Medieval Rogues (49 page)

How long did he wait for Faye until he admitted she wasn’t coming?

How long had he waited for Elayne, on the threshold of that secluded cottage, where she’d promised to lie with him and tutor his hungry, virgin body in the ways of pleasure?

His lip curled. He had waited long enough.

If he had to ride to Caldstowe and bully the information from Faye, so be it.

Pivoting on his heel, he loosed a sharp whistle. Val scampered from the verge and ran at his heels while he strode toward his horse. When Brant approached, the destrier whickered, snorting a white cloud from its nostrils.

Brant patted the destrier’s warm neck. He reached out to untie the reins.

A sound, quiet yet growing louder, intruded: a rhythmic
thud
, like a pulse.

Hoofbeats
.

Barking, Val raced into the middle of the road. Brant spun to face the oncoming rider. A lone figure hunched against the neck of a bay galloping ever closer. With each
ta-ta-tap, ta-ta-tap
of hooves, Brant’s mood lightened.

Mayhap Faye hadn’t deserted him, after all.

As the rider neared, strands of copper red hair glinted in the sunlight. Streaming out behind her, Faye’s tresses lifted and fell with the motion of her mare. The hood of her green mantle bunched about her shoulders. Whipped by the morning air, her face held a rosy flush. How beautiful she was, thundering toward him.

Relief flooded through Brant. As he strode toward the road, however, Val snarled. Barking again, he bolted out to intercept the mare.

Fear numbed Brant’s elation. Patches of ice dotted this part of the road. Faye’s wound was still healing, so, not feeling her best, she might not be as quick to cope with unexpected crises.

If her mare skidded or lost her footing . . .

“Val!” Slipping when his boot connected with ice, Brant started after the dog.

Faye was near enough now that he saw her eyes flare with panic. She instinctively straightened, then drew back on her horse’s reins, urging the mare to slow.

Yapping, teeth bared, Val raced closer.

“Val!” Brant yelled. “Come.”

At a canter now, the mare tossed her head. Brant sensed Faye’s fear, heard her curse as her wide-eyed mount veered onto the verge.

Tree branches caught at Faye’s mantle and hair. Shielding her face from the onslaught, she shrieked. One of the reins slipped from her hands; the length of leather dangled to the ground, sliding uselessly on the frozen ground.

Val darted between the horse’s legs.

“Stop him,” Faye cried. “Please.”

“Val!” he thundered. In the morning quiet, his voice boomed. “Come here.
Now
!”

The little mongrel slowed, came out from under the mare, and stopped in the middle of the road, his tongue lolling. Bright eyed, tail wagging, Val trotted back to Brant.

Brant scowled down at the little mongrel. Then, whipping off his right glove, he snapped his fingers. “Sit.”

Val sat beside the frozen rut, the tip of his tail swishing to and fro. Excitement still danced in his eyes.

“Stay there until I call you,” Brant bit out in a tone harsher than he had ever used when speaking to Val. His innards still quaked from the thought of what could have happened to Faye. All too easily, she could have been thrown to the ground, a limb or two broken, hurt and bleeding again because of him.

Val whimpered. Brant gave the mongrel one last, warning glare. Then he glanced over at Faye.

She sat astride her horse, rubbing her hand over the animal’s lathered neck. Breathing hard, the mare had stopped on the verge. Sun-touched frost glittered at her hooves. Light, slanting through the trees, streamed over Faye, as though the tree boughs had parted in reverence to her, the Fey Queen, who had graced this common stretch of road with her presence.

Dismissing his idiotic thoughts, he crossed to her. “Are you all right?”

Faye gave a stiff nod. She’d managed to regain hold of both reins. Her white-knuckled hands clenched around the lengths of leather. When he neared, her grip tightened. “You should have better control of Val,” she said sharply. “’Twas very dangerous. I could have fallen.”

“I know.” He reached her side. Squinting against the brilliant sunlight, he looked up at her. “I am sorry.”

His voice cracked on the last word. All the emotions tangled up inside him seemed to expel on “sorry.” Clearing the embarrassing huskiness from his throat, he said, “’Twill not happen again.”

Her narrowed gaze shifted past him to where Val sat. “How can you be certain?”

“He did not get his usual morning run after the woodpigeons. ’Twas my mistake. I will not deprive him of that morning pleasure again.”

The hard glint of her eyes softened a little.

“I am sorry,” Brant repeated. Reaching up, he pressed his bare hand to her mantle-covered thigh and gently squeezed. The cold wool scratched his palm. However, even through the heavy cloth, he felt the little trembles shaking her, the after-effects of her scare. Proof of the fear he’d caused her.

Once again, her gaze locked with his. A more intense shudder rattled her. Not fear this time, but an emotion even more . . . dangerous.

Tinged red by the morning air, her mouth tempted him for a kiss. He remembered how her lips had felt beneath his, her exceptional taste, her slender body cradled beneath him.

His hand curled tighter into her mantle, bunching the fabric in his restless fingers. He fought the urge to draw her down from her horse, wrap his arms around her, and murmur soothing words.

Awareness, as tangible as their breaths in the icy air, rekindled between them. In that moment, he understood how she’d felt the afternoon at the lake when he’d towered over her on horseback, master of every facet of their meeting. How ironic that their perspectives were reversed.

Standing beside her mount, gazing up at her, he realized that his fate, from this point on, lay in her control.

She alone could help him achieve Royce’s dream.

Without her, he was lost.

Her horse shifted its weight. With a mortified blink, Brant unclenched his hand from her mantle. Creases marked the cloth where he’d gripped.

Heat stung his cheekbones, while frustration burned stronger than his desire. Never did he want to be commanded by a woman, especially an enchantress. As much as he needed Faye, he wouldn’t allow her to lead him along like a dim-witted boy. He had learned his lesson from Elayne.

A frown creasing his brow, he stepped away. Faye’s gaze lit with surprise.

“The morn is passing. If we wish to make use of the day, we should be on our way.” His gruff voice sounded to his own ears like grating stone.

“Why do you look at me in that manner?”

He yanked the glove back onto his right hand. Gliding against his skin, the leather made a soft hiss. “How so?”

“You appear to be angry with me.”

Impatience chafed like the rough seam against his palm. “Not angry, milady, but eager to be hunting for the treasure.”

Her lips pursed. “Of course. The lure of gold.”

Casting her a sidelong glance, he tipped his head.

Her chin notched higher. “I remind you, Brant, that you promised to help me rescue Angeline. That is my purpose for being here. My
only
purpose. Do not forget.”

He almost laughed at her saucy tone. She was bold, indeed, to goad him.

Foolish lady. Mayhap, instead of a knave, she believed him to be a man of honor, who, even if tempted, would never dare to pull a lady down from her horse and satisfy the lust seething inside him. Surely his kiss yesterday had shown her he didn’t deny himself what he wanted, and that he wouldn’t hesitate to use desire, if need be, to get his way.

“I have not forgotten my vow to you,” he said as a breeze stirred the spindly boughs overhead. “Nor have I forgotten the pledge you made yesterday.” With delicious mischief, he lowered his voice to a sensuous rasp. “I trust you remember all that transpired between us in your chamber?”

Faye’s face turned scarlet, making the wound on her cheek more conspicuous. Brant expected her to spit a curse at him, to scorn his crude sensual assault and tell him never to lay his worthless hands upon her again.

With a gentle kick of her heels, she nudged her horse back onto the road. With a gritty
clip-clop, clip-clop
the mare walked down the center of the frozen rut, leaving him to stare at the proud line of Faye’s back. Her mantle flowed down from her shoulders and over her horse’s sides like a faerie queen’s ceremonial robe.

“Milady,” he called after her with a touch of warning.

She flicked her hand in the air. “Coming?”

His legs ached to break into a walk, to stride to his destrier, mount, and start after her. However, the search for the lost treasure was
his
to lead, by God.
Not
hers.

Her horse’s unwavering gait taunted him. Even the lazy swish of its long tail mocked him.

“My horse is still tethered,” he groused. “Stop and wait. Only when I am ready will our search begin.”

Her words floated back to him. “The sooner we search, the sooner you will help me rescue Angeline.”

“Faye,” he snapped.

She rode on, clearly ignoring him. She must have heard him, for there was not too great a distance between them yet. Nor could her horse’s hoofbeats have drowned out his voice.

Brant glared at her, waiting for her to turn around and acknowledge his command. Yet, with carefree fingers, she pulled at the glossy strands of hair caught in her hood, then smoothed them back over her shoulder. When she rode into a pool of sunshine, light crowned her head and fired her tresses with a molten sheen.

Scowling, Brant glanced down at Val, still sitting by the rut. The mongrel’s tail swayed against the ground. His eyes were huge and pleading. “Come on,” Brant said.

Val scrabbled to his feet. As Brant strode at a brisk clip toward his horse, Val ran alongside him. The little dog leapt up and nipped at his glove. After scampering a few paces ahead of Brant, Val darted back and nipped again.

“No more of that.” Reaching his destrier, Brant quickly untied the reins from around the tree. He bent, scooped wriggling Val up under his arm, and swung up into the saddle. Brant lowered the little dog into the specially-made pouch attached to his saddle. Ears pricked, Val poked his head out of the top.

Nudging his boots into the destrier’s sides, Brant turned his horse onto the road. “Milady,” he vowed under his breath, “you had best lead me to the treasure. Or you will learn I am the very worst kind of knave.”
 

Chapter Seven

Hooves thudded on the road behind Faye, signaling that at last Brant followed. She blew out a breath. She refused to let her shoulders sag, swivel to see how soon he would catch up to her, or lose the aura of nonchalance she conjured with every shaken bit of her pride.

Drawing in another breath of the crisp air, she pressed her hand over her belly. Still, her stomach fluttered. The sensation had started the moment Brant had ordered Val to sit and then had crossed to her, his blue eyes lit with concern.

Brant’s compassion at the tavern had tested her fortitude. Here, on the lonely stretch of road, after the way he’d kissed her yesterday—

Another flutter.

She frowned. How wretchedly unfair that she should be enslaved by his sensual sorcery. How disconcerting that moments ago, when his hungry stare had locked with hers, her lips had tingled as if he’d ravished her mouth. How shameful that she’d wondered, with more than a little curiosity, what ’twould be like to surrender to his carnal magic—a desire she’d never once experienced when married to Hubert.

Behind her, the hoofbeats accelerated to a trot. The destrier’s bridle chimed. Brant was drawing nearer.

Stronger flutters teased her now—like butterflies trapped within an orb, beating their wings against the iridescent sides in a frantic bid to escape.

She fought the overwhelming urge to spur her horse to a canter. Bolting would reveal that he unsettled her. ’Twould prove her indifference was a fragile illusion. Brant must never know how his touch affected her. Or that when his hand had clenched into her mantle, and his face had contorted with an inner struggle, she’d understood exactly that sense of torment.

Brant’s mount came alongside hers. Faye forced her hands to relax on the reins. Brant’s angry gaze raked over her, a demand to acknowledge him. A command so strong, he might well have reached over and grabbed her chin.

She suppressed a shudder. Forcing a neutral smile, she glanced at him.

His expression was positively ferocious. His brow creased into a forbidding scowl, while his lips pressed into an ominous line. Fury flashed in his eyes. He didn’t like being ordered about by a woman. The warrior in him clearly objected.

Sensing another gaze upon her, Faye glanced lower, to the front of Brant’s saddle. The sight of Val’s fuzzy head peeking from the leather bag brought a startled grin to her lips. She longed to giggle, but Brant might interpret her laughter as an insult to his pride. If she angered him too much—

“Will you at least tell me where we are going?” he growled.