He listened, tension so heavy in his blood he vowed his limbs would snap. As the cottage door creaked open, bringing a draft gusting over his boots, renewed fury raced through him.
“Thank you for the healing ointment, Greya. I am delighted, too, to have more of your hand salve and facial cream,” Faye was saying, as the men-at-arms’ chatter and footfalls moved toward the doorway.
“My pleasure, milady,” said the old woman.
The swell of voices marked the group’s progression over the threshold. Brant’s legs twitched. He clawed his fingers against the wooden screen, focusing on the splinters biting into his flesh to keep himself from charging after them. Surprise might work to his advantage, and thus allow him to reach Torr before his guards reacted.
But what Brant wanted was of no consequence.
Not if he must stay alive to protect Faye.
“Faye,” he groaned into the silent room. Had she listened to one word he’d said?
Why—God’s blood, why—did she sound as though returning to the keep with Torr was a pleasing choice? As though she wanted to go with him, despite the risks?
Sounds drifted in from the open doorway: the crunch of earth, the clink of bridles. Moments later, soft footfalls—one person returning to the cottage—echoed on the threshold, before the door thumped shut. A lock grated.
“You may come out from behind the screen now,” Greya said. “Or shall I count to three?”
An astonished laugh broke from Brant. She was bold to remind him of his words to Faye. Folding his arms, he stepped out from behind the screen.
Greya stood in front of the door, her hands clasped together. Casting Brant and Val a wary look, Merlin rubbed against her ankles.
Brant dipped his head in a curt nod. “I thank you for not revealing me.”
Her silver-gray head bowed in return. When she looked up at him again, a keen light gleamed in her eyes. “If I believed you were a threat to Lady Rivellaux, you would not still be in my cottage. I would have betrayed you the moment Lord Lorvais rode up to my home.”
Irritation prickled down Brant’s spine. “Your faith in me is most flattering.”
A faint smile touched Greya’s mouth before her grim expression returned. “You were sincere in what you said about Lord Lorvais?”
If she expected him to stand here and endure her inquisition, she’d sorely misjudged him. At a wise distance, he must follow Faye and Torr to Caldstowe.
Fastening his cloak to protect him against the winter morn, Brant crossed to Greya. “I will be on my way.”
The old woman didn’t move.
Coming to an abrupt halt, looming over her, he scowled. Unless he pushed her out of the way, he couldn’t leave the cottage.
As well she knew, from the glint in her eyes.
Not cowed at all, it seemed, by his stern gaze, she said, “While ’tis a tremendous accusation that he is involved in his child’s disappearance, he has the means.”
“He does.” Reaching into his cloak’s pockets, Brant withdrew his leather gloves.
A sigh broke from her, as brittle as a winter wind sweeping over crumbling leaves. “He has not been the same man since his wife Elayne died. Her passing . . . changed him.”
Ah, Elayne. For the barest fraction of a moment, Brant lamented her loss, but the reminder of Faye’s predicament glowed stronger within him. Flexing the tension from his gloved hands, he said, “Please step aside. While I appreciate your words, I cannot help Faye here.”
“You are now her protector,” the healer mused, “as well as her lover.”
“Lady Rivellaux and I are not—”
Another smile flickered across Greya’s face. “You need not explain. That matter is between the two of you. Yet, I ask that whatever happens, you do not break her heart.” The old woman’s voice shook. “She has suffered a great deal. Such torment you could not possibly understand.” Her gaze flicked to his scar, as though reading the anguish branded into his flesh. “Or, mayhap you could?”
Wariness jolted through Brant, sharper even than the wish to know exactly what torment Faye had been forced to endure. This cunning old woman—a stranger—had no right to pry. “Faye is entitled to her secrets,” he said. “I am to my own.”
He intended his brusque words to be a warning, but they brought a tiny grin to Greya’s lips. Turning away, she glided to a cupboard and withdrew an earthenware pot. Merlin wove around her legs, seeking attention. Murmuring what sounded like strange, ancient words—although she spoke so softly Brant couldn’t be certain—she leaned down to pet the cat.
Brant glanced at the cottage door. Two steps and he could slide the bolt and be outside. Yet, somehow—mayhap because his conscience insisted he should be chivalrous and wait to say goodbye, or because he had to satisfy his curiosity as to her intentions—he couldn’t manage those two steps. His gaze returned to Greya.
She stroked Merlin’s sleek back. His eyes closed with feline smugness, he rubbed his face against the pot, as if he bestowed upon it a special magic.
Sitting beside Brant, Val growled.
Returning to his side, Greya offered him the pot. “Take this.”
He quirked an incredulous eyebrow. “Hand salve? God’s bloody bones, if you think—”
“’Tis ointment for your scar.”
His teeth ground together. “My wound is too old, and too deep, to benefit from one of your salves.”
She snorted, shoved the pot into his hands, then turned and released the bolt. The cottage door opened on a flood of sunlight.
Brant started to hand back the salve—a blunt, deliberate refusal—but to do so might incite more debate from the old woman, and thus more delay.
Squinting against the brightness, Brant shoved the pot inside his cloak. “Good day, Greya.” He stepped over the threshold.
As Val bounded ahead of him down the frosted path, the healer’s voice carried to him. “No scar is too old or too deep to be healed.”
Chapter Eleven
“I am sorry, Elayne,” Faye said, trailing a finger down a carved fold of the tomb sculpture’s gown. “I have not found Angeline yet, but I will.”
The late morning breeze whispering through the secluded garden teased Faye’s hair, blowing a long strand over her face. She brushed the skein from her cheek. The nervous anticipation that clenched her innards hadn’t abated. It had begun in Greya’s cottage, intensified on the return journey to Caldstowe, and brought her down off her mount with trembling awkwardness when, surrounded by Torr’s men, they’d arrived in the inner bailey—for her decision was made.
’Twas the only way to appease the anxiety devouring her.
She would ask Torr whether he was involved in Angeline’s disappearance.
A very direct question that required an “aye” or “nay” answer.
Not in the bailey in front of his men-at-arms, but in private, where she could be certain there would be no distractions to influence his reply.
Faye curled her fingertips against the effigy’s weathered stone. She’d gone so far as to walk over to Torr and ask to speak with him. Before he could reply, a sentry had intercepted him and murmured in his ear. Torr had cursed before hurrying inside with him to attend to some important matter of estate.
The breeze tousled her hair again, like rambunctious children pulling at her tresses. Sparrows twittered close by, while browned leaves danced over Elayne’s tomb. With a careful hand, Faye brushed them off.
Later in the day, she would ask her question of Torr. A tremor rattled her, for she doubted he would refuse her request to meet with him. He’d asked her at least twice in the past few sennights to come to his solar for a goblet of wine, to sit with him in quiet companionship while he grieved for Elayne. He’d appeared to be suffering such torment, Faye had almost agreed. Yet, somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to visit his chamber.
The smallest sound—the rasp of cloth—warned her she was no longer alone. Some
one stood in the garden’s entrance.
Without raising her head to look, she knew who was there.
She spun away from the tomb.
Brant crowded the garden’s entryway. He stood with his arms crossed over his cloak, observing her.
His locks drifted in an unruly tangle, echoing the wild blaze of his eyes. As their gazes locked, a powerful jolt of awareness slammed through her. Catching her breath, she fought to control the answering wildness clawing up inside her—the shameful part of her that rejoiced in seeing him.
He didn’t speak, merely dipped his head in terse greeting. In the stark afternoon light, his scar looked harsh, unforgiving, a reflection of his own refusal to compromise—or accept defeat.
“W-why are you here?” she said, hating the breathless quality of her voice.
“To stop you from making a very foolish mistake.”
“I do not need a keeper.”
“I vow you do, milady.”
Arrogant knave! Crossing her arms, she leaned one hip against the stone tomb, mirroring his dictatorial posture. His brows cinched together in a frown.
Hoping to keep their conversation from the servants working in the bailey nearby, she said in hushed tones, “If you have come to continue our conversation from Greya’s cottage—”
“—which I did not get to finish,” he cut in. “There is much more I have not told you—”
“—’tis not a convenient moment for me. You see, I have an important meeting today.”
His scowl became forbidding. “You cannot confront Torr about Angeline.”
“I can.”
“Have you thought through the risks of being so impetuous? What might happen if he believes suspicion is cast upon him? How might that affect Angeline? Or you?”
In his terse words, she caught the anguish of loss: a glimmer of regret for someone from his past, connected in some way to what currently transpired. She had no right to ask, but couldn’t seem to stop herself. “Why does it matter to you what happens to me? You have the gold cup.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “Before coming here, I left it in a safe place.”
He’d hidden it until he could find a buyer. A wise decision, considering the chalice’s value. Swallowing the bitter taste of regret, Faye said, “Still, you have what you desired.”
“Do I?”
His tone was a husky rasp, like silk gliding over naked skin. With trembling fingers, she pushed aside her wind-swept hair. A flurry of hot-cold tingles spiraled inside her, astonishingly, frighteningly profound. “Brant . . .”
She couldn’t go on, but he seemed to know the words beating inside her like frantic moths. “What is between us is far more than the gold,” Brant said quietly. “It has been for some time.”
Oh, God! She fought a triumphant little cry, tried to subdue the impulsive part of her threatening to lead her astray. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Of course you do.” His gaze darkened with lustful promise. “You are not an innocent, Faye. Stubborn, mayhap, but not a virgin.”
Wicked elation raced through her.
“You desire me,” she whispered.
His head tilted. He leveled her with a stare that shot straight to her soul. “More than you can possibly imagine.”
His words faded to a rough whisper, and she drew a tremulous breath. With him—unlike with Hubert—there would be no awkward gropes and half sincere apologies. After coupling, she wouldn’t lie alone in the sheets, tears in her eyes, wondering if what had happened was all that lovemaking was supposed to be.
With Brant, the act would be splendid. Illuminating.
A treasure in itself.
She tried to shut out the tantalizing thoughts, struggled to find resolve in the uncertainty festering inside her. Why did Brant admit his desire for her? Why did he imply there was more between them than a shattered arrangement between two strangers?
He intended to distract her. To sway her from speaking with Torr. To bind an emotional cord around her heart, and thus force her to ponder anew her decision.
Devious knave.
He spoke true about the desire nonetheless. The sensual pull between them ran fierce as well as deep. To deny it was to smother a part of her own soul. Impossible.
“The yearning burns in you, too,” he murmured. “You cannot deny it.”
He hadn’t moved from the garden’s entrance. He watched her with shocking intensity, as though her expression revealed her every thought. Shaking her head, she turned away to press her hands again to the stone. The coldness seeping into her palms leeched some of the traitorous heat from her body. No matter how much she desired him, she wouldn’t abandon her purpose.
She would not forsake Elayne’s memory.
“Faye.” Grasses rustled as he started toward her. His strength of will swept across the space between them, a challenge very different to, yet equally as powerful as, the challenge in his voice.
Her spine stiffened. Raising her chin, she watched him approach. “Desire has no place between us when my responsibility is to Angeline.”
His gaze warmed with a knowing light. He must have sensed her fight to maintain her indifference. Halting beside her, he looked down at the carved figure. “Angeline is not your daughter. The burden of responsibility should never fall to you.”
“No child could ever be a burden,” she said firmly. “I made a promise to Elayne. I will not break it.”
“And so you will endanger your life to find her child. Would she ask that of you?”
“Fie! Brant—”
“Give me but one more day. I will find proof of Torr’s involvement.”
She looked up at him. His bold presence dominated the small garden, claiming all focus. Even the sparrows had quieted, as though spellbound. “How can I wait another day? To think of Angeline alone, terrified—”
“I know.” His gaze traveled the length of Elayne’s effigy before he sighed. “I cannot help but wonder if she were alive, what she could tell us about Angeline’s disappearance.”
Shock rippled through Faye, followed by a rush of anger. “What do you mean?”
A tight smile touched his lips. The almost insignificant gesture revealed a great deal. He’d known Elayne. When had they met? How long had he known her? Faye didn’t recall Elayne ever mentioning him.
“Mayhap she knew what mischief was brewing,” he said.
“You cannot possibly mean Elayne was involved!”
Thrusting up one hand, he said, “I do not claim such. Yet, it cannot be coincidence that days before her death, she sent a rider with a letter urging me to come to Caldstowe.”
“I did not realize you were a friend of Elayne’s.”
If he noticed the tension binding her words, he didn’t acknowledge it. His head dipped in a stiff nod. “We had not spoken in a long time. We were . . . close. Once.”
How close? Faye wondered, with an unwelcome sting of jealousy. Her mind teased her with a vision of Brant and Elayne standing together in profile, smiling, his hands sweeping through her hair before they settled at her waist to draw her in for a kiss. Setting her jaw, Faye forced away the image.
“Her note claimed the matter was urgent. I could not refuse her request. She had no reason to contact me, unless she had no one else to turn to.” Brant paused. “Not even her husband.”
An ache cut through Faye. Surely Elayne had known she could trust Faye with anything. Every free moment, those last difficult days, she’d spent at Elayne’s bedside. She had wiped Elayne’s fevered brow, pressed the goblet of herbal infusion to her lips, held her hand during the mad fits that had wracked her, and fulfilled all of her demands, including her request to send one of the stable hands to her chamber.
When the man had arrived, Elayne had struggled to sit up, then had asked Faye to leave. Elayne was lady of the household, and Faye’d had no right to question her.
Mayhap that day, Elayne had given the lett
er to the man and ordered him to find Brant.
“I packed my belongings and rode out that same day. When I reached Caldstowe, I learned she had died. I was too late.”
Voices and footfalls carried from the bailey. They were the sounds of the daily castle routines. The same noises had come in through Elayne’s chamber window while she lay between life and death, her body twisting in pain. Faye shut her mind to the memories. Better to remember her dear friend in pleasant moments, rather than the ones fraught with anguish.
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