find you.”

“Ride away, while you still can! I am not going with you.”

“We must try to outrun them. ’Tis too dangerous for you—”

“The danger is greatest if we stay together.” She held his gaze for a last, poignant moment, then whirled and raced across the rocks.

Spinning to look at her, Val barked again.

Brant cursed into the wind. The fierce gust snatched his words, slammed them against the rocks, as Faye scrambled along the shore.

Damnation!

Dropping the destrier’s reins, he started after her, stumbling when stones shifted under his boots. Val raced past him, headed toward Faye. Brant half fell, wincing when a rock scraped his hand. Fury raced through his veins, chased by concern. If she escaped him, how could he protect her? Why did she not understand the risks if Torr captured her?

“Faye, come back!”

She did not even glance over her shoulder.

The dogs’ baying grew more distinct. He must ride away, now, if he hoped to outrun Torr’s men. They would slaughter him here by the lakeshore. He would never know the truth about Royce’s journal.

Yet, how could he ride off and abandon Faye? How could he vanish like a coward, only to wonder what had happened to her?

Ah, God, he could not. To choose his own desires over Faye’s well-being was . . . criminal. If he was to die by this stormy lake, he would perish knowing he had sacrificed every last drop of bloody strength to protect her. An honorable ambition worth dying for.

Faye, my treasure.

He stumbled to a halt, turned, and loped back to the destrier. Several paces away, a huge boulder supported fallen trees cast down by the recent floods. He drew the destrier in behind the massive rock, tied him to a branch, and hoped he stayed hidden from view.

Shouts carried on the wind, along with excited barking.

Brant ran out from behind the boulder. Halted in her frantic flight, Faye struggled to loosen her gown caught on a log. Crouched by her feet, Val yapped, as though telling her to hurry.

Skidding on loose stones, Brant hurried to her.

Val glanced at him. His little tail wagged.

Faye yanked on her gown. With a ripping sound, it pulled free. Flicking aside snarled hair, she looked at him. Dismay tightened her features.

“I could not leave you,” he said. At the same moment, thunder crashed overhead.

As he wondered whether she had heard him, she glanced at the water. Before he could stop her, she plunged into the river where it looked shallow around submerged rocks. The water reached to her hips. Her skirts dragging in the water, she forged toward the other side.

Muttering an oath, Brant splashed in after her.

She glanced over her shoulder, her expression frantic. “Leave me be!”

He scowled, sucking in a harsh breath, as the frigid water soaked his hose all the way up to his groin. Another splash, and Val landed in the water. Nose lifted to the threatening sky, the little dog paddled with awkward strokes to the opposite shore.

Brant scooped up the mongrel, holding Val’s dripping body against his chest while he waded heavily through the water. He strode up onto the rock-strewn bank, water streaming down his hose. The soaked cloth stuck to his legs. His boots squelched.

Brant set Val down. Clenching his jaw, he ignored the blast of wind that chilled his flesh and made his toes curl inside his boots. He must protect Faye. He would die to save her.

Only a few yards ahead, her urgent gasps echoed. He ran after her. A triumphant smile tugged at his lips, for her sodden skirts slowed her down. She scrambled over the uneven ground, the wet ends of her hair leaving damp marks on her lower back. With a desperate oath, she veered closer to the soaring rock wall to avoid a jumble of rotting branches and debris.

He was gaining on her.

A branch, sharp as an accusing finger, snagged in his hose. Cursing, he kicked the branch. Pulled free.

Raising his head, he looked ahead for Faye.

Gone.

Sudden, acute fear unlike anything he had ever known slammed through him. Had she fallen? He did not see her floundering, trying to get to her feet, so she might be unconscious. He scrambled to where he had last seen her.

“Faye?” he yelled, not caring if the approaching riders or dogs heard.

His hoarse cry carried down the narrow canyon. The sound repeated back to him, over and over, mocking his urgency.

“Faye!” he shouted, his gaze skimming the surrounding rocks. A fallen willow lay near the rock wall, its roots and trunk trapped between boulders while its branches dangled in the river. Could she be crouched down behind the tree?

He scrambled toward the willow.

“Val,” he shouted. If she were hiding, the little dog could draw her out.

To his left, a stone rattled. Val, no doubt, heeding Brant’s command.

No furry mongrel scrambled into view.

Brant glanced about. “Val?”

Now his dog was missing, too.

Wind screamed past the rock wall beside him. Rain spat. A terrible sense of loneliness taunted Brant, a torment even deeper than the day he had killed Royce.

The baying dogs were near.

Very near.

He raised his hand to push windblown hair out of his eyes. And then he saw it.

In the rock wall by the fallen willow, partly hidden by intertwining vines, he spied an opening.

A cave?

He lurched forward, his boots skating over uneven stones. Pushing aside the curtain of dirt-encrusted vines, he stepped inside.

A breath of cold, damp air enveloped him. Squinting, he walked on into the grayed shadows.

Three steps in, and something brushed his leg. Val.

“There you are.” He glowered down at the bright-eyed little mongrel. As he spoke, he sensed they were not alone. Relief flooded through him.

Raising his head, he spied Faye pressed back against the cavern’s wall, her hands splayed on the stone. She stood on the verge of the darker shadows, as though unwilling to go further.

Teeth chattering, she met his gaze. She looked away. From outside, came voices and the distant ring of hooves. Riders had reached the riverbank.

“We need a better place to hide,” Brant said. “Torr’s men may have brought torches. They will search the cave if they find it.”

“’Tis nigh impossible to see”—she shuddered—“what lies further on.”

In the near distance, rocks skittered. A splash. Excited yelps. Torr’s dogs were tracking their scent and coming closer. If he and Faye had any hope of remaining undetected—

Val stared at the cave opening, where dim light broached the shadows. Ears flattening, he growled.

“Val,” Brant snapped. “Quiet.”

Brant turned to Faye. Stretching out his hand, he said, “Come with me. We will go deeper into the cavern.”

She shook her head.

Men’s voices drifted from the river. Among them, Brant recognized Torr’s. “—search every part of the shore,” he was saying. “They are here. I can sense it.”

“Oh, mercy,” Faye whispered. She was staring down at the hole in her gown. “What if they find the torn cloth?”

“They may not. Even if they do, we have a better chance of eluding Torr together.” Brant held out his hand. “Please. I demand naught of you, only that you come to a safer hiding place.” So I can protect you, my treasure, until I die.

After a moment’s hesitation, she slid her hand into his. He drew her into the murkier shadows. Val followed.

Blackness loomed, an inky veil concealing the path ahead. Brant moved on, half step by half step, feeling his way in near darkness. His palm scraped against the slick wall. Somewhere ahead, water dripped: a strong, steady sound, like a heartbeat deep in the earth.

He shrugged tension from between his shoulders. ’Twas not a good moment to imagine a glowing-eyed dragon crouched behind the next boulder.

Faye shuddered in his grasp.

Aye, he knew exactly how she felt. He squeezed her fingers, and pressed on.

“Meslarches!” Torr’s shout carried from close by. “Reveal yourself. You cannot escape my men.”

Brant exhaled through his teeth. Give away his hiding place? Endanger Faye?

Never, whoreson.

“Surrender, Meslarches.” Smugness tinged Torr’s voice. “Put down your knife, raise your hands, and I may be merciful.”

Brant scowled.

“I trust you have not harmed Lady Rivellaux. She is, after all, a lady of exceptional . . . value to me.”

A strangled noise came from Faye. Brant pressed her fingers.

“Faye,” Torr went on, closer now. “I know you can hear me. I have come to rescue you—”

Lying bastard.

“—to take you safely back to Caldstowe. Your home. Cry out. Tell us where you are. We will save you from that murderer.”

The inky passage veered downward. Brant’s heel slipped. He gasped, twisted, smacked his side against a jutting stone. He grimaced at the pain.

From outside, a shout rang out, followed by the rattle of stones.

“Where did you find it?” Torr’s gleeful voice, followed by a shrill laughter. “Faye,” he called. “What a shame. You tore your gown.”

She inhaled sharply.

“Keep moving,” Brant whispered, drawing her onward.

“You!” Torr bellowed. “Bring the dogs. Search this part of the riverbank.”

The tromp of footfalls came from close by. Dogs whined and barked.

A branch snapped. Vines rustled.

Light flared behind them. Faint at first, then stronger.

“Milord!” a man called, his voice rebounding off the cave walls.

Brant smothered an oath. One of Torr’s guards had discovered the entrance.

“Search it,” Torr said. “The rest of you, keep looking along the riverbank. They might even be hiding in the woods.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Brant met Faye’s frightened gaze. A scraping sound warned that Torr’s lackey had stepped into the cave. Orange-yellow flickered over the walls and ceiling, revealing the jagged shapes of rock as well as the widening expanse of tunnel ahead. Tugging her hand, Brant urged her behind a boulder and motioned for her to crouch. She gathered her wet skirts and squatted with her back pressed to the cave wall.

Hunkered down behind the boulder, Brant motioned to Val. The little dog looked toward the flickering light, bared his teeth, and growled. The menacing sound carried. So did the guard’s startled grunt.

Scowling, Brant lunged out, grabbed Val, and yanked him behind the big rock, pressing his hand to the little dog’s muzzle to keep him silent.

With cautious steps, the guard continued further into the cave.

Faye’s icy hand bumped Brant’s. She linked her shaking fingers through his. His throat tightened at the gesture, but he dared not turn around to look at her. Even the slightest noise might betray them.

The man walked closer. Any moment, he would come into view.

Brant gently freed his fingers from Faye’s. His hand closed around a rock.

A tall guard, garbed in chain mail armor and an iron helm, stepped past their hiding place. Light from his burning reed torch gleamed off his drawn sword.

Drawing back his arm, Brant threw the rock. It hit the man’s helm with a loud clang.

The guard’s body jerked. He staggered, his sword wavering. Brant lunged, sending the man crashing into the cavern wall. With a harsh cry, he slashed out with the blade. Brant jumped back, gasping as the weapon narrowly missed his chest.

Another stone flew, originating from behind the boulder. It smacked into the guard’s leg. He winced, the slightest lapse of focus. One kick, two, and he lay slumped on the ground.

Wiping his brow, Brant looked at Faye emerging from behind the big stone. “Well done.”

She wiped her hand on her gown and smiled.

Brant snatched up the sword as well as the torch that had fallen among the rocks. “Come on.” He thrust the burning reed at Faye. “We might find another way out of the cave.”

Her gaze clouded with doubt, but she nodded and raised the torch in front of her. Head held high, she made her way around the rocks. Brant followed, Val at his heels.

The passage curved to the right, as though following a path carved by rushing water. The ceiling rose higher. Faye skirted a boulder, went on ahead and—

“Brant,” she whispered.

He hurried to her side. A vast cavern opened out before them. To the right, a still, dark pool of water reflected the torchlight. Moisture glistened on the cave walls. Water dripped into a smaller pool in the distance: the sound he had compared to a pulse.

Brant inhaled a slow, awed breath. Never in his life had he seen such a place.

One steeped in its own kind of magic.

Faye headed down into the cavern. In the flickering torch light, her hair glowed like copper flame, leading him onward.

A grin tugging at his lips, he started to follow her.

A few yards ahead, Faye paused, then bent to inspect something on the cavern floor. With a hissed, indrawn breath, she lurched to her feet.

She screamed.

Chapter Nineteen

Faye stared at the stretch of ground before her. What had appeared to be a length of moldering cloth, caught between protruding rocks, now seemed shockingly obvious. Her hand pressed over her racing heart, she waited as Brant pounded up behind her.

Raising the sword to attack, he demanded, “What is it?”

She pointed to the tattered fabric. “A . . . body.”

Darting past them, Val approached the mounded cloth. He sniffed, flattened his ears, and backed away.

With wary strides, Brant crossed to the cadaver and knelt. His face darkened with a puzzled frown. “God’s teeth.” He motioned to her. “Come closer with the light.”

Moving nearer to the corpse—the source, no doubt, of the strange odor that had caught her attention in the first place—was the last thing she wished to do. Yet, even as the thought screamed through her mind, guilt gnawed at her conscience. Someone had died in this cave. Killed by natural causes, or . . . murdered. Her limbs stiff, she edged closer.

A sudden, urgent realization slammed through her. “Torr’s men outside. They will have heard my scream.”

His expression grim, Brant nodded. “I expect so.”

“Fie! We—”

“Raise the torch. More to the right.”

His words were not a request, but an order, sharpened by intense excitement. She obeyed, unable to quell a shudder of revulsion.

The flickering torchlight illuminated the body turned on its side, as though the deceased had fallen asleep among the rocks. The skull gaped, black eye and nose sockets framed by yellow-white bones, rendered even more stark by the tufts of dark hair clinging to the skull. A rotting cloak covered the body from shoulder to thigh. Bones protruded from what must once have been leather boots.

She watched, hardly daring to breathe, while with the sword tip, Brant lifted the edge of the cloak. Draped over splayed bone fingers, disintegrating fabric—a tunic, mayhap—still bore the remnants of an embroidered border of interlocking knots.

By the holy saints! In her quick skim through Royce’s journal, Faye had glimpsed similar knot designs.

“These garments are not of our time. This man died years ago.” Shock softened Brant’s voice.

“How long ago?” Faye whispered, needing him to voice her own, incredible suspicions.

“Centuries ago, I vow.”

With stunning clarity, Greya’s word came back to her. Some folk do not believe King Arthur died. There are legends he and his most trusted knights lie asleep somewhere in England’s hills. When they are needed, they will awaken to battle the enemies who threaten our lands. Once again, they will lead us to victory.

Swallowing hard, Faye glanced further along the rocks. Her gaze fell upon another mound of fabric. And another.

“There are more bodies. Do you think—”

“—these people died here? Mayhap.” After gently withdrawing his sword to let the cloth fall back into place, Brant stood. “’Tis more likely the flood water unearthed the bodies and washed them from their burial place.”

She shook her head, for she had not wondered if they had died here. Somehow, she sensed they had. “Brant,” she said softly, “do you think this man . . . Could he be—?”

A rock clattered in the passage leading to the cave. Val barked. Faye spun to glance at the cavern opening, then whirled back to look at Brant. His gaze locked with hers.

Without a word, he brushed past her, both hands tight on the sword’s grip. He halted between her and the cavern entrance, his posture tense.

“Stay back,” he said.

Val stood by his side, ears pricked. Footfalls carried from the outer passage, and the little dog yapped again.

“Not far ahead,” a man’s voice shouted in the passage.

The footfalls grew louder.

Faye’s hands clenched. Trapped in this cavern, she could die here. The vile scheme Torr had initiated by kidnapping Angeline—whatever that scheme might be—would continue unhindered, the little girl’s fate left to his whims.

She would not perish here in this forgotten cave. She must save Angeline.

Pivoting on her heel, she hurried along the dark pool.

“Where are you going?” Brant called to her.

“To find another way out.”

“Good. I will fend off the guards as long as I can.”

As long as I can. Faye fought an anguished gasp, for she understood the veiled meaning in his words: until he was dead.

Bittersweet regret washed through her. Fighting a torrent of gratitude, despair, and—heaven forbid—love, she glanced back at him. Until the very end, he would be her protector. “Thank you.” How desperately inadequate those words seemed.

The corner of his mouth ticked up in a grin. He nodded.

Ahead, the stone inclined in shallow steps. Holding the torch aloft, Faye scrambled up, using her free hand to steady herself as her shoes slipped over the water-streaked rock. Reaching a narrow plateau, she straightened.

Light burst into the cavern.

Faye glanced at the cave opening. Armed men streamed in, moving to block the one route of escape, their footfalls cacophonous in the enclosed cavern.

Facing them all, Brant crouched, poised to attack. “Go, Faye,” he yelled.

Her gaze traveled over his taut, muscled body. How brave and proud he looked, a lone warrior facing impossible odds. For her.

She blinked hard, wrenched her gaze away, and stepped up onto the next rock level, fighting for balance on the slick surface.

Sudden silence descended.

“Faye.”

She lurched as Torr’s voice carried in the cavern. Thrown back from the surrounding walls, his acknowledgment held an ominous quality. A dark, intangible power. Barely regaining her balance, she looked at him. His lips curved up in a mirthless smile. His gaze slid from her to Brant. “Meslarches.”

Torr stepped forward with a faint chime of his chain mail armor. Unscrewing the top of a flask, he drank, then shoved the vessel into the leather bag at his side. His tone gentle, he said, “’Tis all right, Faye. I know you are very frightened, after all that has happened, but I am here now. I will keep you safe.” Tilting his head, he signaled to his men to move further into the cavern. They fanned out on either side of Brant.

“Come down from the rocks, Faye. Walk to me. Together, we will return to Caldstowe.”

He spoke so pleasantly. An illusion. She sensed tremendous anger lurking just beneath the surface of his genial façade. Fury he might unleash upon her for stealing the journal.

“Now, Faye.”

Her chin tilted up at his brusque tone. “I am not going back to Caldstowe.”

Astonishment flared in Torr’s gaze before he laughed, a sound akin to rocks grating together. “What do you mean?” His smile wavered, as though he struggled not to laugh again. “You must be suffering shock, Faye. I know you have endured a great deal, and that your trust has been shattered by one you trusted.” Glaring at Brant, Torr added, “’Twill be all right, Faye. Return to Caldstowe with me, and you will see ’tis so.”

“Leave her be,” Brant growled.

“Brave words from a murderer who used her to escape. You will suffer for your boldness, Meslarches. I will see to it myself.” His feigned pleasantness returned. “Come here, Faye. Please, do not keep me waiting.”

A shudder crawled down her back. “As I told you, I am not returning to Caldstowe.”

“Nay? Where will you go, then?” He flung out a hand, indicating the cavern, as if to point out the idiocy of her statement. To show the futility of her wish to govern her own destiny.

The frustration simmering inside her for so many agonizing days welled inside her. Here, now, she would ask the dangerous question she wanted answered. “Torr, where is Angeline?”

His mouth dropped in surprise. His expression hardened with suspicion. “What?”

“You arranged her abduction.”

Shocked murmurs rippled through the guards.

“Do not be foolish!” Torr said. “What a shame your shock has made you distrust everyone who cares for you.”

She forged on, fighting the dread and fear begging her to be silent. “One of the maidservants at Caldstowe saw you hand Angeline to two cloaked riders. Brant spoke with the young woman.”

“Brant?” Torr sneered. “You believe him? A condemned criminal? How he deluded you.”

Brant swore. Staring at Torr, his hands flexing on the sword, he seemed to be struggling to control his fury.

“The witness did not doubt what she saw,” Faye said.

Torr’s eyes narrowed. “What is her name?”

“I . . . ” She swallowed hard. If she betrayed Blythe, Torr might send his men after her. If the girl went missing, or died, there would be no one to speak against him.

“Why will you not tell me? Do you not know?” When Faye did not reply, he giggled as though she had told a delightful jest. “Milady, he spoke false to you. He deliberately corrupted your trust and loyalty to me, until you believed his every word.”

“I had no reason to lie to her about Angeline,” Brant said. “You, however—”

“Do not distort the truth!” Torr roared. “You are a murderer. A man who killed his own brother. You will suffer for your crimes.” He reached for his sword. The cold, bright metal hissed out of the scabbard.

Oh, God! She could not bear to see Brant cut down. From Torr’s merciless expression, he intended Brant a painful death.

“What of Angeline?” Faye cried. “She could be in grave danger.”

“True. Surrender, Meslarches. Spare us from wasting moments that could be spent on more pressing matters.”

Brant snorted. “Surrender? I think not. I wait for you to answer Faye’s question.”

A scowl creased Torr’s brow. “Meslarches—”

“Tell me where to find Angeline,” Faye said. “Then I will tell you where to find the journal.”

Torr froze. “Journal?”

Faye’s fingers curled tighter on the sputtering torch. How clever of him to pretend ignorance. “The private journal of Brant’s brother, Royce. You kept it hidden under the floorboards in your solar.”

Torr inhaled sharply. His sword arm trembled.

“The tome contains details of a lost Celtic treasure—”

“Shut up!” Turning to his men, he snapped, “Leave the torches. Wait outside.” With frantic fingers, he groped for his leather flask. He guzzled the drink, liquid running from the corners of his mouth.

The guards looked at each other. “Milord?”

Torr stowed the flask. “When I need you, I will summon you. Leave us.”

“But—”

He lashed out with his weapon, narrowly missing one of the guards. His expression wild, he swung again. “Get . . . out!”

The men hurried from the cavern. Their muttered voices echoed in the passageway. Before the last guard retreated, Torr grabbed his arm and spoke in his ear. With a nod, the guard headed out of the cavern.

Torr stood motionless until the noises faded. Then his head swiveled and he glared at Faye. “I did not think you to be a stupid woman. You are very foolish to goad me, after all I have done for you.”

Fear buzzed in her veins, but she refused to break his gaze. “You left me no other choice, if I wish to find Angeline.”

Torr spat out of the side of his mouth. “The journal, Faye.”

She bit back an indignant cry. His careless tone, his nonexistent concern for his little girl, was unforgivable. By the saints, how could a child’s life be worth less than a book of musings on a treasure that might never be found?

Refusing to yield to his challenging stare, she said, “First, Angeline.”

His brows raised. He laughed, a shrill noise that mocked her demand as ludicrous. “Why?”

Smoke from the burning torch stung Faye’s eyes. She would never forget her last moments with Elayne, her friend’s lovely, golden hair matted with sweat, her eyes bleak and blood shot, her skin too pale, each wheezing breath dragging her closer to death. “When Elayne lay dying,” Faye said, “I promised her I would watch over Angeline. I never break a promise.”

“Look where that vow has brought you.”

His mocking words hurt, rubbing like vinegar into her raw, emotional wounds. Her whole body ached with the anguish. But if he thought she would cede ground in this battle, he had misjudged her. “Indeed,” she said quietly, “and look where it has brought you.”

Astonishment flared in Torr’s eyes.

“How quick you are to make demands, but still, you have not answered my question: Where is Angeline?”

Admiration gleamed in Torr’s gaze before he chuckled. The throaty sound transformed to a booming laugh that echoed up to the cavern’s shadowed ceiling. “What a bold woman you are. No longer the meek, grieving widow who came to Caldstowe with not a penny to her name. Not even a babe.”

He sneered the word “babe.” Faye swallowed painfully. Her palm pressed to her stomach as a silent, agonized scream broke inside her.

“You bastard,” Brant growled.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Faye glared at Torr. “How dare you remind me of my child? This wretched abduction is not about me.”

“Is it not?” Torr muttered, so quietly she almost did not hear.

Faye frowned. “What do you mean?”

Before she could demand an explanation from him, footfalls carried again from the passage to the cavern. A triumphant grin spread across Torr’s features before a guard—the man to whom Torr had whispered moments ago—emerged. Against his chain-mail-armored chest, he cradled an object wrapped in a blanket.

Faye’s gaze darted to the skeletal remains of the Celtic man, even as misgiving jolted through her. Whoever—or whatever—lay wrapped in the blanket was much smaller than the dead man.

No larger than a . . . child.

Oh, God.

Her knees wobbled. Shaking her head, she fought the deluge of dreadful possibilities crowding her mind.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God!

The words became an inner chant, a desperate prayer, as Torr motioned to the rocks near his feet. “There.”

The guard’s wary expression deepened. “Surely not, milord. ’Tis damp and—”

“Do it!” Torr screamed. His face reddened with the vehemence of his command. The guard’s face whitened as he knelt to set the blanket down. “Leave,” Torr snapped.

The guard bowed, then turned on his heel. Before he had taken two steps, Torr lunged, striking with his sword. The blade slashed across the guard’s thigh unprotected by chain mail. Blood spurted.

Faye shrieked.

The man screamed. “Milord! Mercy! Why—?”

“Shut up.”

The guard staggered and fell to his knees, groping for his weapon. Raising his blade, Torr struck out again. The man’s head landed on the rocks with a grisly thud before rolling down into the inky pool. With the eerie clink of chain mail links, the guard’s body collapsed.

Breathing through his teeth, Torr wiped perspiration from his brow. He swung to face Faye and Brant.

“Why did you kill him?” Brant demanded.

“He questioned my command. He will not do so again.” His lips curved into a malicious smile. “If you are wise, you will do exactly as I say.”

Fear clawed up inside Faye, as terrifying as a flesh-eating demon. Torr had just committed murder, but he showed not the slightest remorse. Unlike Brant, who lived in torment because he had killed his brother.

Her gaze returned to the blanket by his feet. What else was Torr capable of?

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Brant’s hand move. A signal. Val scampered across the rocks. Nose down, he cautiously approached the wrapped bundle and sniffed it.

Wiping his forehead again, Torr laughed. The shrill cackle sounded almost inhuman.

“We are listening, Torr,” Brant said, each word deliberate and calm, as though he reasoned with a temperamental child. “What is in the blanket?”

The fabric stirred. A moan. A tiny, pathetic sound.

Faye’s breaths shortened until she was panting. She scrambled over the slippery rocks. “Angeline?”

“Never!” Horror echoed in Brant’s voice.

Torr grinned.

Scooting forward, Val sniffed the blanket again and snagged it with his teeth. He tugged, revealing a mass of flaxen curls and a rounded shoulder encased in dirty, yellow wool. Another tug revealed the drawn face of a little girl. She lay on her side, eyes closed, her lashes still against ghostly pale skin.

“Angeline,” Faye cried.

Slipping, sliding, she scrambled across the stone steps. Sobs wrenched up inside her, originating in her grief for her own babe. How she yearned to hug Angeline, to kiss her silky hair, to promise that whatever had befallen her, she would soon be safe.

Reaching level ground, Faye jammed the torch into a rock crevice and hurried toward Angeline. “You are safe, my lamb,” she called to the little girl. “I promise.”

As though becoming aware of her approach, the little girl stirred. Her eyes opened. However, her blue-eyed gaze did not seem to focus. She moaned again.

Faye stumbled to a halt. “W-what is wrong with her?”

“Drugged,” Brant muttered.

“Who would be so evil . . .” She choked on the vile words. “Who would drug a child?”

Torr shrugged. “Angeline would not stop crying. All day, all night. I told my two hired men to drug her, but even then, she would not cease.” He wrinkled his nose. “My guards and I met them on the road while pursuing you. The men were returning her to Caldstowe. I received their message about bringing her back, Faye, when you and I were drinking wine in my solar.”

Faye fisted her shaking hands. What she would give to slap that arrogant smile from his lips!

“When the two men demanded their payment, I vowed I did not know them and accused them of kidnapping.” He chortled. “After their killings, my men praised me for my brave rescue of Angeline.”

Faye curled her hands so tightly, her nails bit into her palms. “If she was miserable, why did you not bring her home to Caldstowe? Why did you continue with your loathsome abduction ploy?”

Torr gave a secretive smile before he examined his sword in the flickering light. He wiped the bloody blade on the dead guard’s leg.

“Answer me! What if you poisoned her? What if you destroyed her mind?” With a strangled sob, she rushed forward. A few more steps, and she could drop to her knees, embrace Angeline, murmur comforting words—

Brant lunged sideways. He grabbed her arm, stopping her. “Faye.”

Fighting his hold, she cried, “Let me pass!”

“’Tis a trap.”

Standing beside Angeline, Val nuzzled her arm, as though to coax her to sit up.

Faye shrieked and struggled. “Let me go to her!”

“She is of little value to Torr. He has made that very clear.” Brant’s keen gaze bored into hers, demanding she heed him. Still, she fought, digging her fingernails into his hand.

“Faye, listen to me! Torr wants you. Something he believes only you can give him.”

As Brant’s words filtered through her haze of anguish, she froze. “Me?”

She glanced at Torr. One indolent hand on his hip, he watched their altercation. His smile oozed smug triumph.

“Think, Faye,” Brant said. “All that has happened, every moment to this point, has revolved around one event. One . . . object.”

“The journal.”

He frowned. “Not exactly.”

Then it struck her with the full force of a blow. Faye gasped. “The gold cup.”

***

Faye’s hoarse words sent a chill shivering through Brant, as frigid as an ancient spirit whispering across his neck.

Tipping his head back, Torr laughed. The sound dripped with condescension. “Very good, Faye. I thought you too naïve to ever guess.”

Her face tautened with indignation. She looked angry enough to leap at Torr and scratch his eyes out, an impulse Brant thoroughly understood. However, attacking Torr would shift focus from the vital questions that deserved answers. Squeezing her arm, he murmured, “Easy, Faye. He owes us both an explanation.”

She glared at him, but her head moved in a stiff nod.

As Torr’s maniacal chortling escalated, Brant released her and secured his grip on his sword. He gritted his teeth, fighting his own war-honed instincts to lunge while Torr stood distracted and gloating.

The craving tempted like a heady wine. A stunned shudder rippled through Brant, for murdering Royce had been utter hell. Killing Torr, however, might just be a pleasure.

An appalling thought, to relish taking a life. Yet, it seemed the only way to save Faye and Angeline, innocent lives that did not deserve to be caught up in such hellish madness.

Torr wiped his eyes, his laughter ebbing to chuckles. However, his posture still bespoke a king assuming victory over a pathetic foe.

“Torr,” Brant said, with enough force to silence Torr’s last giggles. “Tell me—”

Faye thrust up her hand. Casting him a quelling glance, she said, “How did you know about the gold chalice?”

Fury crackled in her voice, the same rage glinting in her eyes when she glanced at him. A sudden, unwelcome thought jarred Brant. Did she believe he had told Torr? “I swear to you, I never told Torr about the cup.”

Confusion dimmed the accusation in her eyes. “Nor did I.”

Torr smirked. “Elayne told me.”

“Elayne!” Faye’s hand flew to her throat, as though she would choke on the revelation. “She would never tell.”

The glee faded from Torr’s expression. “Ah, but she did. Eventually.” His lip curled back from his teeth. “She taunted me with the find. Smiled, in that wretched way of hers, while she lay in our bed. Told me I would never possess the chalice. That ’twas worth a fortune, and the riches belonged to Angeline.”

“Elayne promised,” Faye whispered, looking stunned. “She and I swore not to tell anyone.”

An ugly sneer twisted Torr’s mouth. “You believe you are the only one she betrayed?”

Torr’s venomous tone resonated in the part of Brant’s heart forever scarred by Elayne. How ironic that, on the matter of her manipulative nature, he and Torr agreed.

Yet, from what little he knew of her and Torr’s marriage, they had seemed well matched, their union blessed with a healthy daughter. What had Elayne done that Torr considered a betrayal? Brant sensed ’twas far more than denying Torr the gold cup.

“’Tis unfair to speak ill of Elayne when she cannot be here to defend her actions,” Faye said coldly.

“Pah! Do not think to revere her like a saint.”

“You took advantage of her infirmity. What did you do to her? Drug her?”

Faye trembled as though on the verge of collapse. Brant yearned to close the distance between them, to slip his arm around her. Danger thickened, however, so close to sparking bloody violence, he dared not take his hands from his sword.

Torr smiled, an expression of disdain. “Did you know, Faye, you were the one person she believed she could trust with her life?”

Faye moaned.

“I told her that if she gave you the slightest warning I knew about the cup . . .” He slashed the air with his sword. “Not only you, but Angeline.”

“You are mad!”

“She drove me to it. I did what was necessary, for she refused to tell me where Angeline had found the chalice, or where you had hidden it for safekeeping. God’s teeth, but she was stubborn. Only the drug made her talk.”

Brant’s gut clenched with revulsion. Now he understood why the missive he had received from Elayne had sounded urgent. Had she begged him to come to Caldstowe to help save her from Torr?

“Her illness made her weak. I could not have her die before she confessed all to me.” Torr shrugged. “I added the drug to the herbal infusions you administered, Faye.”

She gasped. “That explains why, at times, she was so . . . wild.”

“What do you mean?” Brant asked.

Faye’s eyes shone with tears. “She became frantic. I could scarce get the elixir in her mouth, she was so distraught.”

Wild. Frantic. Distraught. As Royce had seemed that night months ago.

An eerie hum rang in Brant’s ears, even as Torr said, “How Elayne hated me. She even concealed a dagger in the bedding and tried to stab me.” He grinned. “I took the knife away and did not underestimate her again.”

“How could you be so cruel?” Tears streamed down Faye’s cheeks. “Just to find the treasure?”

“The riches are a legend.” Torr’s eyes gleamed. “I am not the first man to want King Arthur’s hoard. So did Brant’s brother.”

Torr spat the word “brother” like the coarsest oath. The ringing in Brant’s ears intensified, matching his boiling anger. “Royce did not seek the treasure out of greed. He wanted only the satisfaction of finding what had eluded others for centuries.”

“You lie. His desires were the same as any other man’s.” Torr’s gaze slid to Angeline, now sitting up, rubbing her eyes. Hatred contorted his face.

Foreboding skittered across Brant’s soul. As torchlight hit the little girl’s face more fully, he drew a sharp breath. Her features mirrored Elayne’s beauty. Yet, he also caught a striking resemblance to . . .

God above!

“I want the journal, Faye,” Torr growled, taking a step closer, “and the chalice.”

“Not until you tell me why you believe Elayne betrayed you. Because she would not let you have the cup?”

Brant’s head swam. If his suspicions were correct . . . “There is another reason.”

Torr’s gaze narrowed. He strode to Angeline, reached down, and yanked the little girl to her feet. Cringing, she began to cry.

Val growled. Barking, he darted around Torr’s legs.

“Please!” Faye shrieked. “She is your child.”

“Take a good look at the sniveling whelp,” Torr roared. “Does she resemble me? Does she?”

Faye flung up helpless hands. “She is your daughter!”

The loathing in Torr’s gaze answered Brant’s suspicions. His fingers flexing around the sword, he eased forward. “Torr is not Angeline’s father.”

“What?”

“She is . . . my brother’s child.”

Chapter Twenty

As the words Brant had spoken aloud registered in his consciousness, so did another realization. “Angeline is my niece.”

Shock, blended with humility, washed through him. His niece.

His responsibility, by blood.

Her face wet with tears, Faye stepped nearer to Torr. “Release Angeline’s arm. Please. She is not responsible for what happened between you and Elayne.”

Teeth bared, Val crouched, preparing to leap at Torr. He spat at the little dog. He did not let go of Angeline.

“Faye is right.” Brant moved to stand beside Faye. “Angeline is an innocent in this wretched mess. What I do not understand is how Royce and Elayne—”

“—fornicated?” Torr snorted. “Do you not know how a babe is conceived?”

Brant bit back an oath. “Elayne wed you at Waverbury, two sennights before you, Royce, and I departed for crusade. Royce and I attended the celebrations.”

“She married me and coupled with Royce not long after.” His angry face turned scarlet. “I found them together. ’Twas not the first time she had lain with him.”

Brant barely restrained a stunned oath. He had known of Royce’s desire for Elayne, an attraction his brother had felt from the very first time he had met her years ago. She had encouraged his attentions each time they met. He had not known, however, of Royce’s affair with her, or that he had committed adultery.

“She married me,” Torr went on, “because of my wealth. But she loved your brother.” His arm shook. When his fingers tightened on Angeline’s arm, she wailed. “Shut up,” he bellowed, “you pathetic—”

“Please,” Faye cried. “She is frightened.”

“Torr,” Brant snapped, anxious to draw Torr’s attention before he injured Angeline. “Are you certain she is Royce’s child?”

“Look at her! When I do, I see him.” Torr’s whole body trembled. “Elayne spurned me after our wedding night. Deceitful bitch! We argued over Royce and the way she spoke to other men. After that, she refused to lie with me.”

“Did Royce know about the child?”

“How could he? Even I did not know of the babe until I returned from crusade. One look at her, though, and I knew she was his daughter.” A muscle bunched in his jaw before his harsh gaze slid to Faye. “And you. Another betrayal, that you chose Meslarches over me.”

Her throat moved with a swallow. “Torr—”

“’Twas supposed to be a simple arrangement. You were to meet Brant, not be able to pay the ransom demand, and, after a few days, beg me for help. I thought for certain you would realize only I had the means to help you. I would ride out with my men and return home with Angeline. A victory you would admire, Faye.”

“Oh, God!”

“You would revere me as a hero and come to trust me. One day, you would confide in me about the cup. I would ask to see it . . . hold it . . . Then, ’twould become mine.”

Brant scowled. “Using Royce’s journal, you intended to find the rest of the treasure. You would become the richest man in England.”

Torr’s lips slid into a wicked grin. “I would be hailed as the lord who defeated one of the greatest of all legends, not only now, but centuries from now. I would claim King Arthur’s riches. I would be . . . immortal.”

“By fulfilling Royce’s dream,” Brant grated between his teeth.

“I claimed his dream for my own.”

“Never!”

Laughing, Torr groped in his leather bag. “Ah, but I did. Months ago.”

The ringing echoed again in Brant’s ears, sharper than before. His breath wedged in his lungs, trapped by a sudden, gut-wrenching revelation. He watched Torr drink, then lower the flask from his mouth.

“You . . . drugged Royce. That is why he was so agitated, rambling . . .”

Torr dragged a shaking hand over his mouth.

“Tell me the truth.” Brant screamed, raising his sword. “Tell me!”

Sneering, Torr said, “He deserved to die.”

A brutal shudder wrenched through Brant. “How—?”

“I put the drug in his wine. The drink on crusade was so foul, he never noticed. While we sat by the fire, I told him I had discovered a mortifying secret—that you and Elayne were secret lovers. She wanted no man but you.”

“A lie!”

“How distraught he became. He stormed into your tent—”

Brant barely heard Faye’s shocked cry over his own roar. He barreled toward Torr.

Torr lunged.

Their swords connected with an ear-splitting clang. The impact jarred through Brant’s arm, reviving memories of Saracen sands, the sweat and blood of battle, and . . . Royce’s death.

A senseless killing.

A murder Torr had planned.

Rage pounded in Brant’s temple. The surrounding cavern became a sea of red. “You bastard!” he roared, half sobbed. “Bastard!”

Torr struck again. “Now, I will kill you, Meslarches.”

Slashing out with his sword, Brant caught Torr’s leg.

Torr hissed. Blood stained the woolen fabric of his hose. Teeth bared, he lunged again, a deeper thrust that drew him further from the cavern entrance.

Sharpening his gaze, Brant lunged at Torr, then stepped back several paces. Grinning, greedy, Torr followed. “Running from me?” he goaded. “You will not get away.”

“Kill me, then,” Brant taunted.

Torr leapt forward. Slashed out. The strike caught Brant’s arm, slicing his tunic to bare flesh. He grunted at the stinging pain. Blood formed a crimson stain on his sleeve.

Through a haze of anguished fury, he heard Faye scream.

He dared a quick glance at her. She knelt beside Angeline, her arms around the huge-eyed little girl. How poignantly beautiful they looked.

Faye, my treasure. I love you.

She would be a good mother to Angeline.

As he looked back at Torr, Brant’s eyes burned. He clenched his jaw. “Go, Faye,” he commanded. “Take Angeline and run. Do not look back.”

***

When the clash of swords rang out again, Faye pushed to her feet. She shuddered, hating to watch the deadly combat. Somehow, though, she could not tear her gaze away.

Brant had deliberately lured Torr from the cave entrance so she and Angeline could escape. The heroic ploy would likely cost him his life. The thought of him dying in this dank cave, suffering in his last moments—

“Faye,” Brant shouted again. “Go!”

At her feet, Angeline sobbed. Reaching down, Faye helped the little girl to stand. Her gaze looked more focused now. Thank the saints.

Angeline slid her small, cold fingers into Faye’s. “Scared,” she whimpered, her tiny body trembling.

“So am I, my lamb,” Faye murmured. Yet, fear would only hinder her in what must be done. She must not lose the opportunity provided by Brant’s bravery. Swallowing hard, she said, “Come with me.”

Holding tight to Angeline’s hand, Faye hurried toward the cavern entrance. Light flickered in the passage. Caution shrilled inside her as she peered in. Guards’ shadows played on the stone walls. Too many to count.

Armed sentries stood only a few yards away. Her gaze locked with that of a dark-haired sentry. Frowning, he stepped toward her, as though to grab her.

With a startled cry, Faye drew Angeline back. Scooping the little girl into her arms, she murmured, “Hold tight to me. I will not let you go.”

Listening for sounds of pursuit, staying close to the water-streaked cavern wall, she slipped and skidded her way past the dead Celtic man and his comrades. Locked in battle, sweat streaking their faces, Torr and Brant did not seem to notice her. Scampering in frantic circles around the men, barking, Val paused to look at her, his tongue hanging from his mouth.

Shifting Angeline to one hip, she stepped onto the lower stone ledges she had traversed before. Instead of climbing up, she ventured into the shallow, frigid water trickling down into the pool where the guard’s head lay partly submerged, vacant eyes gazing up to the ceiling. The torchlight scarcely reached this part of the cavern. Slick with algae, the rock beneath her feet looked almost black. With precarious steps, Faye started across.

Water splashed beside her. She looked down to see Val.

“Help me find a way out,” she murmured to the little dog, wondering, even as she said the words, if Brant had commanded Val to accompany them.

Oh, Brant. Tears threatened again. She bit her lip and pressed on.

Swords clanged, then squealed. One of the men groaned.

Faye shuddered. If she looked back and saw Brant crumpled on the ground . . .

Angeline squirmed against her. “Scared!”

Shifting the child’s weight to ease discomfort in her arm and shoulder, Faye left the water and headed for a dry mound of rock. She set the little girl down. “Stay here. I will look for a way out.”

The child’s mouth quivered.

“I will be right back. I promise.”

Val scooted up beside Angeline. He nuzzled her hand. A cautious smile touched the little girl’s mouth, and she stretched out her fingers to pat Val’s side.

Faye picked her way over the rocks, straining to see in the murky shadows. The darkness grew so thick, she could no longer see. With a dismayed sigh, she turned back.

Angeline no longer sat on the rock.

She hurried back to where she had left the child. The little girl huddled behind a larger rock, Val beside her. Faye stroked Angeline’s hair.

“Out?” Angeline asked.

“Nay,” Faye answered. “We will have to get past the guards.”

How? Oh, God, how?

Despair gnawed at her, threatening to destroy the last of her courage. Yet, as metal clanged again, she shoved to her feet and drew Angeline up beside her. Steadying the little girl, they started back through the water. Val raced ahead of them, remarkably agile despite the slickness of the rock.

“Ha!” Torr roared, lunging at Brant. The tip of Torr’s sword slashed across Brant’s belly. A mortal wound.

“Brant!” she screamed.

He wavered and staggered back. Blood streaked his tunic, matching the crimson on his sleeve.

“Brant!” She hefted Angeline into her arms. Pressing the little girl’s face against her neck to block her view, Faye hurried forward.

“You are a dead man, Meslarches.”

By Torr’s feet, Val barked, then spun to look at his master.

Straightening, Brant fingered hair out of his eyes. Grimacing, he lifted up the edge of his slashed tunic to withdraw a battered object from his garments: the journal, severed almost in half. As he held it aloft, sliced parchment pages fell to the rocks.

Only a thin scratch marked his stomach.

“Spared by the journal,” Brant said with a grin.

A sob broke from Faye, even as Torr’s face twisted on a furious scream. Terror shot through her as, with both hands, he raised his sword, clearly intending to slay Brant while his weapon was lowered.

Val growled and hunched against the ground.

Eyes widening, Brant reclaimed his grip on his sword, just as Torr’s blade flashed in the torchlight. The sword plummeted toward Brant.

Val leapt forward, sinking his teeth into Torr’s leg.

“Ow!” Torr yelled. His sword wavered. He kicked out at Val, still clamped to his leg. The little dog refused to let go.

Losing his balance, Torr staggered backward. A grisly crunch echoed.

Faye bit down a horrified cry. He had stepped on the body of the Celtic man.

Val dropped to the ground and scampered away. Looking down, Torr squinted, as though trying to identify what he saw. His eyes widened. Wiggling his foot, he tried to shake off the rotting cloth that had fallen over his boot. The fabric disintegrated, leaving pale bone fingers. The skeletal hand appeared to be reaching for him.

Torr screamed again. Clutching his head, his expression feverish, he looked at Brant. At the journal pages scattered by Brant’s feet. “Nay!” he shrieked, bolting forward.

Faye sucked in a sharp breath. She turned, as Brant’s sword soared in a glinting arc.

A thud. Another scream, this time, of sheer agony.

Angeline shuddered in Faye’s arms. Shielding the little girl’s gaze, Faye glanced at the men. Looking dazed, Torr clutched the stump of his left arm. Blood streamed down over his chain mail and splattered on the torn pages.

“That is for all you have done to Faye,” Brant said.

Drawing back, Torr’s stunned gaze flew to Faye. Spittle formed at the corner of his mouth. “I loved you,” he cried. “I loved you.”

“Nay,” she said quietly. “I do not believe you did.”

Trembling, muttering under his breath, Torr looked away, as if to accept defeat.

Then, with a roar, he ran toward her, raising his sword.

Faye shrieked.

Torr’s face contorted with malice. He was going to kill her.

Oh, God! Angeline!

Faye darted sideways. Not fast enough.

Oh, God!

Brant’s blade glinted again.

Torr froze. Astonishment tautened his features. He wavered like a drunkard. Staggered back. “Nay,” he choked out, gaping down at the wound on his thigh.

His boot heel caught on a projecting rock. He crashed to the ground before rolling over and over, dragging with him bits of parchment. He came to rest at the pool’s edge.

“Meslarches!” he screamed, writhing in the water.

Brant strode down to Torr, who struggled to stand. His arm and bloody stump flailing, Torr scrambled backward in the water, creating violent waves. Spitting a foul oath, shaking, he raised his sword.

“This is for Royce.” Holding his blade in both hands, Brant positioned the weapon. And thrust down.

A hissed gurgle faded to a whisper of bubbles. Brant withdrew his sword and stepped away from the pool.

Behind him, the inky water lapped over Torr’s body. It sank slowly out of sight, as though pulled down by invisible hands. Still poised to attack, his sword was the last to disappear. The polished steel glinted, cold and gray, before it vanished.

Faye hugged Angeline tight. “’Tis over, my lamb.” Relief, mingled with sadness, shivered through her.

Head down, his breathing ragged, Brant strode away from the water. His sword dropped to the ground with a shrill clang. Cradling his wounded arm, he fell to his knees before the ruined journal. A sound like a sob broke from him.

Tears blurred Faye’s vision. A torrent of emotions welled inside her as she crossed to him. She gently set Angeline down on the ground and knelt beside him.

His dark, unruly hair shielded his face from her. “Brant,” she whispered. “Are you all right? Are you badly wounded?”

His body trembled as he sucked in a breath. “My wounds are not mortal.” Slowly, as though it cost him monumental effort, he looked up at her. His eyes glistened. “Faye.”

Her heart wept at the agony in his gaze. Catching his hand, she linked her fingers through his. “You saved my life, as well as Angeline’s.”

The faintest smile touched his lips.

Never would she forget the wondrous play of his mouth over hers. The magical bliss of his kiss. “Thank you.”

He nodded, even as remorse clouded his features. “Murder, it seems, is what I do best.”

Anguish burst inside her, robbing her breath like a cruel hand. “Brant—”

“There is so much I must say to you, Faye. For all I have forced you to endure, I am sorry. Believe me, all I wanted was to protect you—”

“Brant.”

“To keep you safe from Torr’s madness—”

“Brant! Will you cease talking and listen to me? Or”—she forced wry challenge into her voice—“must I count to three?”

Surprise registered in his eyes. The barest grin softened his features. “Very well. I am listening.”

Squeezing his hand, she said, “You are the bravest, most honorable man I have ever known.”

He shook his head.

“Torr is to blame for Royce’s death, not you. He arranged the whole confrontation, intending for you to kill your brother.”

“My God, Faye . . .”

Brant was drawing away from her emotionally. Fie! She would not lose him now.

Reaching out, she cupped his sweat-streaked face in her hands. How she relished the roughness of his stubbled jaw, the warmth of his skin, and the puckered ridge of his scar against her palm. He was alive. Hers.

“Brant,” she whispered, “I love you.”

His eyes widened. His lips parted, and he looked about to speak.

Pressing forward, she kissed him.

A low, helpless groan rumbled in his throat. For the space of one heartbeat, he remained immobile. And then, as though her kiss shattered a paralyzing spell, his mouth opened beneath hers. His tongue slid between her teeth, seeking, hungry, as his good arm slid around her to yank her close. Feverishly, he kissed her. He held her as if he dared not let her go. As though he meant to lay claim to her very soul, not just for now, but forever.

At last, the kiss gentled to the sweetest brush of lips. With a deep sigh, Brant drew back. He nuzzled her cheek. “Faye,” he murmured, “how I love you.”

Faye stared into his eyes, her heart swelling with joy . . . until a tiny cough reminded her they were not alone. She glanced over at Angeline, staring at them with huge, curious eyes. Val sat beside her, his tail wagging.

Smiling, Faye drew the little girl into the crook of her arm and kissed her cheek.

“Hello, Angeline,” Brant said.

She gave him a shy smile before hiding her face against Faye’s shoulder.

Brant’s arm slid away from Faye. He rose. “Come.” He winced as he shifted his wounded arm. “I will be glad to leave this cavern.”

When she stood, Faye became aware of movement near the entrance. Torr’s men crowded into the cave. Two of the sentries, their expressions grave, crouched beside the guard’s headless body.

A sickening lump clogged Faye’s throat. Torr’s men might hold her and Brant responsible for their comrade’s death. They could well condemn Brant not only for Royce’s murder, but that of the guard and Torr.

Before she could speak, the sentry she had seen earlier strode forward. “Lady Rivellaux.”

“A-aye?” she said warily.

“As you know, we did not obey Lord Lorvais’s orders to leave. With the storm raging outside, we chose to wait in the passage.” His gaze slid to Brant. “We heard all. We decided not to intervene, in case we curtailed Torr’s confessions.”

“Earlier, you tried to stop me.”

“Nay, milady. I tried to ask you not to reveal us to Lord Lorvais.” His mouth formed a grim smile. “None of us wanted to be murdered for disobeying him.”

“I see.” She held the man’s gaze. “Then, if you heard all, you know Brant saved my life as well as Angeline’s. He is not to blame for his brother’s death or any other killing.”

Admiration lit the man’s gaze. Turning to the guards by the entrance, he said, “The lady speaks true. Let them pass. You”—he pointed to another man-at-arms—“help move our friend’s body outside.”

After the men lifted and carried the dead guard out of the cave, Faye reached down to take Angeline’s hand. Her little fingers were closed. She carried a rock, no doubt.

“Angeline, leave the rock here in the cavern, where it belongs.”

A puzzled frown darkened the little girl’s brow. “Not rock. Goad.”

“Show me!”

The little girl opened her fingers. A rough-edged gold coin, featuring the image of a running horse, lay in her palm.

“Brant,” Faye whispered. “Look.”

He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers. He inhaled a harsh breath. “I saw a drawing of such a coin in Royce’s journal.”

Faye took the Celtic coin from Angeline’s hand and handed it to Brant. Wonder shone in his eyes as he looked at it, then at her.

His mouth flattened. He turned and tossed the coin into the pool. It winked, once, as it drifted out of sight.

Faye gasped. “Why—?”

Brant pressed a slow, tender kiss to her lips. “I do not want the rest of the gold, Faye. ’Tis safest if it remains hidden here. I am already richer than any legendary king, for I have Angeline”—he kissed her again—“and I have you, Faye. My lady love. My treasure.”

—The End—

More from Catherine Kean

If you enjoyed My Lady’s Treasure by Catherine Kean, look for her award-winning medieval romance Dance of Desire. Read on to sample the first two chapters . . .

Dance of Desire - Chapter One

Tangston Keep, England, 1192

“I do not like this wretched scheme, milady.”

Lady Rexana Villeaux shivered in the icy night wind that whipped into Tangston Keep’s forebuilding. “I know, Henry, but ’tis the only way to get the list of traitors.”

She drew against the stone wall, into the shadows at the bottom of the stairs. Bawdy laughter and the music of lute and drum carried down into the passage from the great hall. As she smoothed the veil covering her nose and mouth and the silk over her head, tiny bells tinkled at her wrists. The jewelry’s weight pressed upon her skin, a foreign sensation.

She inhaled a shaky breath. Would her deception succeed?

In the dim light, Henry glanced at her, his gaze worried. Rexana’s belly clenched into a knot. She must not succumb to fear. She must focus on her task. Her brother’s life depended on her. Dear, impetuous Rudd, the only family she had left.

Wiping her sweaty palms on her embroidered skirt, she started up the stairs.

Henry strode beside her. Torchlight flickered on his silvery hair and shadowed the grim set of his mouth. “I hope your hot-headed fool of a brother appreciates the risk you are taking to save his arse.”

Rexana shot Henry a sharp glance. “Mind your tongue. He is not your pupil in the tiltyards any longer, but master of Ickleton Keep. Your lord.”

“With respect, he is fifteen and very much a boy.” Henry wagged a finger, callused from years of wielding a sword. “I still remember the day your mother and father presented him to me, all pink, squished, and noisy as a pig’s fart.”

Her heart squeezed. “Henry!”

“You are right. ’Tis no time to speak of such matters. May your parents forever rest in peace.” Henry’s eyes darkened. With a scarred hand, he caught her elbow, halting her just outside the light spilling in from the hall. “Milady, look at you. An earl’s daughter, dressed like an infidel whore. What madness convinced me to let you go through with this?”

She swallowed a sting of irritation. Heaven above, she did not need his permission. When would Henry cease treating her like the child he had bounced on his knee and hand-fed expensive sweetmeats? “Not madness, Henry. Fate. The girl who plays the Saracen’s lover in the local mummer’s troupe would have entertained the sheriff—”

“Except she fell ill.” Henry nodded. “I helped her through Ickleton’s gates, then summoned the healer.”

“A boon, that her costume fit me well enough.”

He snorted in clear disapproval. “Nay, a curse.”

Rexana looked down at her stiff fingers, darkened like her body with thin layers of flour and mud. “The girl knew of no one to take her place, and it provided us a way to get through Tangston’s gates. Henry, we must find the missive that lists the names of sworn traitors. The one the sheriff intends to send to the crown.”

“Because somehow Rudd’s signature is on the document.” Henry sighed. “Could the maidservant who fled Tangston be mistaken about what she overheard? She was half mad, ranting about the sheriff’s barbaric ways—”

“Her dead sire swore fealty to my father. Moreover, she is a friend of Rudd’s. She had no reason to speak false.” Cheers and laughter erupted in the hall and, with a shudder, Rexana looked toward the noise. “Rudd is not involved in the rebellion stirring against the crown. I will not see him ruined by accusations of treachery.”

Henry touched her arm. “Please. Must you dance? We will find another way to save Rudd.”

“There is no other way.” Rexana curled her clammy hands into fists. “I can delay no longer. The others know what to do?”

“Aye.”

Footfalls echoed in the corridor. She glanced past Henry to see four musicians approach, men loyal to her and Rudd. They willingly risked their lives this eve. For that, she would be forever grateful.

Rexana’s pulse began a painful thunder against her ribs. Her fingers flitted to the delicate gold brooch pinned to her bodice and hidden by the garment’s fringe. An arrow wrapped with a flowing ribbon, a gift from Rudd a few sennights ago. A reminder of the bond forged between them one snowy day, and why she must not fail.

She pulled from Henry’s grasp. As the mummer had instructed, Rexana removed her leather shoes. If she did not fully accept her role this eve, she would never deceive the barbarian sheriff.

Gasping as her bare feet connected with cold stone, Rexana pressed her shoes into Henry’s hands.

“Milady—”

“Rudd would try to save me,” she said softly. “And I am indebted to him in more ways than you could ever understand.”

Blinking away stinging tears, she stepped into the hall.

***

Fane Linford, High Sheriff of Warringham, sipped his wine and glanced across the vast, smoke-hazed hall. Every nobleman in the county, it seemed, had accepted his invitation to this feast. They celebrated his return to England as well as the position of authority granted to him one hot, bloody morn at Acre by King Richard himself.

All, that is, but a significant few.

His gaze drifted to the lute player sitting near the fire who plucked out a song. More musicians, strangers to Fane like the majority of the guests, moved to the hearth with their instruments.

A rough voice rose above the hall’s noise. Fane’s eyes narrowed on the harnessed black bear which stood on its hind feet, turning in a circle as its trainer shouted commands and flicked a stick. A crude if not effective display of a master’s power over his minion. A display Fane intended to emulate when he crushed the rebellious lords rising against the crown.

“A clever bear,” said Lord Darwell, seated at Fane’s right.

Setting aside his silver goblet, Fane reached up to pull a lock of ebony hair from his eyes. “I preferred the fire eaters who performed earlier. I admire a man who risks his own demise, but is still fully hale afterward.”

Darwell scratched his thick, graying beard and laughed as though uncertain how to respond. “You have a point.”

“One of many I learned on crusade.”

A flicker of unease crossed Darwell’s face, quickly replaced by a mix of curiosity and admiration. “You spent many months as a prisoner of the Saracens, did you not? I must congratulate you. I understand the siege of Acre last year would never have succeeded without you. I doubt my son would have returned.”

A chill rippled down Fane’s spine. With his eating dagger, he speared a morsel of roasted quail and shoved it between his teeth. “I only did what was necessary.”

“How did you manage to stay alive amongst the infidel? Did you not spy for the king?”

The chill spread. Deepened. Fane forced a smile. “A warrior has his secrets.” He chewed the meat, poorly spiced like most of the fare he had recently tasted. With wicked intensity, he craved a fiery mélange of turmeric, cardamom, and cumin, and the perfume of eastern food.

Darwell chuckled. “Secrets? Mayhap a woman?” After taking a noisy slurp of wine, he slid sideways until his elbow pressed against Fane’s arm. “Are the rumors true?” he asked in an eager, hushed voice. “Did you really fornicate with a Saracen wench? What was it like? Did you enjoy it? Did she—”

“As I said, a warrior has his secrets.” Fane stifled the urge to grab Darwell by the front of his tunic and growl in his face. Every lord he had met since his return to this cold, wet country had wanted to believe in his depravity. Even when they commended his heroism, he saw disgust in their eyes. Darwell hid his distaste better than most.

With a grin, Darwell straightened and eased away. “One day, you will tell me the truth. When we have drunk each other under the table and trust one another as friends.”

Fane laughed. Hellfire, he did not have to disclose his past to Darwell or any man. One day, his peers would look upon him and speak to him with genuine respect, accepting him for who he was. It would take time to build the necessary alliances and destroy the canker undermining loyalty to the crown—far longer than the three sennights he had resided at Tangston—but Fane had long ago mastered perseverance. His allegiance to the king had sustained him through days when he longed for death. He would ensure the crown’s victory in Warringham.

Shrugging aside his thoughts, Fane glanced back at the bear. The animal completed its circle. Grunting, it dropped back to all fours.

Applause filled the hall. Darwell cheered.

As Fane clapped and thanked the flushed-faced trainer, he noticed movement near the forebuilding’s entrance. Light glittered off the embroidered costume of a dancer. Eastern garments accented her figure and floated like cobwebs as she wove her way past the far tables.

Fane’s breath caught in his throat. Memories . . .

Leila’s lithe, oiled body gilded by lamplight. The cloying smell of burning incense. Torture. Imprisonment. Living each day as though it were his last.

The sapphire ring on his right hand glowed as blue as the dancer’s garments. He grabbed his wine and gulped a mouthful. It tasted like sand.

What insanity had possessed him to grant the eager-to-please steward full control over the eve’s entertainment?

He should send the dancer away. Immediately. But others in the hall had already noticed her. If he dismissed her now, even discreetly, he implied displeasure, disastrous for a woman who earned her livelihood through recommendations of her good performance. The poor wench probably depended on this eve’s coin to put food in her belly and feed her children.

Nay, God help him, he could not send her away.

Beside him, Darwell blew a sigh, then squinted at the left side of the hall. “I have not seen young Rudd Villeaux yet this eve. Did he not plan to attend?”

Dragging his gaze from the dancer who hesitated in the shadows, fingering her veil, Fane wiped his lips with his thumb. “I received word from him earlier this eve. He cannot come. Pressing matters of estate.”

“A pity, his parents’ deaths. He is young to have the responsibilities of lord.”

“They died recently?” Out of the corner of his eye, Fane watched the dancer stretch her slender arms over her head, preparing her body to perform. The men at the tables behind her grinned, pointing to her navel, and he bit back an inexplicable pang of annoyance.

“The earl and his wife were buried six sennights ago. Both killed by sickness.” Pouring more wine from a silver jug, Darwell said, “Did you know the Villeaux’s are distant cousins of the king? No purer blood in England. The son is a handsome enough lad, but the daughter—”

“Daughter?” Fane murmured. The dancer rubbed her arms with her hands. Was she chilled from standing in one of the drafts wafting through the hall? Or, was she anxious about performing before him? His mouth curled into a bitter smile. Had she heard the subversive gossip that called Fane the failed son of a once-powerful earl? That named him a ruthless infidel? Regrettable, that some of it was true.

“Her name is Rexana.” The name tumbled off Darwell’s tongue with undisguised appreciation. “Exquisite. Fair of face with breasts like—”

Fane tipped his head to the nearby fruit bowl. “Oranges?”

With a chuckle, Darwell uncurled his hands. “Finer than your costly oranges.” He shook his graying head. “I am a fool to speak so, when I pray my son Garmonn will marry her. ’Tis Garmonn who is friends with Rudd Villeaux and who went on crusade,” he added with a sly smile. “Mayhap you will speak favorably of my son when I petition the crown for the marriage?”

“Mayhap.” Pushing aside his goblet, Fane reached for the bowl and speared a dried fig with his eating dagger.

“Wedding Lady Rexana will permit Garmonn into the most respected court circles,” Darwell said eagerly. “’Twould be a great honor. What father would not want the best for his son?”

Resentment stung the back of Fane’s throat, but he quickly cleared away the foolish emotion. Years ago, he had vowed not to feel even an inkling of remorse for the final, bitter confrontation with his sire. Futile, to wish that dark day had been different. The old tyrant was long dead.

Keeping his tone noncommittal, Fane said, “I will consider your request. Though she sounds so exceptional”—he plucked the fig from his dagger—“I am tempted to wed her myself.”

Disappointment clouded Darwell’s eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but a tabor’s strident hammering curtailed his words.

Fane glanced up. He froze.

Lifting her hands high in the air, fingers curved outward in invitation, the dancer slunk between the rows of tables. She twirled into the open space in the hall’s center.

With slow, sinuous movements, she began to dance.

***

Each step brought Rexana closer to the dais. To the dark skinned man with wild black hair and eyes that glittered with frightening intensity. To the barbarian Sheriff Linford, who held her brother’s fate like the fig caught between his fingers.

She silently cursed her stiff limbs. Her body was no stranger to creative expression. Yet, when she danced in the meadow, she had only the birds, still water, and ancient willows watching. There, she danced for herself.

Never for a man.

A shiver tore through her. She must focus, draw upon her heightened emotions, use her anxiety, sorrow and fears to enhance her performance.

She must not fail.

Ignoring the appreciative stares of the noblemen around her, she whirled across the space directly before the sheriff. Dry rushes scratched against her feet, an odd sensation. The pungent scents of dried basil, fennel, and rosemary floated up from the floorboards. Cool air brushed against her naked stomach. She fought the urge to cover herself.

Raising her lashes a fraction, she glanced at Linford. He was not watching! He conversed with Lord Darwell whose tongue, as she well knew from past feasts at Ickleton, always loosened after a few goblets of wine.

Disquiet swirled inside her. Curse Linford! Did the rumors not claim that he enjoyed eastern courtesans? Why, then, did he ignore her?

She spun in a graceful turn. Still, he did not watch.

Frustration bubbled in her throat. By the saints, she must distract him, otherwise Henry would not be able to slip into the sheriff’s solar to find the missive.

Too many lives depended on her. Most of all Rudd’s.

Rexana cast the musicians an urgent glance. Faster, her mind cried. As though sensing her urgency, the drummer nodded, quickening the pace. She threw out her arms and stamped her feet. The tiny bells at her ankles chimed.

Whirling even nearer the lord’s table, she thanked the holy saints that the poor lighting and dark cosmetics would hinder Darwell from recognizing her. As would the veil and head covering, she silently reminded herself. The musicians had commented earlier how thoroughly all her features, except her eyes, were concealed.

Spurred by a burst of confidence, she drew close enough to distinguish the sheriff’s deep, slightly rough voice. Close enough to see the tanned plane of his cheek and the hard, sensual curve of his mouth. Close enough to speak to him, if she dared.

“Look at me,” she whispered, “Look at me.”

Linford glanced up. Over the floating veil, she caught his gaze. His eyes were brown and shadowed by wickedly long, black lashes. His wary, perceptive gaze slashed into her with stunning force.

She stumbled, caught herself, and disguised her falter with elaborate turns. As she spun back to face the dais, she saw Henry edging his way to the stairwell.

Oh, God.

Fear sharpened her breaths. Her gaze shot to Linford. He had not seen Henry. Laughing at a comment from Darwell, Linford turned the fig slowly in his fingertips. The sapphire ring on his hand glinted as he tossed the fruit into his mouth, then stared directly at her.

So, she had captured his attention.

A spark of satisfaction warmed her. With a smooth swivel of her hips, she dropped to the rushes. The drummer faltered, then resumed his frantic pace. Do not fail me, she prayed.

With catlike movements, she crawled across the coarse rushes. The tang of crushed herbs, rotting food scraps, and mildew filled her nostrils. Never in all her years had she been this close to a hall floor. Her mother would have swooned with horror to hear of such an occurrence.

A blush stung Rexana’s cheeks. Resisting the urge to scramble to her feet, she rose up on her knees, arching her spine to flaunt her bare skin. She must focus on her goal, not her fear. No one recognized her. No one would ever know of this incident. Once Henry had the missive, she could forget all about this eve.

Curving her arms in an elegant move, she straightened and rose to her feet. She peeked at Linford through her splayed fingers. His gaze met hers. He slid another fig between his teeth, chewed, then licked his bottom lip.

She glided toward him.

He resumed talking with Lord Darwell.

A scream burned for release. Stubborn, stubborn man. She had piqued his curiosity. Now, how did she keep him enticed? How did she hold the interest of a savage?

Heady anticipation shimmered through her. She must think like a barbarian. Act the part of an infidel courtesan. Play to his desires. Reveal the wildness trapped in her soul.

Dance, Rexana!

Closing her eyes to the faces around her, she focused on the tabor’s rhythmic beat as well as the plaintive melody. Reminded herself that Rudd’s life hinged upon this moment. Stretched her body and limbs farther than she ever had before.

The ankle bells tinkled.

Step. Whirl. Step. Sway.

Fear, anxiety, and longing bloomed inside her, feelings she had known well since childhood. The schooling of a titled lady left little time for chasing beetles or butterflies, or for picking bouquets of stringy wildflowers.

Her parents had expected her to accept her noble duty. She had done so. Bravely. Willingly. She had loved and trusted them. Now, they lay buried in the hard earth.

Dance, Rexana! Step. Whirl. Step. Sway.

He was watching now.

The silk brushed against her legs, a sensation similar to the breeze wafting through the grasses near her secret pool.

There, surrounded by the quiet majesty of trees and weathered rocks, she allowed the stifled voice inside her to cry out.

There, lifting her hands to the sun, she absorbed the power of the vast blue sky and the soil beneath her feet.

Surrendering to the passionate howl inside her, she danced.

She reached her palms upward. Aye, just like that.

Step. Whirl. Step. Sway.

Rexana dared another glance. Linford stared as though he could not look away. As though her dance seduced him.

She rolled her head and shoulders in a slow, sensual arc.

Exhilaration flooded her mind.

Her steps quickened.

The familiar cry hummed through her body. Heightened her senses. Infused her heart and soul with a heady blend of joy, confusion, and . . . yearning.

Her body arched.

Spun.

She danced as she dared near the pool, where no one could see, with only her reflection to laugh at her folly. In those moments, she felt more alive than at any other time in her life.

As she whirled in wild momentum, she heard the music slow. The dance was ending. Too soon!

She would summon the musicians to begin another song. She lowered her arms. Blinking away the haze of bittersweet memories, Rexana dipped her head, then extended her arms in an elegant finale.

The last strains of the music stopped.

The hall fell silent.

Utterly silent.

Her breaths, obscenely loud, rattled in her throat.

Why had the chatter and merriment halted?

She raised her head a fraction. Her pulse kicked against her ribs. Darwell sat alone at the lord’s table, his cheeks flushed and his jaw gaping.

Not five paces to her right stood Linford, his arms crossed over the front of his tunic. Half masked by smoky shadow, his face revealed no emotion.

She rubbed her trembling hands over her belly. What had happened? Had Darwell recognized her? Had he told the sheriff her identity?

Fear shot through her. For herself. For Henry and the musicians. For Rudd.

Tugging her veil closer about her face she took two startled steps back.

“You will not run away.” Linford’s mouth tipped up in a half smile. He crooked a finger. “Come here, little dancer.”

***

Fane scowled as the woman’s eyes widened with panic. Why did she want to flee? Because of the shocked murmurs spreading through the hall? Because of the rumors about him? Or because no man had dared to confront her after a performance?

Her chest rose and fell in a frantic rhythm. Perspiration beaded on her throat and dotted her bronzed skin. He looked lower, at her breasts swelling against the embroidered silk bodice. Beautiful. A generous handful of warm flesh. Breasts as big as . . . oranges.

His hardened loins stirred.

With effort, Fane wrenched his gaze from the dancer’s cleavage to meet her stare. She had not moved, but stood as still as a carved stone statue. He sensed her reticence, as strong as the sensation that virtually hummed in the space between them. She would cross to him. Of that, he had no doubt. Whatever the rumors, he was Warringham’s sheriff, appointed by the crown. By virtue of setting foot within his keep, she owed him that gesture of respect.

“I am waiting, love.”

She swallowed and made a small sound of distress. His gaze narrowed on her face. Her nose, mouth, and chin were concealed by the veil. Were her lips full and red? Was her nose slim or angular? A woman of mystery. Mayhap deliberately so. Her eyes were rimmed with kohl, heavily lashed but . . . emerald green. Unusual, for a wench of dark skin and eastern blood.

Frowning, he glanced at the cloth covering her head, but the fabric lay flat against her temples. He doubted her hair flowed thick, glossy, and black like Leila’s.

His hands tightened into fists, even as he snuffed a sting of anger. Foolish, to take offense. This woman was an entertainer, a wench of English blood acting a role. She did not understand the nuances of eastern dance. He had recognized that the moment he saw her move.

As though sensing his displeasure, the woman tipped up her chin. She started toward him, each step articulated by the chime of bells. Ah, but how she moved.

Torchlight skimmed over her slender shoulders and down the planes of her firm stomach. She glided toward him as though she approached King Richard himself. Head held high, she radiated the poise and elegance expected of the highest noble courts.

Who was this woman?

She paused before him. Almost in afterthought, with the barest hint of resentment, she lowered her gaze to stare at his tunic. He sensed the tumultuous emotions warring within her, threatening her self-control. The same fierce emotions had reverberated in her dance and touched a note deep inside him. Her heart had spoken. It echoed the profound, primitive bellow of his own tormented heart. Before her dance had finished, before he could stop himself or consider the consequences, he had walked around the table, stepped off the dais, and crossed to her.

Steeling his wayward concentration, Fane drew in a breath. She smelled of violets. Sweet. Delicious.

“An interesting dance you performed this eve,” he said.

“I hope it pleased you, milord.” Her very English voice sounded slightly husky and breathless. The way a woman sounded after she had been kissed. Focus, fool!

Shoving aside the distracting thought, Fane muttered, “I never saw a dance quite like yours in all my years in the east.”

She stiffened. The bells at her wrists jingled as she clasped her hands over her stomach. “I was instructed in this fair country. I admit I have never danced before a sheriff of such . . . authority, milord. Your esteemed reputation—”

“Ah.” With a firm hand, he reached up and touched the edge of her veil. As his fingers tried to drag down the shimmering fabric, she jerked away. He frowned. “You fear me, little dancer?”

Beneath the sweep of her lashes, her eyes sparked. “I do not.”

“Yet, you turn your face away and refuse to look up at me. You are indeed frightened. Or you hide secrets from me.”

Her green eyes glittered in the torchlight. Lovely eyes, darkened with anger, confusion and distrust. Eyes that revealed the passion within her.

“I am honored you wished to speak with me,” she said with the barest quaver, stepping back, “but I must leave now.”

His jaw hardened. “You cannot. I have not dismissed you.”

“I do not need—” Her sharp voice faltered.

Fane’s lip curled in anger. She did not need to finish. He heard her unspoken words. I do not need your wretched dismissal, barbarian. A treacherous thought for a peasant who fed herself through the coin earned from her dance.

As though sensing his displeasure, her gaze softened. So, she was wise enough to bite her tongue and try to pacify him. “I believe the jugglers are to perform next. I do not wish to delay the rest of the eve’s celebrations,” she said. Glancing at the musicians, who stood staring at her as though awaiting a superior’s orders, she added, “Your guests will grow restless.”

As I grow restless, woman, in your presence. As my blood stirs, and my pulse thickens, and my soul hungers for more of your dance. “You will stay.”

She gasped, a sound of utter indignation.

Before she could dart away, he caught her hands. Raising them to his lips, he kissed her fingers, feeling the tremor that coursed through her. As he released her, he drew the sapphire ring from his finger and pressed it into her palm.

“A token of my appreciation, and my interest.” He trailed his thumb down over the veil to her lips. “You will stay, love, as I command. By the end of this eve, we will know each other very well. And I will know all of your secrets.”

Dance of Desire - Chapter Two

A shudder ran down Rexana’s spine. How could she refuse Linford’s gift and proposition without causing grave offense? At all costs, she must avoid creating a commotion as well as any disastrous consequences for herself, Rudd, and her loyal friends.

Turning the ring in her damp fingers, she looked down at the sapphire. A large stone, set in delicately etched gold. No doubt worth the equivalent of a wealthy lady’s dowry. Did he favor all his women so generously? Did he pay for her body—or the secrets he expected her to reveal?

Fear tingled through her to the tips of her toes. She would never betray Rudd. Nor would she offer herself to a stranger. A barbarian. Yet, even as she steeled her resolve, a strange excitement surged. Forbidden interest, coaxed to life by his hungry gaze. Wanton curiosity.

What would it be like to taste Linford’s sinfully curved lips? To feel his fingers skimming over her skin? To sense his breath upon her belly?

As though he tried to read her mind, Linford’s eyes narrowed a fraction. Mentally squashing her thoughts, she averted her gaze. Her parents, a blessing upon their departed souls, had expected her to remain pure for her noble husband and the sons she would bear him in love and honor. By God’s holy rood, she wanted to keep this vow.

But Rudd’s life was more important than her virtue.

Her fingers tightened on the jewel. She had no other way to protect Henry and win time for him to find the missive, but to accept Linford’s offer. From what she had heard of the sheriff, she doubted she could simply refuse, hand back the ring, and walk out of the hall. If she declined, he might toss her over his shoulder and carry her off to his private chambers, as she had heard was the custom of hot-blooded infidels. Dread and excitement trembled through her.

Conversation began to fill the hall. The sheriff’s interest in her was already inciting gossip. Turning her head a little, Rexana glanced at the musicians. The drummer met her gaze, scratched his cheek, then shook his head. The signal. Henry had not yet returned.

Anticipation buzzed in her veins like a swarm of bees. Until Henry had the missive, she must act her role to the fullest. Like the courtesan Linford thought her to be, she must tempt. Seduce. And, if necessary, yield her body to him.

Curving her mouth into a smile, she raised her lashes. “Your gift is most generous, milord.” Panic swelled up between her ribs. She struggled to ignore it.

“The stone is of high quality.” With strong fingers, Linford clasped her hand. He tilted it sideways, so light gleamed off the sapphire’s polished surface. “It is exquisite,” he murmured, “as are you.”

“You are equally generous with your flattery.”

He smiled. His palm cradled her hand. How neatly her fingers fit into his. His breath fanned across her brow and, as he leaned closer, she caught the scents of spices, red wine, and sweet figs.

Pleasure tingled inside her, swiftly followed by caution. So easily, she could be swayed by his intriguing scent and false praise. Spoken in a husky whisper, his words had glided off his tongue with the practiced smoothness of a rogue skilled in the art of seducing women. How foolish, that her heart had fluttered.

Yet, no man had ever spoken to her with the passion underscoring his tone. Certainly not Darwell’s son Garmonn, who courted her with all the charm of a randy bull.

Blocking out the memories of Garmonn, she thought of the arrow brooch. Why she always wore it. Why, even if it cost every last bit of her courage, she was honor bound to save Rudd.

Linford’s callused thumb brushed over her wrist. A caress. As she feigned a coy giggle and glanced back at him, she noticed a servant setting fresh jugs of wine on the lord’s table. A plan floated into her mind. Reassurance flooded through her like cool, refreshing rainwater. She might not have to yield her virtue, after all.

If she kept her wits about her, she could ply Linford with drink as she laughed, teased and tempted him. When his eyes rolled back into his head and he toppled over in a drunken stupor, she could slip away. Leaving his gaudy bauble behind, of course. He would gain naught from her but a sore head.

A delighted laugh bubbled in her throat.

He gently squeezed her hand. “You accept my offer?”

“Aye.” She withdrew her fingers from his. Turning her hand over, she slipped on the ring. The gold band was too large, but it did not matter. She would not wear the jewel for long. With a lazy shrug, she eyed the stone. “How could I refuse?”

Grinning, he lowered his mouth to her ear. “I am pleased I did not mistake your craving for adventure, or your wild and lusty spirit.” As he exhaled, his breath blew over the silk covering her ear. Her head spun.

Wild and lusty spirit? She gulped. “You are indeed . . . most perceptive.”

“And ravenous.” His mouth curved into a wolfish smile that blazed its way through her entire body. Her sheer silk garments suddenly felt tight and unbearably hot. Before she could protest, before she could refuse, Linford took her hand. He drew her toward the dais. Toward the vacant chair beside his.

Toward Darwell, who looked on the verge of recognizing her.

Alarm burst inside her. She tore from Linford’s grasp.

He turned with the predatory grace of a stalking cat.

“One moment, milord,” she said, keeping her face averted from Darwell’s probing gaze. “I . . . ah . . . must speak with my friends. Reassure them all is well. They may be concerned.” Gesturing to the musicians, she started toward them.

As she neared the tables, a bead of sweat ran between her breasts. What if Darwell called out her name?

Two steps, then Linford caught her elbow. “Do not worry. My steward will speak with them.”

“Still, I should—”

With gentle pressure, he turned her back to face him. “Why do you hesitate? Do you intend to deny me?”

Her blood chilled at the hint of warning in his voice. Laughing softly, she straightened the bells at her wrist. “Of course not. I am weary after my dance, ’tis all. The musicians usually see that I rest before we undertake our journey home.”

Before the last words had left her lips, Linford flicked his hand. A balding man in a red woolen tunic shot to his side.

His face somber, the man bowed with excessive flair. “What is your pleasure, Sheriff Linford? Shall I tell the other entertainers to begin?”

“Winton, show this woman to my solar. See that she is made comfortable.”

Staring at the steward’s shiny, bowed pate, Rexana swallowed a desperate moan. The solar!

As he turned away, Linford added, “I will join her as soon as I am able.”

“As you wish, milord.”

Bowing to Rexana, Winton thrust out his arm. He pointed to the stairs that rose along the hall’s far wall and ended at a wooden platform.

The stairs Henry had climbed moments before.

Was Henry still searching Linford’s chamber?

She half turned toward the sheriff, half formed a protest, but her courage wavered. He already suspected her enthusiasm. She could not risk further arousing his distrust, or lingering in the hall when Darwell might guess her identity.

Her belly ached. Her mind raced with visions of Winton opening the solar door and Henry springing to his feet before an opened chest, a parchment in his hand.

Clearing the nervous squeak from her throat, she cast Linford what she hoped was a seductive smile. Aware of his gaze trailing down her bare back, she tilted up her chin, then started after Winton, who marched past the crowded tables with brisk efficiency. As she walked, she forced her proper, ladylike steps into loose-hipped strides. Made her body sway, as the dancer had instructed, in a manner that promised and enticed.

She must find a way to warn Henry. She would save him and Rudd from the sheriff’s clutches.

And herself.

***

As a quartet of nimble male and female jugglers ran toward the dais and began to spin brightly colored balls, Fane chewed another fig. Sticky residue clung to his fingers, and he licked away the essence. Would the dancer’s skin taste as sweet?

His loins roused again, a distracting press of flesh against his wool hose. Drying his hand on the tablecloth, he forced himself to concentrate on the jugglers’ feats. He must be patient. Once he knew the outcome of this night’s carefully laid scheme—planned earlier with his trusted men-at-arms and now unfolding leagues away—he could attend his physical needs.

And hers.

What an unexpected turn of events, to meet her this eve.

The delicious memory of her filled Fane’s mind. As he looked at the jugglers, he mentally slipped off her head covering, veil, bodice, skirt, and dancing bells until she stood naked before him. Ah, God. His gut twisted. He fought to keep himself from rising from the table to charge after her.

He sighed and gritted his teeth. Never had he been so drawn to a woman, even Leila. This dancer intrigued him. Enticed him with her mysterious allure, one that seemed an odd blend of temptress and veiled innocent. She was a talented actress. Or, she had a great deal to hide.

Darwell tapped his fingers on the table. “She reminds me of someone.”

Fane’s gaze snapped from the jugglers. “Who?”

“The pretty wench you invited to your chamber,” Darwell said with a disgruntled laugh. “I vow I have met her before. Cannot think where.”

Fane toyed with a morsel of fig on his tongue. “She mentioned she learned her dance here in England. Mayhap you saw her perform at a local fete.”

“Mmm.” Darwell scratched his chin, and his gaze darted to the oranges in the fruit bowl. Picking out the largest orange, he turned it slowly in his palm.

Footfalls intruded over the jugglers’ antics. Looking past the closest tables, Fane saw two men-at-arms in full chain mail striding toward him. He smiled.

Soon, little dancer. Soon.

The men skirted the jugglers and halted before the dais. “Milord.”

Aware of the curious stares from noblemen at the nearby tables, Fane asked quietly, “What news do you bring?”

The taller guard squared his shoulders. His face lit with pride. “We found them, milord. In a tavern several leagues from Tangston.”

“Excellent.” Satisfaction coiled inside Fane. His instincts had not failed him.

Darwell’s eyes widened. “Found who?”

“Lords who conspire against the crown.” Not taking his gaze from the guards, Fane said, “Where are they now?”

“The bailey. Soon all four will be in the dungeon, as you ordered.”

Fane frowned. “Only four? Surely there were more.”

The second guard’s face reddened and he shuffled his feet. “The others escaped out a hidden door in the cellar. We tracked them through a corn field, but lost them at the riverbank.”

With effort, Fane stifled a flare of annoyance. “No matter. We will capture the others soon enough.” He fixed the men-at-arms with a firm glare. “Put the prisoners in cells. See that they are well guarded. I will come to the dungeon shortly.”

“Aye, milord.” The men-at-arms bowed, then retreated across the hall.

The orange in Darwell’s hand thudded to the table. Trapping the rolling fruit with his palm, he said, “This eve, of all eves, you sent men to root out traitors?”

Fane shrugged. “What better time for them to plot? No doubt they assumed I would be too busy carousing with my honored guests to pursue their treachery. They were wrong.”

“Indeed.” With the barest tremble, Darwell wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well, may I be the first to congratulate you on your victory.”

A wry laugh burst from Fane’s lips. “I cannot claim victory yet. I must capture the other conspirators. I will not be satisfied until I have them all.”

Darwell picked up the orange and tossed it back into the bowl, dislodging the neat mound of figs. “For your sake, I hope the lords you arrested this eve are traitors. What if your guards mistakenly detained innocent men?” He clucked his tongue. “What a wretched scandal that would be. I would not like to be in your position, milord, if you are in error.”

Fane’s blood boiled. Were Darwell’s words a warning? Or, a statement of genuine concern?

His thumb brushed his eating dagger’s smooth handle. He needed no reminders of the dangers of the coming days. He had known them before he rode through Tangston’s gates to assume his duties as sheriff, but he had confronted death more times than he could count on his fingers and still lived.

He would not fail in his duty to eliminate the corruption in Warringham, even if it entailed the temporary detention of guiltless men. No one he knew had ever died from rankled pride. If his men-at-arms had acted in error, he would extend a suitable apology and make restitution. He would prove that beneath his bronzed skin and barbaric scars, his English blood ran as red as any other lord’s in this hall, and that he was worthy of respect.

Fane’s fingers closed around the dagger. “I appreciate your concern, but you need not worry. Unless, of course, your fealty is questionable.” He raised an eyebrow at Darwell.

The older man’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “Do not be foolish. I am as loyal to the king as any other lord here this eve.”

“Those who did not attend? What of them?”

Darwell’s mouth tightened. “Garmonn is not here this eve because he is unwell. Will you condemn him, Rudd Villeaux, and others like them who wanted to come, but could not?”

“I assure you, I will not condemn an innocent man.”

Perspiration shone on Darwell’s pale forehead as he nodded his agreement. His love for his son was admirable. Not all fathers respected the seed of their loins. A painful image blasted into Fane’s thoughts like a sandstorm. His sire, purple in the face, condemning Fane’s irresponsible behavior. Refusing to heed his pleas. Ordering him to leave and never return, despite Fane’s mother’s shrill weeping.

A hard smile tilted Fane’s lips. A pity, his sire would never see how he had misjudged his “utterly worthless” son.

Glittering fabric near the wooden landing caught Fane’s gaze. The dancer? Nay, a nobleman wearing an embroidered tunic the same color as her costume. By now, she should be curled up on his bed, awaiting his pleasure. Fane’s blood quickened. Another duty he would not neglect.

Setting aside his eating dagger, Fane rose from the table.

“You must leave, milord?” Darwell’s hand fluttered in the direction of the jugglers. “They have not finished their act.”

Fane smiled. “I must attend to pressing duties.”

***

Her pulse drumming a fierce beat, Rexana stepped onto the landing overlooking the hall. Laughter boomed from below. As she followed Winton toward a torch-lit corridor ahead, she glanced through the hovering smoke to the jugglers who gamboled before the dais, balancing wooden boards on their heads.

Before she could caution herself, her gaze slid to Linford. His dark, untamed hair gleamed as he turned to speak to Darwell. Even from a distance, the sheriff exuded raw authority and a keen intellect that warned he was a man who would not appreciate deception, especially within the walls of his keep.

She must warn Henry. Quickly.

An idea skittered into her mind.

She hiked up her skirt with both hands and hurried to catch up with Winton. Her bare foot caught on a patch of rough wood. Sudden, sharp pain pierced her heel. “Mercy!”

Winton halted and looked at her. “What ails you?”

She bit her lip against the discomfort. Her plan did not include getting a sliver, but she could use the injury to her advantage. Raising her voice to carry above the hall’s commotion, she called, “’Tis my foot. A sliver, I vow.”

Oh, Henry! Please hear the sound of my voice. If you are still in the solar, hide. Now!

With a whimper, she raised her foot. If she could convince Winton she needed help to walk, she could delay reaching the solar by a few precious moments.

Winton’s face pinched into an irritated scowl. “Come. We can tend your wound in the solar.” Turning his back to her, he strode into the passage.

She whispered a curse. The steward was not to be deterred. Well, neither was she. As she limped after him, she fumbled with her bracelet’s clasp. “How far is his lordship’s chamber?”

Winton pointed to broad oak doors to his right. In the light cast by blazing reed torches, she saw two armed guards. How had Henry managed to slip past the sentries? What if he had not succeeded? What if—

She dismissed her anxious thoughts. A man as clever as Henry would have found a way. A distraction. A ruse. However, if he tried to run from the chamber now, he would be challenged, captured, or even killed.

She had one last chance to warn him.

“This is the solar?” She flicked her hand, repeating Winton’s gesture. The bracelet flew through the air and smacked against one of the wooden panels, then landed on the floor with a musical clunk. She feigned utter surprise. “The goldsmith told me he fixed the clasp. I will have words with him.”

A sigh rushed between Winton’s thinned lips. He rolled his eyes, stooped, and picked up the ornament.

Hide, Henry. Hide! Do not try to run.

The steward held the tinkling bracelet out to her. “Thank you,” she murmured. With a relieved smile, she noted the jewel was undamaged by the fall. As she fastened it around her wrist, Winton depressed the door’s wrought iron handles, pushed open the panels, then motioned her inside.

As though a magical box had sprung open, an exotic scent wafted out of the solar to greet her. A reminder that she entered Linford’s lair. A reminder of danger, forbidden temptations, and desire. A shiver tingled down her spine.

As she stepped into the shadowed solar, illuminated only by the hearth’s orange-yellow blaze, her breath caught in her throat. Glancing about, she braced herself for Henry’s bolt for the door. For Winton’s cry of alarm. For the rasp of the guards’ broadswords and their bellows to “halt.” For the imminent confrontation, in which she must aid Henry and somehow keep the missive from Linford’s men.

Her gaze fell to a pair of strangely decorated gold candlesticks on the nearby wall shelf. She edged toward them. A candlestick was a wretched substitute for a weapon, but it must do.

Sweeping through the doorway with a flaming reed, Winton began lighting the wall torches. The room’s shadows surrendered to a warm glow. Every nerve in Rexana’s body hummed. The sapphire ring pressed against her skin as her hands closed around the candlestick’s cool gold.

Few places remained for Henry to hide. Did he stand behind the carved wooden screen to the left of the hearth? Was he crouched on the opposite side of the bed?

As Winton skirted the enormous bed, strewn with pillows and an animal skin she did not recognize, she hardly dared to breathe. She watched, the chased metal slick beneath her fingers, as he knelt, tossed several more logs into the fire, then rose and lit the remaining torches. Without incident.

Relief filtered through her. Either Henry remained well hidden, or he had found a way out of the solar. Easing her rigid grip on the candlesticks, she sighed.

Winton crossed to her. “You will wait here for Sheriff Linford. I will send a maidservant to treat your foot.”

“Nay,” Rexana said hastily. “I can tend the splinter.”

“Very well.” The steward’s voice turned stern, as though he addressed a truant child. “You are not to touch any of his lordship’s possessions. Including the candlesticks.”

Rexana managed an insolent shrug. “I am only looking at the odd decoration.” With her fingertip, she finished tracing a curved symbol, then lowered her hands.

Winton’s visage softened only a fraction. He tipped his head toward the nearby table. “While you wait, you may have wine. Or figs and oranges from the fruit bowl.”

After shooting her a final, pointed glance, he strode through the doors. They clicked shut behind him.

Rexana exhaled on a whoosh. She was alone . . . unless Henry had squeezed himself into a corner and awaited a signal from her before he emerged.

Rubbing her arms with her hands, she whispered, “Henry?”

Silence, broken only by the fire crackling in the hearth.

“Henry, ’tis safe to come out. Are you here?”

No answer. She grinned. He was probably on his way back to the hall to meet up with the musicians.

If Henry had the missive, she did not need to tempt the sheriff. She could regroup with the others and leave before Linford realized she had gone.

The sheriff’s parting smile nipped through her mind. She fought a pang of disappointment, for she would not experience his skilled kiss, touch, or breath upon her belly, after all.

Rexana shook her head and dismissed the senseless emotion. She did not crave a barbarian’s attentions. Not now. Not ever.

Setting her hands on her hips, she glanced about the chamber. She gnawed her bottom lip. Could she outwit the guards at the solar doors? Mayhap. Yet, Henry had managed to slip out by an alternate route. ’Twould be wiser for her to leave that way too.

Her gaze fell upon the tall, elaborately carved screen which blocked a corner of the chamber. What did the wooden panels conceal? A hidden door? She stepped forward. Pain lanced through her foot. Cursed splinter. No time to remove it. Linford would soon come to his chamber, and she wished to be long gone before he arrived.

As though attuned to her dishonorable thoughts, the fire popped and hissed. Only burning pitch, Rexana reminded herself with a nervous laugh, as the flames flared and cast accusing fingers of light across the screen.

She hobbled across the floorboards. Her feet sank into the brightly patterned carpet near the bed. Ignoring the silkiness, the urge to pause and wiggle her toes in deeper, she approached the screen. Gripping one edge, she peered around.

The fire crackled. Logs shifted and thumped onto the hearth grate, while the blaze roared with a fierce heat.

Behind the screen, a bathing tub, wet from use earlier in the day, rested on the floorboards. Beside it was a small table holding a bowl of water, folded linen cloths, a towel, and a round cake of soap. No hidden door, only an intriguing scent.

Rexana wiggled her nose. What a fragrance. Unique. Exotic. Irresistible. Ignoring the fire’s loud snapping, as well as the warning buzz skittering through her mind, she picked up the cake, held it to her nose, and inhaled deeply through the veil. Her eyelids fluttered closed.

“Mmm.” Lemon, cinnamon—

“Is it to your liking, love?”

With a startled squeak, Rexana dropped the soap. It bounced off the edge of the tub, banged the opposite side, then fell to the bottom with a thud. Hands pressed over her heart, she whirled around. Linford stood beside the screen. Close enough for her to recognize his spicy musk. He had used the soap when he bathed.

Vivid images flooded her imagination. Him sprawled in the tub, rubbing the soap between his palms. Lathering the cake into a frothy mass. Rubbing it, slowly, inch by wanton inch, over his broad, damp, naked chest.

She stifled another appreciative “Mmm.” Oh, mercy.

Their gazes met. He raised one eyebrow in silent challenge, as though awaiting an explanation.

“Milord.” She scarcely heard her voice over her hammering pulse. “I did not expect you so soon.”

“So I see.”

Her gaze shot past him to the closed doors. Too late, she recalled his cat-like stealth that she had witnessed in the hall. The noisy fire had disguised his entry.

Yet, she had only herself to blame for her curiosity.

She looked back at the tub. Laughing, she pointed to the soap which had slid far out of reach. “I hope you do not mind. I have never smelled that particular blend of scents.” Her voice quavered and she groaned inwardly. How effortlessly he rattled years of carefully tutored poise. She had not trembled this much when her father had presented her to King Richard.

As though noticing her discomfort, a smile tilted Linford’s mouth. “I bought that kind at a bazaar in Cyprus. Worth every bit of coin. English soap is simply not the same.”

Rexana swallowed. His enticing male scent, his closeness, and the assessing glint in his eyes sent chills rippling over her skin. Stifling a swell of worry, she focused her thoughts upon acting her role. She must not foolishly betray herself or endanger the others, or undermine her own plans for escape.

She must tempt. Seduce. Distract.

Linford’s gaze sharpened slightly. Her skin prickled with goose bumps. Though he did not touch her, she felt his gaze traveling over her face like a physical caress.

“Why do you look at me so?” he asked.

Forcing sultry warmth into her voice, she said, “Whatever do you mean, milord?”

He laughed softly, but his tone held a hint of derision. “As though I will throw you upon the bed and ravish you like a hot-blooded savage. I promise I will treat you with civility.”

“I do not doubt your skills.” By the saints, she hoped she sounded appropriately intrigued.

His teeth flashed white, a brazen promise. “Good. Yet, unfortunately, I came to tell you our pleasure must be delayed until later this eve. I have urgent matters to attend first.”

“Urgent matters?” Rexana sensed steel behind his words. Had he captured Henry? Did he know of the plan to steal the missive? Oh, God, she must know.

She smoothed her veil and schooled uncertainty from her tone. “What could possibly be more important than pleasure?”

“Traitors.”

“Here? In Warringham?” She cleared the catch from her voice. “Who would attempt treason with you as High Sheriff?”

“Indeed.” With a faint smile, he closed the distance between them. His gaze held hers with fierce intensity. Her stomach did an unsettling swoop, like a swallow plummeting to snatch a fat worm. Did he suspect her?

He moved so close, his breath warmed her brow. She took a step back. Bumped against the rough stone wall. The splinter bit deeper into her foot, and she winced, even as she forced a giggle. “Surely you do not believe—”

“—that I frighten you? I know I do. You will not fear me once we have coupled. Of that, I am certain.” He flattened one hand on the wall beside her head. His expression turned stark with sensual hunger, and he kissed her temple. “I will return to you as soon as I can. I vow, upon my honor, I would rather stay here with you than question the traitors, but I cannot ignore my duties to the king.” His voice softened, became a warm tingle against her cheek. “Do you understand, little dancer? Until the moment I return, I will be thinking of you, your beauty, and all the secrets we will share.”

His words became a throaty murmur, a sound like a cat’s purr. Unable to resist, she looked up into his eyes. This close, they were a decadent brown shade, the color of a mélange of costly spices. Cinnamon. Cumin. Coriander. His lashes dropped on a blink. In that gesture, he promised her a multitude of sinful pleasures. Her skin prickled with delight.

Nay! She should not be tempted by what he offered.

Henry and the others could be in danger.

Linford’s fingers skimmed up her forearm in a feather-light caress. Skilled. Sure. A lover’s touch. Her flesh throbbed with the contact, even as sudden heat swirled down to her belly. Her breath puffed against the veil.

Disquiet and yearning pulled at her heart, even as his fingers glided up past her elbow. How could one touch elicit such a multitude of sensations? As she willed the muzzy haze from her mind, his fingers snagged the veil’s edge. Tugged.

He intended to see her face!

She swatted aside his hand and whirled away, her skirt swirling about her legs. Forcing a petulant tone, she said, “You should not tease me when you cannot stay. Shame, milord.”

Chuckling, he started toward her. “Little dancer—”

Her frantic gaze fell to the wine goblets. “A drink, before you leave?” She limped to the trestle table and picked up the jug. Wine splashed over the goblet’s rim. Spattered on the table. Dripped onto the floor with a steady pat, pat. Under her breath, she cursed her trembling hands.

Hearing him stride up behind her, she turned and pressed the goblet into his palm. He raised the vessel to his lips.

“To your pleasure,” she said in a bright tone.

His lazy smile returned. “To our pleasure, love.” He took a sip, then frowned. “Why do you not drink?”

Her fingers fluttered to the veil. “I am not thirsty.” As she shifted her weight to ease pressure on the splinter, pain shot through her sole. She smothered a gasp. “Later, when you return, we can drink tog—”

His goblet clanged down beside her. He crowded her against the table. The hard edge pressed against the back of her thighs. As his masculine smell enveloped her, and his legs bumped against hers, she wilted to half sitting on the table’s edge. She barely resisted bolting for the door.

“You find fault with the wine?” Her fingers clutched the table’s edge so hard, she vowed the wood would snap.

“The wine is delicious. I must keep a clear head for the interrogation.” He smiled. “Now, before I go . . .”

His hands landed upon her hips. A firm, deliberate touch. His fingers splayed upon her skirt. Then, with agonizing slowness, they slid down the curve of her hips, bare legs, and calves. A thorough, appreciative touch, as though he relished the feel of silk and flesh. A silent, answering cry of pleasure warbled inside her.

He groaned, dropping to his knees before her. She stared down at his unruly hair, the crown of his head scarcely a hand’s reach away from her.

His fingers brushed her skirt’s hem.

She drew a sharp breath. Was he fulfilling some kind of eastern mating ritual? “W-what are you doing?”

He touched her right ankle. “This one, is it not?”

With effort, she forced herself to exhale. “Pardon?”

“You limp. This foot hurts you. Aye?”

She nodded. With gentle pressure, he tilted her grubby foot to inspect it, and she squirmed with embarrassment. “’Tis naught. Only a splinter.”

“It causes you pain. I would be barbaric, indeed, to leave you in discomfort.”

She ceased struggling. Odd tenderness blossomed within her. As his face furrowed in concentration and his fingers skimmed between her toes and over her sole, the ache grew.

In the past, young lords had courted her, but she had never permitted them to touch her. Above all, Garmonn. He had begged for her kisses, crudely demanded them once when he had walked with her in Ickleton’s garden, but she had refused. No man kissed or touched a lady, except her wedded husband. Now, with Linford’s deft hands probing her skin and her flesh shimmering with strange sensations, she appreciated the wisdom of her parents’ strict tutelage.

His light touch tickled. She squirmed.

He chuckled, then moved to the heel of her foot. “Ah,” he said, “There.”

“Is it . . . large?”

“Enormous.” When she groaned, he added, “Half a tree.”

Rexana laughed. She could not resist.

He grinned. With his thumb and forefinger, he plucked at her sole. A quick pinch. Then, arching an eyebrow in triumph, he held up the splinter.

“Thank you. It feels much better.”

Smiling, he tossed the bit of wood aside. With utmost care, he placed her foot on the floor and then rose, smoothing the creases from his tunic. She stared at his tanned fingers, so strong, capable and careful. Her stomach did a strange turn. Was he truly the unprincipled barbarian the gossips claimed him to be? Had they misjudged him?

He caught her staring. His smile changed and, from one heartbeat to the next, sharpened with determination and desire. “I regret I must leave now.” Lowering his face to hers, he murmured, “But first, I will have a kiss.”

She froze, numbed by a rush of alarm. “Kiss?”

“Kiss. Remove the veil, love.”

About Catherine

Award-winning author Catherine Kean has always loved tales of heroic knights and stubborn damsels. Her debut medieval historical romance, Dance of Desire, was the launch title of Medallion Press’s Sapphire Jewel Imprint. Dance of Desire won two Reviewer’s Choice Awards, Best Medieval in industry review magazine Affaire de Coeur’s 2006 Reader-Writers’ Poll, and finaled in four contests for published romance novelists.

Her other medieval romances have also garnered accolades. Among them, My Lady’s Treasure won the historical category of the 2008 Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence Contest and finaled in the 2008 Next Generation Indie Book Awards. A Knight’s Reward was a 2008 National Readers’ Choice Awards finalist.

When not writing, Catherine enjoys cooking, baking, browsing antique shops, shopping trips with her daughter, and gardening. She lives in Florida with her husband, daughter, and a very spoiled cat. For the latest news on her books and author appearances, please visit her website: www.catherinekean.com.

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

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