Medieval Rogues (57 page)

“As though you distrust me.”

Part of me does
, her conscience answered,
because of what Brant said
. However, until she knew the truth—and she would find out—she mustn’t give Torr any more reason to doubt her. She must stay close to him.

Listening. Watching.

She remembered Brant’s warning
. I vow you are in danger. You cannot go with him. He is not to be trusted.

Faye mentally smothered Brant’s voice. Regardless of any danger, Angeline’s well-being took precedence over all else. God above, she would rather throw herself into a vat of burning pitch than be responsible for another little girl’s death.

“I am sorry, Torr. ’Tis my worry for Angeline that shadows my gaze so.” Faye smiled and touched his sleeve. “Shall we return to Caldstowe?”

***

His eyes squeezed shut, Brant waited behind the screen. His hands, clenched into fists, were turning numb. He drew a controlled breath through his nostrils, trying to calm the tension screaming in his veins while he listened to Torr and Faye’s conversation.

Every time she spoke, her voice shimmered inside him, as though somehow, she was part of him, radiating light into the blackest reaches of his soul. His body ached to lunge out from behind the screen. His sword arm craved the weight of his weapon, raised in attack. His mind plotted battle strategy, envisioned his harsh roar as he bolted across the cottage, his blade arcing down to settle against Torr’s neck, before making him admit where he’d hidden Angeline.

As Brant well knew from the bloody battles in the east, physical force was one of the few elements Torr respected.

Opening his eyes, Brant looked down at Val. Crouched on the floor, ears pricked to take in the sounds from the main room, the dog remained blessedly silent. Sensing Brant’s gaze, Val glanced up. The tip of his tail swayed.

Such tremendous trust shone in Val’s gaze, a poignant reminder of responsibility. While Torr might heed Brant’s attack, such a rash act would be madness. Not only would he betray himself and Faye, but the men-at-arms would cut him down. Leaving Faye on her own to answer to Torr was unforgivable, even for a man with a soul as tarnished as Brant’s own.

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. Someone 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.