“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.”
“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, 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 didn’t wish to see her.
Deceitful, untrustworthy wench.
He blew out an exasperated breath and kicked 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’d intended to fulfill his part of the bargain.
Now, he was on his own.
Spurned, yet again, by a woman.
Faye hadn’t 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’d 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’d 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 that the earth had chosen to spit out? Or, had Faye deceived him? Had she decided, at the last, that she didn’t 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 wouldn’t deceive him so.
Would she?
His gaze again flew to the stretch of road. Like an adder stirring to wary alertness in the sun, anger roused in his gut.
She might have decided he wasn’t 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’d met in the woods, when he’d 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 hadn’t arranged to have his own child kidnapped.
Had he?
Brant scowled. 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, icier even than the winter river, sluiced through Brant. 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’d kept the find a secret. Torr would be furious.
Furthermore, if Faye told him Brant knew of the gold days ago, Torr would demand to know why Brant hadn’t told 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’d carefully unwrapped the vessel to examine it once again, it had glimmered with an austere beauty. Unable to resist, he’d 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 hadn’t been able to save Royce. Yet, if he chose, he could help Faye. And with her, Angeline.
To protect them, though, 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 fol
lowed her, after all. With his dog’s help, he’d tracked her down. The chalice wasn’t enough to satisfy his desire for gold, so he’d 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 wouldn’t 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. The dog is probably telling off the travelers who are 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 opposite wall of the cottage. They were 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 rose from the bench. “There is a man—”
Greya stood as well, 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. 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 rose. 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.
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, 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’d 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 couldn’t 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. 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.
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 wouldn’t 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. There was nowhere to run. Mayhap Val wouldn’t find her, after all. The cottage’s herbal scent might mask her presence. 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 wouldn’t 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
ensure that despite his bruised pride and a nasty bump, Brant was fine, while 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.
Medieval Rogues Page 46
