My Lady's Treasure

by Catherine Kean

  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.