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 cry 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 didn’t 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 that 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?
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, and 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.
Val 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.
Truth be told, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from staring at her most of the night. She’d huddled in her blankets with her back to him, but in the shadowed darkness, he’d 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’d 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 hadn’t 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’d 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 that 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, that 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 ears quivered. He wiggled several steps backward.
“Come,” Brant snapped. “Find her.”
If she’d gone to the kitchens with the strumpets,
she hadn’t gone far.
He thundered across the landing, ignoring the startled expression of the tavern owner’s wife, and tore down the stairs. He threw open the kitchen door; it crashed against the wall.
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 didn’t 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, was 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 didn’t 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 hadn’t 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’d dared to ride away yesterday. For Angeline’s safety, she couldn’t. “I did not realize the tempest would be so fierce,” she added. “I had 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 didn’t 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 that she’d 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 climbed 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 chamber, to see if she was 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 tou
ched her cheek.
Shaking her head, the woman thrust the pot into Faye’s hands. “Ye need this fer certain. ’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?”
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