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’d 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t know. The wood reached almost to the floor, so ’twas unlikely he saw her shoes. She hadn’t 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 didn’t 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 wouldn’t 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’d 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, spun around, and scurried over to Brant.
Arms crossed, he stood with one hip braced against the trestle table. His glittering gaze locked with hers, and 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 her other hand on her gown.
Greya’s gaze dropped to the pots. With a puzzled frown, she said, “Do you need more hand salve? Or 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 said 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?” 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!”
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 hadn’t intended to deceive him. Yet, she could never explain the tangled emotions that 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.
<
br /> 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 didn’t 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 couldn’t say 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 Brant’s 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?”
“Royce perished in the east. The journal was lost.”
“I see.” Awkward tension whispered through the room. “I am sorry,” Faye added, “that he died.”
“As am I.” Brant’s voice, barely a rasp of sound, was more poignant than if he’d 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 hadn’t gone to have her chatelaine repaired, if she’d 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.
Brant’s 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’d 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. ’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’d 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! 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 into swirling mud and dragged along in a dangerous current of events over which he had little control.
Faye’s eyes flared with shock. She quit struggling. “What did you say?”
“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.”
“’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, Brant 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.
Medieval Rogues Page 47
