Medieval Rogues (39 page)

Until the rainy morning when he’d raised his drunken head from a tavern table to receive Elayne’s letter. It had taken the messenger a week to find him.

Instantly sober, Brant had ridden to Caldstowe, only to learn she had died. Whatever Torr’s wife had wanted to tell Brant remained a secret.

Regret, splintered by fragments of forbidden longing for Elayne, had still pained Brant, but he’d forced the emotions aside. Holding Torr’s gaze, he’d said, “I do not understand. If Lady Rivellaux is penniless, why send the missive to her?”

Torr had laughed as if Brant had told a ridiculous jest. “You are to frighten her. Scare her. Bring her to screaming tears, if need be. Then you will ride away.”

Torr had spoken of deceiving the lady as though he discussed the lack of clouds in the wintry sky. With effort, Brant had suppressed a surge of temper. “Who is this Angeline who has been kidnapped?” Torr had a young daughter of that name, borne to him and Elayne. Yet, despite Torr’s eccentricities, no father would abduct his own child.

Torr had waved a lazy hand. “Angeline is someone Faye knows.”

A vague, deceptive answer. “A relative? Friend?”

An irritated scowl had twisted Torr’s brow. “It does not matter. You know what to do.” His mouth had eased into a thin, smug smile. “You will not refuse.”

All warmth had suddenly vanished from the unseasonably mild day. Threaded through Torr’s words was the blatant reminder of what had transpired on crusade.

The murder.

The vow had Brant had choked out while, wracked with horror and guilt, he’d stood by his brother Royce’s body, the bloody knife still in his hand.

The lie that had long ago strangled the life from Brant’s soul and bound him for the remainder of his hellish existence into Torr’s service.

A shudder, as cold as death, rippled down Brant’s spine as he drew near the lady. Hardening his jaw, he halted his destrier, so close to her that his scuffed boot almost touched her raised hands.

He stared down at her holding up the gold vessel like it offered salvation. Triumph gleamed in her green eyes the color of spring leaves. The wind had tugged her hood back a fraction, revealing her pale brow swept with coppery red hair. High cheekbones, more pronounced than he liked in his women, framed her slim face. His gaze slid down to her mouth. A captivating innocence defined the curve of her lips, although Torr had named her a widow.

Widow or not, she was a beauty. With the right smile, she could enchant any man.

Raindrops pelted Brant. A blunt reminder that here, now, he must do Torr’s bidding.

Sweat beaded on Brant’s forehead, chilling where his skin pressed against the metal helm. He ignored the urge to yank off the helm and wipe away the discomfort, for to do so would fully reveal his face. In this disgraceful mission, he wanted a measure of anonymity. “Where did you come upon this gold, milady?”

Her victorious smile wavered. “A friend . . . found it.”

“You mean, stole it. From whom?”

As she wiped rainwater from her cheek, her lips flattened. “’Tis not stolen. ’Twas a gift . . . from the earth.”

He snorted. “A likely tale.”

“I speak true.” Her determined gaze didn’t waver. Not a trace of pricking conscience clouded her eyes, even when he folded his arms across his chest.

The droplets clinging to her damp hood shimmered like pearls. How luminous her skin looked against the drab gray wool better suited for a matron than a young woman. She must have interpreted his silence as disbelief, for she said, “I do not lie.” She turned the vessel in her slender fingers. “See? There is the dent where it lay crushed against a rock.”

A hot-cold tingle of anticipation ran through him. “You found it near here?”

She gnawed her bottom lip, then nodded.

Brant’s hand shook as he curled it into a fist. His older brother had believed a vast treasure lay hidden in the earth, riches of an ancient king named Arthur whose feats were immortalized in legend.

The quest to find the hoard had consumed Royce’s every waking moment. It had forged into a passion that had outshone his duties as the first born son who would one day become lord of his father’s lands. He’d skipped mornings in the tiltyard to talk to villagers with tales of long ago, had sprawled in the long grass and daydreamed of the find, while keeping detailed notes in a leather-bound journal.

If she’d found the riches Royce had sought . . .

If Royce’s dream, lost with his last dying breath, could still come true . . .

“What else did you find?” Brant demanded.

“Naught.” As though sensing that she’d trapped him with her golden lure, she gave a sly smile. “That does not mean there is no more.”

Reaching out his hand, he said, “Give me the cup.”

She shook her head. “I am no fool. You will ride away with it.”

“I wish only to see it.” He couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice.

Pressing the vessel against her rain-soaked mantle, she said, “Come down from your horse. Then you may inspect it.”

An admiring chuckle welled in his throat. She was cunning, this Lady Rivellaux. Dismounting put him at her eye level, at a disadvantage to his current position. Yet, he’d already determined she had come alone, and a willowy young woman posed him no threat.

“Very well.” Swinging his leg over, he dropped to the ground.

Standing a hand’s span away from her, he caught her faint, floral scent. A combination of lavender, rose, and . . . woman. Memories of Elayne, curled in his arms in a flower-strewn meadow, her golden hair shimmering in the sunlight, teased their way into his thoughts.

He hardened his heart to the echo of Elayne’s coy laughter and reached for the vessel.

With a hint of reluctance, Lady Rivellaux slipped it into his hands. The gold was warm where her fingers had touched. He traced the dent in the smooth metal with his thumb. Raising the cup to his mouth, he pressed it to his teeth.

Gold, indeed.

In his hand lay proof of Royce’s dream.

Ah, God. This cup was salvation indeed.

“I will trade you this vessel for Angeline.”

Brant’s gaze met hers. This close, the lady’s heavily-lashed eyes looked even greener, her mouth more enticing. There were dark smudges under her eyes, though, suggesting she hadn’t slept in days. There was a strained harshness to her delicate features.

Worry, no doubt, for her friend, Angeline.

Guilt ate at Brant’s conscience, even as he squared his shoulders. The rain was falling in a steady stream now, and he raised his voice to be heard. “This gold pleases me. However, the decision to release her is not mine.”

“
What
?”

The shock in the lady’s eyes struck him like a slap. Yet, he wouldn’t admit he was unprepared for this situation. Neither would he confess that she, a mere woman, had bested him.

Her surprised gaze sharpened with fury. Rain beat on her cloak, plastering her sodden hood to her head, but she made no move to brush away the water running down her face.

Brant held her furious stare. He’d surveyed the meeting site before she had arrived, and after he’d watched her ride down to the lakeshore. While he hadn’t seen anyone else, ’twas possible Torr had sent one of his men-at-arms to ensure Brant followed through with his part of the arrangement. If this lackey had seen her with the gold, her life could be in grave danger.

No way in blazing hellfire would he have another death on his conscience.

Forcing the words through his teeth, Brant said, “I will take the gold. You will be informed of the decision.” He turned to drop the vessel into his saddlebag.

Her white-knuckled hand clamped on his arm. “Nay!”

“’Tis the only way.”

“Thief! You will ride off with the cup. I will never see it—or you—again!”

What a wretchedly tempting thought. However, he couldn’t break his vow to Torr. To do so would obliterate the last tattered threads of knightly honor by which he lived his life.

With a gentle but firm shove, Brant broke free of her hold. The leather ties of his saddlebag were soaked, the knot tight beneath his rain-wet fingers. Drops splashed on the gold, making it slippery in his grasp.

“The agreement demanded silver. I brought gold!” she shrieked over a wailing gust of wind. “I did as you asked.”

She had.

Curse Torr. She didn’t deserve such torment.

Unable to shield the bitterness from his tone, Brant said, “If you wish to see Angeline again, you will obey.” At last, the saddlebag’s ties slipped loose. He dropped the vessel inside and cinched the bag shut.

He swung back to face her. She stood with her arms folded across her stomach, despair etched into her ashen face. A violent tremor racked her. She moaned, a sound that seemed dragged from her very soul. The hair on his nape prickled.

He couldn’t stop himself reaching for her.

She recoiled as though he’d handed her a hissing adder. Her voice painfully thin, she said, “The missive was a trick, wasn’t it? Why? To get the gold? How did you learn of it? ’Twas our sworn secret. No one else knew.”

Her anxiety gouged like jagged steel. “Milady—”

As though the last of her resolve snapped, she lunged at him, sobbing, her desperate hands clawing at his cloak. “Where is Angeline? Please, where is she?”

The lady careened into him. The force of the impact knocked him backward two steps.

His arms closed instinctively around her, but his left boot connected with a slick stone. His horse, the rocky lakeshore, the sky suddenly blurred.

With a startled grunt, he shifted sideways and managed to break his fall.

Still struggling, the lady slid from his arms.

Swiping rainwater from his jaw and chin, Brant straightened.

Stones clattered.

A shrill scream echoed.

The sound abruptly stopped, as though snatched in midair.

Brant spun on his heel. The lady sprawled facedown amongst the rocks, the fingers of both hands splayed as though she’d tried to keep from hitting the ground.

“Lady Rivellaux?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t stir. Water pooled in the folds of her mantle.

Brant dropped to one knee, then pushed her wet hood from her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. She had fallen against a rock. He pressed his shaking hand against her mouth. Thank God, she still breathed.

Through the soaked wool of her mantle, he felt along her arms and legs. On crusade, he’d learned much about broken bones and how to splint them. When his fingers slipped down to her right ankle, relief coursed through him. No limbs broken. But he couldn’t say for her ribs or pelvis.

He carefully lifted her, turned her over, and rested her head back against the stone. With awkward fingers, he nudged aside the hair stuck to her face. Blood oozing from a gash on her cheekbone smeared her right cheek and ran into a thin line, as stark as his own scar, across her delicate skin. His mouth twisted on an oath.

Under his breath, he prayed her loveliness wouldn’t be permanently disfigured. He deserved the ugly mark on his right cheek, a reminder of his sin he must live with for the rest of his life. She didn’t deserve such a blemish.

Pressing his hands to her belly, he searched for obvious injuries. Her mantle, of fine quality but obviously much worn, hindered his efforts.

He well knew all the enticing dips and swells of a woman’s physique, but, as his fingers crept lower in a thorough yet impartial examination, a strange tension plagued him. For one unsettling moment, he felt like a clumsy, green youth, venturing into forbidden territory.

Forbidden indeed. If the lady woke to find his hands upon her, she would no doubt scream to raise the dead in the graveyard four leagues away.

His gaze flicked up to her face. Her mouth remained slack, her eyelids closed and still above the sweep of her lashes.

By now, she should have stirred.

Concern kindled the unease burning in his gut like red-hot embers. Focusing again on his task, tilting his head down to better see past the nasal guard, he moved his hands over the curve of her hips, the slim expanse of her waist, up to the base of her ribcage.

A scowl knitted his brow. Even through the added layer of her gown beneath, his fingertips traced the bump of her ribs. Too slender by far, this lady.

His hands edged higher, toward her breasts. Before his thumbs grazed their rounded softness, he drew away.

Shaking rainwater from his hands, he sat back on his haunches. No broken bones that he could tell, but only by taking her to a warm, dry place and stripping off her garments could he examine her body properly and know for certain—a liberty he had no desire to take.

He did
not
want the burden of a wounded woman. Not when by morn, with the gold cup safely in his bag, he aimed to be hunting for the rest of the treasure. Anticipation of the quest whispered inside him with wondrous enticement.

He couldn’t leave her here, however, alone and unconscious. Ruffians might prey upon her. She could die of a chill. Torr would blame him for her murder, and her death would mire Brant into even deeper servitude to the manipulative bastard.

Nudging her shoulder, he made one last attempt to rouse her. “Lady Rivellaux.”