A Knight's Temptation (44 page)

A perfect little girl with the face of a cherub. Plump cheeks. Dark eyelashes sweeping against fair skin. A rounded nose above perfect . . . blue . . . lips.

Anguish squeezed Faye’s heart as she caught one of the baby’s tiny hands. “Oh, please—”

“I am sorry, milady,” Greya whispered. “She was too small.”

“Naaayyy!” The scream burst from deep inside Faye. Shrill, desperate, it flowed from the raw, gaping hole in her soul—the part of her which had communed with, nurtured, and cherished the new life growing inside her.

Now gone.

Faye’s throat hurt from screaming. The emptiness inside her devoured like a massive, distorted beast.

Suffocating blackness crept into her mind. She welcomed it. Let it overshadow her body’s pain and her last, fading glimmers of consciousness.

Closing her mind to the concerned voices around her, the gentle rocking of hands trying to nudge her awake, Faye prayed that the darkness dragged her down into an oblivion from which she would never awake.

***

Bowing his head against the driving rain, Brant splashed through the muddy water swirling across the dirt path between the run-down stable and the door of The Spitting Hen Tavern. Rowdy laughter and off-key singing came from the building’s lower level, while water dripped down from the thatched, second story roof with a steady
tick, tick
.

As he strode to the doorway, guided by the light streaming out into the darkness, he tilted the unconscious lady in his arms so her face remained concealed by her mantle’s hood. Best to keep her identity hidden from any curious onlookers inside. Water ran off his helm and trailed down the back of his neck, sticking his wet garments to his chilled skin. Clenching his teeth against his discomfort, he kicked open the rough-hewn door.

The wooden panel flew in on its hinges. It smacked into the arse of a drunken sot leaning over to shout in a friend’s ear.

“Oof!” The drunkard pitched forward. He landed belly-first on a table, sending ale mugs crashing onto the dirt floor. The earthy smell of spilled drink carried on the breeze that howled into the smoky room.

Brant slammed the door shut with his heel.

All laughter and singing stopped.

The men at the disrupted table rose to glare at Brant. He glared back at them. The scruffy farmers and travelers grumbled amongst themselves, then slumped back down in their chairs.

A low buzz of conversation resumed.

Brant’s boots creaked as he strode to the tavern’s wooden counter. A heavy-set man with oily skin—the tavern owner whom Brant had met earlier that day when he arranged for a night’s lodging—stood there, holding a burning tallow candle to another one that had been extinguished by the blast of wind. His mouth at a faintly apprehensive slant, the owner watched Brant approach.

“I need a hot meal sent up to my room,” Brant said, adjusting the lady’s weight in his arms. “Also, boiled water and drying cloths.”

The man’s gaze traveled over the lady’s motionless form before he touched the flickering taper to another unlit candle. “I will see to it, milord.”

“Be quick about it, and I will pay you twice the silver.”

The innkeeper’s eyes brightened. With a brisk dip of his head, he pushed aside the candles and hurried through a crooked door off the main room.

Shrugging to ease the growing strain of the woman’s weight, Brant strode toward the planked staircase that led up to the second floor. His boots sounded a hollow thud on the scarred wood. The strumpets reclining on the bottom stairs preened as he passed by. “Oy,” cooed a brunette with painted red lips. “Can I join ye in a bit o’ fun?”

Further up, he encountered a busty wench with rouged cheeks, her skin pocked from a past illness, her brown hair escaping from her braid. She pulled her tattered skirt up to her thighs. “Deane’s me name. Will ye choose me?”

Sweeping past the whores pawing at his wet cloak, he plodded up the stairs. He had not told the innkeeper he wanted a lusty strumpet in his bed, but mayhap they had overheard his comment about the silver. Opportunists, all of them, wanting a bit of his hard-won coin.

On any other night, he would welcome a willing wench to his bed, but tonight . . . His gaze dropped to the ashen, blood-streaked face of the lady in his arms. Tonight, he already had a woman to attend.

He reached the top of the stairs, lit by some candles on a battered table, then turned right, toward the door at the end of the hallway. The uneven floor creaked with each of his strides. Shifting the lady slightly, he reached for the room’s iron door handle and pushed the panel inward.

The
click, click
of tiny clawed paws, then happy whimpers of greeting, came from the shadowed chamber. Brant stepped inside, noting that servants had lit the fire, per his prior agreement with the owner, but it had burned down.

A warm muzzle brushed Brant’s calf. “Out of the way, Valor,” he muttered to the little dog squirming at his heels. Elbowing his way into the room, Brant lowered the lady onto the low, straw pallet against the wall. Locating the chamber’s unlit tapers in metal holders, he strode to the hall candles to light them, then returned. Brant nudged the chamber door closed behind him and drew the bolt.

He set the candles on the oak table beside the bed. The flames’ warm glow reached out into the shadows as he slid his saddlebag strap over his head and set the bag by the chair turned toward the hearth. He removed his dripping cloak and slung it over the chair back. With a relieved groan, he pulled off his helm.

Another whimper, then a howl.

“I hear you, Val.” Brant placed the helm on the chair and dropped down on one knee. He reached out to the little dog, whose fur looked honey-gold in the firelight. His tail wagging at a furious pace, Val scooted closer and licked Brant’s hand.

He scratched the wavy fur between the mongrel’s shoulders and patted the small head. Val’s pink tongue lolled out of his mouth. Brant couldn’t resist a wry grin. Those brown eyes, fringed with unruly tufts of fur, stared up at him with such adoration and trust. As if Brant held the power to make everything right—or, at least, fetch some fare.

He rubbed Val’s muzzle, while his gaze dropped to the scarred stump where the dog’s right front leg should have been. Months ago, he
had
made everything right for Val. A terrible choice, to have to take an animal’s leg, yet Val had quickly adapted to his infirmity. He ran as fast on three legs as most dogs on four.

Behind him on the pallet, the lady stirred. Her hands fluttered, as though she tried to protect or defend herself, before she muttered incoherent words. Then she fell silent.

Giving Val one last pat, Brant pushed to his feet. “Our meal is on the way. I have work to do now,” he said, crossing to the hearth. Crouching before the glazed tiles, he piled more logs on the fire’s dwindling flames.

Warmth crackled in the strengthening blaze. Never had Brant been more aware of his soggy boots and damp garments. But he could not linger in the soothing heat.

Val trotted at his heels as Brant returned to the bed. He crouched beside the lady. Her face looked very pale against the dun woolen blanket covering the pallet, her lips almost blue. Leaning over, he carefully removed her soaked leather shoes. Water trickled from her mantle onto the floorboards, so he carefully lifted her to slide the outer garment from her shoulders. The bedding beneath her was damp. He must remember to ask the tavern owner for more blankets when the man brought the meal.

Pressing her torso against him for support, Brant shifted her lower body to work the mantle free. With a little sigh, she tucked her head into the crook between his jaw and shoulder. Her breath warmed his neck, coaxing him to wrap his arms around her, to savor her enticing scent. Frowning, he ignored the temptation and pushed the mantle to the floor.

Val nuzzled the wet garment. He sneezed.

Brant gently laid the lady down again. She wore a grass green gown belted at the waist. A simple garment. However, the lines of the soaked wool hugged her curves and valleys, confirming all that had been suggested by his clumsy, earlier exploration—firm breasts, a narrow waist, tapered hips, and long legs.

Dryness parched his mouth. He unfastened the leather belt around her waist, slid it out from under her, then dropped it on the floor. That simple task, in which his fingers brushed against her garments, confirmed the thought teasing the back of his mind. He must remove her gown and shift. Not only were they soaked, but he must be sure she did not have other wounds.

He reached for the ties at the side of her gown and hesitated. Aye, ’twould be best to unfasten them, then lift her up to draw her garments over her head. Simplest. Quickest.

How many hundreds of times he had undressed a woman, yet now, of all idiocy, he had to pause and think.

With a grumpy whimper, Val squeezed between him and the pallet to nudge his hand.

“Not now,” Brant said. “Go lie by the fire.”

With a shy wiggle, Val nuzzled again.

“Go,” Brant ordered. The little dog scurried away, but only to the other side of the table, where he sat watching.

With skilled tugs, Brant worked her gown’s ties free. As the two edges separated, they revealed her white linen shift, pulled taut against her ribs and breasts. Dragging his gaze away, he fisted his hands into the fabric about her legs and gave a swift yank.

A shuddering gasp broke from her. The sound seemed wrenched from deep within. It held such terrible anguish, he froze.

Her breathing quickened. The space between them seemed to compress with an acute awareness. Brant drew his gaze from her shapely calves, exposed by her gown bunched about her knees. He glanced at her face. Her eyes were open. She blinked up at him, confusion as well as wariness clouding her gaze. She seemed to be trying to remember how she came to be lying in this room, with him hovering over her.

Her gaze moved to his scar, and her breathing became a shocked rasp. Fear, now, marked the distance between them.

Brant could not blame her for being terrified. Every morning, when he splashed water over his face, he felt as well as saw the grisly reminder. “Milady,” he said in the gentlest tone he could muster.

“Who . . . are you?” With a strangled shriek, she shoved her hands against him. “Do not touch me.”

He released her gown. Raising his palms in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, he said, “I will do you no harm.”

She scrambled up to a sitting position, her legs curled under her. Blinking hard, as if to clear away sudden dizziness, she pressed back against the wall.

“I prom—”

Before he guessed her intentions, her hips swiveled. Her feet slammed into his chest.

Grunting in shock, Brant catapulted backward. His arm knocked the table. The rickety legs wobbled. With a
thud, thud, thud
, the candles in their metal holders clattered to the floorboards, accompanied by the sound of Val’s scrabbling claws and a startled yelp.

Brant landed on his arse. As he jerked hair out of his face to level the lady with a glare, a knock pounded on the chamber door.

“Milord,” came the tavern owner’s voice. “Yer dinner.”

***

The man pushed to his feet with lithe, angry grace. Faye twisted her fingers into the front of her gown—wet for some strange reason. Pain spiked across her cheek. The agony seared up the side of her face to join the headache which threatened to pummel away her consciousness. Choking back a moan, pressing her hand to her brow, she squinted at the stranger who looked about to throttle her.

He was a very imposing man—tall, broad shouldered, and, from the snug fit of his garments, well-muscled like a seasoned knight. Muttering an oath, he raked his hand through his shoulder-length hair, then snatched up the candles which had landed on a garment on the floor—her mantle, she realized dully—and begun to smolder.

“When I open the door, keep your head down. Do not say a word.”

She blinked to chase away the reddish shadows encroaching on her line of vision. How perplexing that his voice sounded familiar.

He glanced at her, as though to be sure she understood him. His eyes were a stunning blue, framed by dark lashes. Her belly did a peculiar little flip. How could she not remember a man with such fascinating eyes, or such uncommon features? Strong bones marked the aristocratic lines of his face, a proud nose, a squared chin with full lips. Half of his face was exceedingly beautiful, while the other half—

Impossible, not to recall a man with such a brutal scar.

Why could she not remember?

A knock rattled the door near her. “Milord?” a male voice called from outside, the sound muffled through the wood panel.

The stranger set the extinguished candles on the table. Hands on his hips, he said again, “Do not show your face or speak.”

Worry nibbled its way into her hazy mind. “W-why not?”

His expansive chest, outlined by a clinging, dark blue tunic, rose and fell on a sigh. She vaguely remembered the cold, soggy feel of his clothing from when she kicked him. “’Tis best for both of us, especially you,” he said, “if your identity remains secret.”

Secret? Why? What clandestine situation had she become drawn into, but could not remember? What if he were holding her against her will? What if he had hit her about the head in order to bring her here? Panic shivered its way into her thoughts.

Giving her a last, pointed look, the man strode to the door, drew the bolt, and pulled open the wooden panel. Holding it close to his body, he spoke in hushed tones to the man beyond.

Pressing her palms to the straw pallet beneath her, Faye scooted her body forward. Her head swam, causing an answering roil in her belly. She was going to be sick!

Nay!
Sucking in a determined breath, she eased her feet onto the cold floor, then reached for the table for support. She must walk to the door. Regardless of the stranger’s commands, she would ask the man outside to send a message to Caldstowe. Torr would come to fetch her.