Medieval Rogues (45 page)

Did he still hunt for her, as a ravenous falcon pursued a hare?

Shivering, she stepped into the tub with an awkward splash. Speculating about the knave—whom she hoped to never see again—was not only senseless, but took her concentration from more pressing concerns. Her attempt to rescue Angeline had failed. Now, she must find another way to negotiate with the kidnappers.

Faye snatched up a soft linen cloth and the soap. After bathing, she would go to the quiet place where she always retreated to think; by the morn’s end, she must know her next course of action.

With brisk strokes, she scrubbed her body to remove all trace of the knave’s hands upon her. Then she gently washed her face, wincing at the sting of soap in her wound. Sliding back in the tub, she soaked her hair, scrubbed it, then twisted the slippery length to remove most of the water. In the firelight, the droplets glittered as bright as tears.

The warm bath coaxed her to lie back, close her eyes, and doze—a temptation she refused. She left the tub, dried, and, ignoring her aching limbs and cheek, drew fresh garments from her linen chest pushed against the wall. Hubert had bought her the gray wool gown. She’d recently renewed the well-worn garment by embroidering blue flowers along the neck.

One day, she hoped to buy new things, but for now, what she had must do. She wouldn’t ask Torr for coin to buy clothes. Nor could she bear to alter Elayne’s luxurious silks, which he’d given her after she died.

“Please, make use of them,” he’d said, handing her an armload of exquisite gowns. “She wanted you to have them.”

Sitting on the end of her bed, Faye pushed her feet into leather shoes. “Elayne,” she whispered to the silent chamber. “How I miss you.”

Faye brushed out her hair, donned her spare, forest-green mantle and made her way down to the bailey. Murmuring “good morn” to the children tossing a stick for a playful wolfhound and the servants drawing well water, Faye crossed to the gardens. Herbs clustered in one stone-walled bed. Fallen leaves scattered over the paths, browned grass, and soil where spring seeds would be soon be planted.

A hedge enclosed the garden corner closest to Caldstowe’s tower, the part of the keep built soon after the Norman Conquest. Faye pushed open the squeaky, wrought iron gate and stepped inside.

Cut from gray stone, a reclining woman stared up at the sky overhead. Pressing her hands over the carved ones of Elayne’s tomb, Faye bent her head. “I will not fail you,” she said, looking down at the rigid portrayal of her friend’s features. “I have not forgotten my vow to you. I will bring Angeline home safely, I promise.”

A sparrow twittered from the hedge, as if answering her. With a sad smile, Faye sat on a raised stone by the tomb. Looping her arms around her knees, tilting up her chin, she closed her eyes and let the calm of the place seep into her. The sunlight soothed her wounded cheek.

How to best rescue Angeline . . . ?

In the garden beyond, she caught the rumble of male voices.

Not unusual. Yet, warning prickled through her.

Faye opened her eyes and pushed to her feet. When the hushed conversation carried again, goose bumps rose on her arms.

She recognized Torr’s voice.

And the other—

Hardly daring to breathe, she crept to the hedge. Parting the interwoven branches, she peered through. Torr stood by the fish pond, breaking a twig apart with his fingers. Beside him was a tall, dark haired man. His back faced her, but there was no mistaking his warrior physique, or his aura of barely-leashed tension.

The knave!

The branches slipped from her fingers. Lurching back, she dragged in several choked breaths while struggling to control her panic and confusion. Why had he come to Caldstowe? What could he possibly have to discuss with Torr?

Had something happened to Angeline . . . something awful that had convinced the knave to confide in Torr, since he was the little girl’s father?

Mayhap the matter didn’t concern Angeline at all. The knave could have discovered Faye lived at Caldstowe and had come for the gold.

Her pulse pounded. She couldn’t return to the keep. As soon as she stepped from the enclosed garden, they would see her.

Until they moved away from the pond, she must wait here.

Trapped.

She fought to remain calm, while trying to hear what the men were discussing. Yet, the birdsong from the garden, the breeze stirring the hedge leaves, and the day-to day activity in the bailey conspired to muffle their words.

One thing, however, was clear: the men weren’t arguing. Their voices didn’t rise and fall in bitter accusation, but remained at a constant level . . . which implied an amicable conversation. It also suggested Torr and the knave knew each other.

Before she could ponder that startling thought, another noise intruded. Leaves rustled by her feet. Lowering to a crouch, she peered under the hedge.

From the other side, Val raised his little nose from the ground. He stared back at her.

“Shoo,” she muttered between her teeth. “Go away.”

Val barked.

Faye sensed, rather than saw, the knave’s head turn. Before she could stop her instinctive reaction, she shot to her feet. Thank God the hedge grew tall enough to hide her.

“Val!” he shouted.

She flinched.

Val yapped again. More rustling.

Was the wretched little dog going to dig his way under the hedge and reveal her?

A sparrow, chirping with indignant fervor, burst from the nearby branches. Val raced after it, barking excitedly. The knave and Torr laughed.

Crunching gravel alerted her that the men were moving away from the pond. Daring to peek through the hedge again, she saw they were walking toward the stables. Not at a brisk pace, but at a leisurely jaunt. As though the men were friends.

How could that be? She’d never seen the knave at Caldstowe before. She would remember such a scarred face.

The thought nagged, even as she forced it to the back of her mind. She counted out ten deep breaths. Then she hurried to the gate, cringing when it squeaked open.

The men stood chatting by the stable. Thank goodness they hadn’t heard the gate. Light glinted off the knave’s hair and played in tantalizing planes of light and shadow across his back. Her hands tingled with the memory of touching him.

Tearing her gaze away, Faye strode toward the forebuilding. Part of her begged to break into a run, but she mustn’t be conspicuous.

Had the knave seen her leave the garden? Was he watching her now? She dared not glance over her shoulder. Dared not meet the knave’s cold, cunning gaze and know that she, the hare, was cornered.

As she reached for the forebuilding’s door, two maidservants waved to her from the open kitchen doorway. “Lady Rivellaux.”

Faye waved back, grabbed the iron handle, and bolted inside, hoping the knave hadn’t heard the maidservants’ call. She hurried to her chamber. Each step seemed to take an eternity.

At last, Faye reached her room. She shut the wooden panel behind her, removed her mantle, then crossed her chamber. Kneeling on the floor, she pushed aside her linen chest and pressed her fingers to the loose wall stone she had discovered long ago. Gently wiggling the stone, she pried it out. A grating rasp, and it came free. Gold glittered in the darkened cavity.

A relieved sigh broke from her. The chalice was safe.

Her chamber, however, was the first place the knave would search.

She must move the gold cup elsewhere. But where?

With careful fingers, she eased the goblet out of the hiding place. The cool, smooth metal molded to her hand. In her palm was the weight of a child’s life.

Outside, in the corridor, came the muffled echo of voices. Her head snapped up. Sweat dampened her hand, turning the gold slick.

Earlier, she’d asked one of the young girls to bring more wood for her chamber’s fire. The firewood hadn’t been delivered yet.

If the servant found her with the cup . . .

Faye nudged the vessel back into the recess, pushed the stone into place, and shoved the linen chest into its normal spot. She ran her hands over her gown, smoothing the fabric as she dried her palms.

No reason to be anxious. No one knew where the gold was hidden.

They would never know.

She sucked in a deep breath, tucked hair behind her ear, and faced the doorway.

And saw she wasn’t alone.

The knave lounged with his back against her door, his arms folded over his chest.

Her hand flew to her throat, a feeble defense against his bold, looming presence.

As their gazes clashed, his mouth turned up in a grin that didn’t hold even the barest hint of warmth.

“Lady Rivellaux. A pleasure to see you again.”
 

Chapter Five

When the lady’s eyes flared with dismay, Brant savored a delicious surge of elation. Had she
really
thought she could deceive him and get away with it?

“W-what are you doing here?” she choked out, while her fingers flitted over the neck of her dreary gown.

He almost laughed at her ridiculous question. “I have come to claim what is mine.”

“Really?” Her face pinkened, an exquisite flush that intensified the green of her eyes. Brant sensed her thoughts racing, trying to decide how best to deal with him. Most of all, how to keep him from taking the gold chalice.

Holding her gaze, he smiled. He was not a man to be governed by a woman. Especially one who possessed an object he wanted.

“How did you get into my chamber? I did not hear the door open or close.”

“You were occupied with other matters, milady.”

Her delicate chin nudged higher, while her icy stare scorned him for setting one scuffed boot within her private chamber. Worry glimmered in her gaze, too—for her own safety, or that of her friend, Angeline, whom she hoped to rescue by offering the cup?

“Milady,” he said quietly, “I am not leaving till I have the goblet.”

Her hands balled into fists. From the willful spark in her eyes, she looked about to throw herself across the room at him. “You cannot have the vessel. It does not belong to you.”

“Nevertheless, I will have it.”

“Why? To satisfy your selfish greed? To sell it and fill your saddlebag with coin?” She practically spat the words.

Anger growled like silent thunder in his blood. If he told her he wanted to fulfill his dead brother’s dream, she would never believe him. She would accuse him of telling falsehoods and spinning his own avarice into gold.

“My reasons are my own.” Uncrossing his arms, he pushed away from the door. “Give me the cup, and I will be on my way.”

She didn’t budge. Not even the slightest attempt to obey.

“Milady.” He didn’t try to steel the warning from his voice.

The faintest smile touched her lips. “What makes you believe I have it?”

He laughed, a low, challenging sound that caused her blush to deepen. “You took it from my saddlebag before fleeing the tavern. No one else visited the chamber, except you.”

“Mayhap I gave the vessel to the kidnappers.”

“You left the tavern early this morn, and ’tis not yet midday. ’Tis doubtful you had time to write a missive, send it to the abductors, and meet with them—even if you knew how to contact them—between now and then.”

Her lashes dropped, and she glanced away.

“You also would not be so adamant to deter me, if the gold was not in your possession.” Brant’s gaze slid past her to the linen chest pushed against the wall. “Even in this chamber.”

Her shoulders rose and fell on a huffed breath. “Get out.”

Raising his eyebrows, he strode past her to the chest.

She grabbed his sleeve. “Do not!” She yanked hard enough that he heard his tunic’s seams protest. “Touch my linen chest and I—”

“You will what?” He turned and caught her hand that pulled at him with such insistence. He locked his fingers through hers, snaring her.

She trembled. Her rebellious gaze snapped from their joined hands to his face. Scowling, she tugged to free her fingers.

He smiled, but didn’t release her.

“Let me go, knave.”

Each word dripped with fury. A grin played at his mouth. What a delectable sight she made when wild and spitting. Her hair tumbled about her like copper fire. Her body drew up taut, thrusting forward the luscious swell of her bosom.

And her mouth . . .

He stared at her lips. Yester eve, when he’d lain on the tavern floor, listening to her breathing, he had dreamed of kissing her. Craved it with an intensity that had stunned him, for he’d tasted many women. Yet, she was as tempting as treasure itself.

He trailed his thumb over the backs of her captive fingers. So soft and fair, her skin. Like fine linen sheets, worn smooth in the wind and sun.

She inhaled a sharp breath and tried, again, to pull her hand loose. Her mouth quivered. “I will tell you but one last time. Let me go.”

“Or?” he taunted.

“Or I will keep the threat I made in the tavern. I will scream as though you mean to draw and quarter me. ’Twould not bode well for you, knave, to be found in my chamber.”