Medieval Rogues (64 page)

“Nay, thank you.” Lifting her wine goblet again to her lips, Faye drank that instead. Still, she couldn’t keep from trembling.

“Tsk, tsk,” Torr murmured, sounding sympathetic.

Faye forced a laugh. “I am fine. Merely tired.”
Courage, Faye. Now, more than ever, you must not yield to resentment or despair
.

The fire popped and spat up a cloud of sparks, a welcome distraction. As the bright flare dissipated, she sank into one of the chairs.

Torr knelt beside her, again offering the flask. “’Twill not harm you. ’Tis soothing.”

His shaking hand had steadied. Whatever the tonic contained, ’twas certainly potent.

“What is it made of?”

“Herbs.”

Something about his one word reply—a half breath of hesitation, mayhap—brought her gaze up from his fingers curled around the flask. “What kind of herbs?”

He smiled. Clearly, he found her reluctance amusing. “Wormwood. Poppy. I cannot say all of the ingredients, for I do not really know. My healer is quite secretive about his concoctions.”

Torr paused, as if to gauge how much—or little—she accepted of his explanation. Her fingers tightened around her wine goblet, and she struggled not to let him see her unsteady grip.

His wry chuckle teased her. “’Tis not as though I offer you poison.”

“I know, but—”

“’Twill not hurt you. Why would I wish to cause you harm?” In the light cast by the fire, his expression softened with adoration. “You must realize how important you are to me.”

She coughed away a nervous tickle. “Torr, you mean a great deal to me, as well. After Hubert’s death, I do not know how I would have fared without Elayne and you. You are a dear, generous friend.”

“Friend,” he repeated before smiling. Yet, she sensed stiffness in the tilt of his mouth. “Indeed, a friend who is concerned about you.” He held out the flask again. “Drink. You will be astonished how much better you feel. I promise.”

His voice held an edge. If she refused to drink, he might take offense, and she hadn’t had the opportunity to ask about Angeline. “Very well.”

Their fingers brushed when she took the flask. For one, excruciating moment, she remembered Brant’s skin brushing hers. His touch had held the power to charm her, to seduce away all reason, while Torr’s sent disquiet shivering through her.

Guilt drove as deep as an arrow. Her relationship with Brant was over. Never again would they share the special magic between them. She struggled to remain numb, to keep her emotions suppressed, even as the fire before her became an orange-yellow blur. With her emotions strained to near breaking, the wine had affected her with unusual potency.

Mayhap the herbal drink
would
help.

She set her goblet on the table and raised the flask to her lips. Torr watched, his gaze keen. A sharp odor accosted her, eliciting an instinctive urge to recoil, but she resisted, pushed the flask to her lips, and sipped.

Bitterness flooded her tongue. She tasted the hurt festering inside her, pent-up rage, as well as the misery of Brant’s betrayal. Her body rebelled, denying her the privilege of swallowing.

Torr smoothed his hand over her back. “’Tis bitter at first, but that fades.”

Merciless tears stung her eyes. The drink’s sinister odor wafted again. In the potent herbal aroma, she caught something familiar: an element in the tonics made and given to Elayne in the days before she had perished. Faye smelled . . . death.

She lurched out of the chair, barely aware of Torr’s muttered oath, his grab for the flask keeling toward the floor, the
thud
and
splash
as the vessel hit the floorboards. The awful smell surrounded her, rising from the puddle near her feet.

Clutching the stone fireplace, she bent forward and retched into the fire. The flames spat and sputtered, releasing a shroud of smoke.

She scrubbed her mouth with her fist. “Fie!” she rasped.

Torr reached her side. He massaged between her shoulder blades as he handed over her goblet of wine. Taking a sip, she rinsed out her mouth, then swallowed.

“The second time ’twill taste better. You will come to enjoy it.”

“I never intend to drink it again.”

Displeasure glinted in Torr’s gaze before he shrugged. He had retrieved the flask from the floor. Cradling it with reverent fingers, he shook the container. “Empty.”

His narrowed gaze shifted from her to the far side of his chamber. He spun on his heel and hurried to the side of his bed.

“Torr?”

“You can keep a secret, can you not?” Greedy desperation sharpened his voice.

Faye’s pulse jumped. She silently begged for word on Angeline. “What kind of secret?”

“You must not say a word about what you see. I know you will not.” Without waiting for her answer, he dropped to his knees on the floorboards. With frenzied movements, he swept aside the rug alongside the bed and pressed his palms to the floorboards. A faint
click
, and two of the boards lifted free.

Eyes widening, Faye edged closer.

Torr thrust his hand into the cavity and drew out a flask similar to the one he’d drained. In the shadowed light, his frantic expression eased.

As though realizing anew she stood nearby, he glanced over his shoulder. “You will not tell where I keep my flasks, will you?” His grin hardened as he snatched up the wooden boards, slotted them back into place, and replaced the rug. “If they go missing, I will know who is responsible, Faye.”

Misgiving flooded through her, for she didn’t mistake his warning. With a little laugh, she said, “You are lord of this keep. No one dares take what is yours.”

“True.” Pushing to his feet, he gazed at her, before thrusting the flask at her. “Go on. Try the drink one more time.” He winked. “For me.”

She shook her head. “I cannot.”

A frown creased his brow. He moved closer.

Back away
, her mind shrieked.
Do not let him touch you. Do not let him convince you to drink that vile, dangerous brew
.

Smothering her apprehension, Faye watched him approach, even as anxiety threatened to dissolve her numbness to a quivering puddle in her belly.

She couldn’t flee. She must stay.

For Angeline.

Smiling, Torr caught a length of her hair. His heavy-lidded gaze traveled down her tresses to linger on the swell of her breasts. “Why do you deny me? I trusted you with a secret. Now, you will return my trust.”

“Torr, after all that has happened today—”

“—I am concerned for your well being. The drink will help you—”

A knock sounded on the solar door.

Faye jumped.

“They knew not to disturb me,” Torr snarled.

The brisk rap came again.

“It must be important.” Relief rushed through Faye.

Spitting a curse, Torr headed across the chamber, his boots thundering on the wooden planks. The doors creaked open, she heard a muttered exchange, and then the doors slammed.

An odd gleam in his eyes, Torr returned to her side. He was trembling. Opening the flask, he took a long sip, before dragging his hand over his mouth. “There is a matter I must attend. I trust ’twill not take long.” Reaching out, he cupped her chin in his hand. “You will stay here and wait for me.”

She forced a compliant smile. “Of course.”

He grinned and handed her the flask. “Take good care of our drink.” Without waiting for her reply, he strode for the doors. The panels opened, then shut.

She was alone.

Shoulders sagging, Faye blew out a shaky breath. She glanced down at the flask, secure in her fingers. Again, her mouth burned with the elixir, as sinister as . . . Torr himself.

Disquiet raced with renewed urgency through her veins. He would be returning soon.

She must work fast.

Hurrying to the table, she set down the goblet and flask. Then, drying her clammy hands on her gown, she crossed to Torr’s bed. After pushing aside the rug, she knelt as he had done. Her hands pressed upon the wooden boards.

Naught.

She tamped down a surge of impatience. She searched again, gliding her palms over the cold, rough-hewn boards, worn smooth over time. If only she knew what to look for.

Her fingertips brushed over the browned knot in the panel to her right. There. A slight depression. A hint of lighter-colored wood at the panel’s edges. Bending closer, she pushed her finger down into the knot.

The panel shifted. With a sharp tug, the floorboard came free. From the darkness below, the faint odor of Torr’s drink floated up to her.

Leaning back on her heels, she sucked in a fortifying breath. Then, before her mind conjured images of what creatures or dark mysteries might lurk in the hiding place, she reached down inside.

Her fingers bumped against leather flasks. She removed them, one by one. Ten, she counted, crowded together by her right knee. Some full. Some empty.

Plunging her hand in again, her fingers closed on a narrow object. She drew it into the dim light. A leather sheathed dagger. Sliding the blade from its sheath, Faye caught her breath, for she recognized the knife.

Elayne’s dagger. She’d kept it with her always, until illness robbed her of the ability to even lift her hand. Torr had obviously kept the weapon to honor her memory. An unusual choice, considering Elayne’s love of jewels and fashionable trinkets.

When Faye reached in again, her skin swept against something smooth and cool. Jerking her hand back, she fought a startled shriek. Whatever she’d found, she must look at it, for Torr considered it important enough to keep secret.

She carefully raised the object into the light: a small, leather bound book.

Setting it in her left palm, she raised it to her eye level. A dark stain spattered across the book’s cover. A mark caused by spilled ale. Or . . . blood.

Her unease drove deeper, furrowing like a crack in a sheet of melting ice. She opened the leather cover. On the first page she found a neatly scribed name: Royce Meslarches.

“Oh, God!” she whispered, flipping to the next page, and the next. Notes, sketches, even a few lines of a
chanson de geste
were scribbled on the pages.

She’d found Brant’s brother’s journal.

The one Brant had told her was lost on crusade after Royce died.

A horrible shudder snaked through her as she shut the book. Brant believed the tome, containing Royce’s notes on the Arthurian treasure, had been lost in the eastern desert. How had Torr come to possess the journal? Why had he kept it hidden away, rather than telling Brant?

Questions she couldn’t answer. Yet, she couldn’t ignore such a loathsome betrayal. A lie that seemed as vile as Brant’s confession of murder.

A lie that, somehow, must be linked to Angeline’s abduction.

Fear shivered through Faye. If she told Brant about the journal, Torr might find out. He would never forgive her for rummaging through his possessions.

However, Brant deserved to know about the journal.

He is a murderer
, the rational voice inside her shrilled.
He deceived you, and you owe him naught.
But another, more passionate cry, insisted:
He showed you pleasure, with no demands in return. His desire for you was honest. If you do not tell him about the journal, it will forever weigh upon your conscience. Tell him now, before ’tis too late
.

Aye, she must tell him.

Faye started to return the knife to the cavity. Then, on second thought, she tucked it inside her shoe. The weapon felt strange pressed against the side of her foot, but also provided reassurance, for she had a means to defend herself if necessary.

Working with haste, Faye returned the flasks as she’d found them. She fitted the wooden boards back into place, moved the rug, and pushed to her feet. Clasping the journal in her right hand, she slipped it under the broad hem of her sleeve, concealing it from view. She turned on her heel and hurried toward the closed doors.

The panels opened with the faintest
creak
. Faye stepped into the torch lit corridor. The two sentries outside turned to glance at her.

“I must return to my chamber for a moment,” she said.

One guard raised an eyebrow. He looked about to question her intentions, but she met his stare very directly, a deliberate reminder he had no right to question a woman of superior birth.

He nodded. “Milady.”

She swept past him. Her footfalls on the stones sounded faintly like voices whispering of what she was about to do.

Her hand clenched even tighter on the journal. She wouldn’t turn back now.

Torr would most likely have sent Brant to the dungeon. She must get down to the prisoner cells without the guards or Torr stopping her.

Somehow . . .

The journal’s cover felt slick against her wrist. She prayed it wouldn’t slip from her grasp at the wrong moment and betray her.

Reaching the wooden landing that overlooked the great hall, she made her way down the steps and hurried across the hall. Maidservants gathered around one of the far trestle tables chattered while they scrubbed the tabletop.