My Lady's Treasure

by Catherine Kean

  “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 sta
re 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.”