The Crimson Lady (7 page)

“How long were you in his control?”

Braedan was caught for a moment by the dispassionate tone of her voice, as if it was a foregone conclusion that Draven kept whomever he wished in his control, for however long he liked.

“A little more than a fortnight,” he answered after a pause. “I was kept in the lowermost chamber at Chepston—not the most pleasant of places to take a sojourn—as I’m sure you know, if you ever had the misfortune to see it,” he added, hoping to shift the conversation away from himself and back to her again.

“Only once,” she breathed, her face stiff and her eyes unmistakably haunted behind their glittering hardness. “It was enough.”

Before he could question her further on it or anything else, she stood, the movement so quick that she had to catch the tray to keep it from toppling off the table with the cup of wine and loaf of bread. After steadying it, she grasped his empty pottage bowl and spoon, murmuring something about needing to retrieve his clothing as she turned away, walking halfway to the door before he could muster the presence of mind to summon her back.

“Wait!”

She stilled with her fingers on the latchstring.

“I need to ask you something, lady,” he said, his voice gruff.

“What is it?” she murmured, still not facing him.

“When I fell ill, you could have fled and been rid of my claims on you—yet you stayed and helped to heal me with your powders and herbs. I want to know why.”

She twisted a bit, back toward him—just enough to glance over her shoulder at him. The haunted look was there, still, in the depths of her eyes, though it warred now with a steely resolve that might have knocked him back onto his bolster was he not already resting against it.

“I have my reasons, Braedan de Cantor,” she said softly, “though I will not be sharing them with you or anyone else. Just know this: You are not alone in wanting your measure of justice against Draven. Our path in seeking that end may not be the one I had intended for myself, and yet here it is—and here I am, ready to take up my part in it. It is all you need to know.”

Speechless, Braedan watched her swing back toward the door, lifting the latchstring and pushing the panel open.

“I will be back with your clothing in a short time,” she murmured before she walked out the door. When the wooden slab cracked shut behind her, he realized that her evasive answer had only succeeded in leaving him feeling more stunned and unsettled than ever.

He leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes and releasing a sigh of pent-up frustration. His conscience gnawed at him; he’d lashed out at her in an effort to keep her at arm’s length where she would be less of a danger to his balance and his unruly emotions. The memory of the way he’d talked to her stung him, even though he knew there had been no other choice. She’d gotten too close with her softness, her gentle need—and the feral intensity of his response to her had been too great. It was unexpected, the way she’d made him feel, and so he’d deliberately hurt her, forcing her retreat. It had worked perfectly; she had left him as soon as it was
feasible, a clear indication that he’d achieved his goal.

Sighing again, Braedan threw his bandaged arm over his eyes and sank farther into the stuffed ticking of the pallet, one thought nagging relentlessly at the back of his mind…forcing him to question why, then, he felt more out of control than ever where the maddening and all too enticing Crimson Lady was concerned.

I
t was an unusually hot sun for springtime, Fiona thought as her mount followed the narrow path deeper into Wulmere Forest. The warmth beat down through branches gently furred with the lace of newly unfurled leaves, creating a patchwork of gold and green all around. She heard the soft clumping sound of Braedan’s steed just behind her, picking his way over mossy ground and winter-thawed bracken, and she closed her eyes, trying to relax. The rocking, easy sway of her mare lulled her; breathing deep of the scented new growth and moist dirt, she felt the sun soak into her hair and cloak to chase the chill of morn away.

After a little while she opened her eyes again with a sigh, reluctant to face reality. She’d needed that moment of blissful reverie to steel herself for what was to come this day—both in the next few moments, then later on, once they reached Will’s encampment. It would be soon,
if Will’s missive held true. Another quarter hour’s travel should bring them very near the spot he’d chosen as their meeting place.

And that meant she could postpone no longer, even though what she was about to tell Braedan irked her in the mere thinking of it, no less the actual doing—especially after the way he’d spoken to her yestermorn. The sudden, dark slant of his mood then had taken her by surprise, his cutting remarks about her value for Draven in the
stewes
seeming designed purposefully to wound. And she had been hurt; she couldn’t pretend otherwise. She’d spent years trying to distance herself from the shameful feelings she’d endured as the Crimson Lady, but it was clear that Braedan de Cantor wasn’t going to allow her to forget that that was all she was in his eyes. An infamous thief and whore.

But one he needed desperately if he was to find his beloved Elizabeth.

Mollifying herself with that thought, Fiona pursed her lips and prepared to give Braedan his final instructions. He wasn’t going to like what she had to say any more than she did, but he would have to accept it if he wanted his search for his foster sister to go forward without delay.

A small clearing opened ahead. Reining in her mare as they entered the glen, Fiona twisted in her saddle, and murmured, “We must stop. There is one thing else I need to tell you if we are to ensure that you’ll be accepted by Will and his men.”

Braedan raised his brow, not commenting, though he halted his steed near hers. At her nodded gesture, they dismounted and left their horses to graze while they walked to a spot a little ways off, out of the direct slant
of sun. She stopped and turned to face him, feeling a little shock as she did. He had been either ill or astride a horse for so much of their time together that she was startled anew by his height and powerful build. He stood patiently with his arms crossed over his chest; in general, she’d noticed that he carried himself like a man used to being in charge, and she found that it annoyed her beyond measure.

But then he spoke, and her irritation pitched infinitely higher.

“So, what is it, then? What did you neglect to tell me that is so necessary to being welcomed by your criminal friends?”

Gritting her teeth, Fiona reminded herself to maintain composure, not for his sake, but for her own. He’d not be able to gloat later over any loss of control on her part. “I did not
neglect
to tell you—I simply hadn’t settled on a feasible solution to this dilemma until recently.”

“Very well then,” he said, sounding exasperated. “Get on with telling me so that we may proceed. Too much time has been wasted on my illness already.”

“By the saints, but your manners could use some polish,” Fiona couldn’t stop herself from snapping. “If you hope to survive the next few weeks, you should make an effort to sweeten your tongue. And have a care, too, in how you choose to describe Will and his men. They do not consider themselves criminals; most came to the outlaw’s life through means as unjust as your own seem to be, and you would be wise to remember it.”

Dead silence greeted her. When Braedan at last deigned to speak, it was with a tight jaw and scowling expression. “As you wish.”

For a moment Fiona thought that he might accept her
rebuke without further comment. But then he straightened before bending into an elaborate bow, adding, “And now I beg of you, my lady, to proceed with my instruction. I humbly await the knowledge that you have offered to share with me, your lowly and quite unworthy servant.”

“You overdo your niceties now, sir,” she muttered, fixing him with a glare, “but I suppose it is better than your other boorish behavior.”

“I am relieved that you think so,” he rejoined, and she saw that his blue eyes glimmered with unmistakable humor.

Of a sudden her own lips quirked with the realization of how ridiculous their squabbling was, and though she made an effort not to break her stern gaze on him, in the end she had to look away to avoid smiling. He was incorrigible, she thought, biting the inside of her cheek—an overbearing oaf one moment, then worse than a mischievous boy the next.

“Are you going to tell me, then, what it is you deem necessary for me to know before meeting with Will?”

Braedan’s question pulled her attention back to him, and any remaining cheerfulness vanished. She swallowed, readying herself for what was to come. “Aye, I’ll tell you. It concerns a pretense we must enact in order for him to accept my traveling back here with you. Will, of all people, knows how much I wished to leave Alton and our thieving for a life of honest trade. It is imperative that I have good reason for returning to the outlaws’ fold again.”

“And what will that be?”

“My recent marriage to you.”

“Your
what
?”

Braedan’s reaction was no worse than she’d expected. He was staring at her now as if she’d sprouted serpents for hair and a forked tongue besides.
And why wouldn’t he?
a harsh voice whispered from deep inside.
You aren’t the kind of woman a man like Braedan de Cantor would ever consider as a wife. Not in a thousand lifetimes. A union with you would only shame him and blacken his family’s name
.

Despising the heat that filled her cheeks at that undeniable truth, Fiona tipped her chin up and gazed at him with her best affectation of haughty poise. “Of course it will not be a marriage in reality, but rather an act we must play.”

“Whether in play or in earnest, it is profane to mock a sacrament so.”

“If it was in
earnest
, it would be no mockery,” she couldn’t help retorting, biting back the hurt that swelled in her. “And yet since a true marriage between us is unthinkable, a sham it must be. Either that, or you risk Will’s suspicion and hence his rejection of our request to rejoin his men and share in their plunder. And then you will have no means of acquiring the coin you need to undertake your search for Elizabeth.”

Braedan was mute for the second time that day, only now she sensed that his silence stemmed from discomfort rather than anger—and she realized, suddenly, that she far preferred the anger.

“It is the only solution I can conceive for appeasing Will’s certain wariness about my return,” she muttered, desperate to remain impassive in the face of his rejection. “If you know of another that will work, pray offer it up and save us both from the prospect of having to enact a feigned union.”

She glanced away, the backs of her eyes burning. Why Braedan’s contempt should affect her so was mystifying; she’d weathered far worse disparagement in the past without pause, yet this rebuff hurt in a way that went deeper than she’d thought possible. It was foolish, she knew—even childish—to maintain sensitivities that were more suited to an innocent maid, but she couldn’t stop herself from feeling wounded nonetheless.

“Could we not simply pretend to be lovers rather than a wedded pair?” Braedan asked at last, frowning as he jabbed his hand through his hair.

“Nay,” she answered, jaw tight. “Will would know it is a falsehood.”

“And how could he possibly discern the difference between that deceit and the lie of a marriage between us?”

“Because he knows me as well as anyone can—and he is well aware that I would never take a lover. Ever.”

“By the Rood, woman, you sold yourself nightly in the
stewes
,” Braedan scoffed, disbelief apparent in every tense inch of his muscular frame. “And as for Will Singleton—the man seems to know more about you than God Himself. Were you not
his
lover during the time you thieved with him?” Without giving her a chance to answer, he swung away, running both hands through his hair again in exasperation. “God’s holy blood, your logic escapes me, and I cannot—”

His remaining words were cut off by a sudden shout and crashing sound in the wood around them, the clamor followed almost immediately by the blur of four male forms hurtling into the clearing directly toward him with their weapons drawn. Stunned, Fiona pulled out her dagger and scrambled for a stick to use as well in defense, watching as Braedan stiffened and twisted
around to face them, managing only at the last moment to clear his sword from its sheath as the two closest assailants set on him with howling battle cries.

The clang of blade on blade filled the clearing, punctuated by an occasional growling shout or grunt. Fighting furiously, Braedan disabled one of the first two men with a slice to the leg and the other with a blow to the head, even as the remaining two intruders slipped past him in an attempt to attack from behind. The chaotic struggle continued, with Braedan dodging and lunging, slashing and swinging—handling his blade with such skill that even Fiona, who had seen more than her share of vicious swordplay both in the
stewes
and during her years of banditry, was left breathless watching him.

Braedan welcomed the surge of dark battle instinct rising up in him, relishing the way it masked his still-diminished strength, helping him to maintain complete focus on his prey; he heard nothing but the pounding of his blood, saw nothing but the nameless enemies at the end of his sword, weighing their skills in an effort to defeat them more efficiently. In minutes the third man was down; a moment later the fourth found himself flat on his back with the point of Braedan’s blade pressed to his throat.

Concentrating on pulling back and letting his awareness expand again to include the rest of the clearing—the other bandits who lay senseless or wounded, as well as Fiona—Braedan held very still, but after a rush of that magnitude, it was difficult to make his mind obey. His breath rasped harsh in his throat, and he shook his head, blinking the sweat from his eyes.

“Do you yield?” he growled softly to his attacker.

“Aye,” the man grunted, as he struggled to get from beneath the deadly blade.

It was a futile effort; Braedan kept the point fixed, intending to question him first before granting him freedom. But when a renewed crackling and swish of branches erupted from the clearing’s edge, he had no choice other than to straighten and face the new danger, allowing his captive to slip away.

“Well done, de Cantor,” the stranger who stepped from the forest called out. “You handled yourself far better than Giselle’s message led me to believe you would.”

Fiona made a soft sound of reproach, dropping the stick she held and looking askance at the man. “Saints, Will, what were you thinking to arrange such a welcome?”

He shrugged. “I needed to know what he was capable of, and your message gave me no information on the matter.”

“And why would I discuss Braedan’s fighting skills in my message? I was only trying to find out where you were and arrange a meeting.” She shook her head, her expression stern as she slid her dagger back into its sheath beneath her sleeve. “You could have learned what you wished had you but waited to see us. Just look at his sword,” she said, nodding briefly toward Braedan, who’d brought the tip of his blade to rest against the ground as he watched their bickering with cool interest. “No man owns a sword as fine as that,” she continued, not seeming to notice his wry expression as her gaze slipped back to Will, “without knowing how to use it.”

“Possession and mastery are two very different things,” Will argued, also seeming to ignore the fact that
Braedan was standing right in front of him. “Havin’ the coin to purchase it, I can see, but where would a de Cantor have learned to use—”

“My ability with a sword is directly related to my wish to survive,” Braedan broke in, forcing them to look at him and acknowledge his presence there. “I was a knight for my lord the king,” he added in a flat voice, keeping his gaze steady on them, “and such skills were necessary in our battles against the Saracens.”

A charged silence settled over the clearing. Fiona seemed as though she might say something to him then, but she was distracted from it by Will, who chose that moment to cross the remaining distance between them and take her hand, smiling as he said, “Ah, well, enough of that for now. Come, love, and let me see you. It has been three years too long since last I looked on you.”

Braedan jammed his sword back into its sheath, then, watched them as they embraced and exchanged murmured words; oddly enough witnessing their reunion sent an answering twist of something unpleasant in his belly. It was of no matter, really, he told himself. Fiona’s obvious pleasure at seeing her former lover had nothing to do with his sudden desire to throttle the man where he stood. It was simply the result of his annoyance at the ruse that had been played, compounded by frustration at how drained he felt after his illness. That was all.

In truth, for a moment he’d been forced to entertain the possibility of defeat at the hands of his four attackers—the kind of unfavorable outcome he’d managed to avoid for most of the past decade by endlessly honing his sword skills. Aye, Will Singleton should be thanking his stars for his unusual lack of stamina, Braedan decided, for that was all that was keeping the
knave safe from the beating he so richly deserved for instigating this ridiculous test.

He sized up the object of his antagonism, noting that Will had moved away from Fiona now and was taking stock of him as well. The outlaw leader stood for a moment, his arms crossed and his weight cocked back on one leg. His flame-colored hair glowed in the sun like a fiery halo, setting off the half grin he flashed at Braedan.