Medieval Rogues (58 page)

His head tilted. He leveled her with a stare that shot straight to her soul. “More than you can possibly imagine.”

His words faded to a rough whisper, and she drew a tremulous breath. With him—unlike with Hubert—there would be no awkward gropes and half sincere apologies. After coupling, she wouldn’t lie alone in the sheets, tears in her eyes, wondering if what had happened was all that lovemaking was supposed to be.

With Brant, the act would be splendid. Illuminating.

A treasure in itself.

She tried to shut out the tantalizing thoughts, struggled to find resolve in the uncertainty festering inside her. Why did Brant admit his desire for her? Why did he imply there was more between them than a shattered arrangement between two strangers?

He intended to distract her. To sway her from speaking with Torr. To bind an emotional cord around her heart, and thus force her to ponder anew her decision.

Devious knave.

He spoke true about the desire nonetheless. The sensual pull between them ran fierce as well as deep. To deny it was to smother a part of her own soul. Impossible.

“The yearning burns in you, too,” he murmured. “You cannot deny it.”

He hadn’t moved from the garden’s entrance. He watched her with shocking intensity, as though her expression revealed her every thought. Shaking her head, she turned away to press her hands again to the stone. The coldness seeping into her palms leeched some of the traitorous heat from her body. No matter how much she desired him, she wouldn’t abandon her purpose.

She would not forsake Elayne’s memory.

“Faye.” Grasses rustled as he started toward her. His strength of will swept across the space between them, a challenge very different to, yet equally as powerful as, the challenge in his voice.

Her spine stiffened. Raising her chin, she watched him approach. “Desire has no place between us when my responsibility is to Angeline.”

His gaze warmed with a knowing light. He must have sensed her fight to maintain her indifference. Halting beside her, he looked down at the carved figure. “Angeline is not your daughter. The burden of responsibility should never fall to you.”

“No child could ever be a burden,” she said firmly. “I made a promise to Elayne. I will not break it.”

“And so you will endanger your life to find her child. Would she ask that of you?”

“Fie! Brant—”

“Give me but one more day. I will find proof of Torr’s involvement.”

She looked up at him. His bold presence dominated the small garden, claiming all focus. Even the sparrows had quieted, as though spellbound. “How can I wait another day? To think of Angeline alone, terrified—”

“I know.” His gaze traveled the length of Elayne’s effigy before he sighed. “I cannot help but wonder if she were alive, what she could tell us about Angeline’s disappearance.”

Shock rippled through Faye, followed by a rush of anger. “What do you mean?”

A tight smile touched his lips. The almost insignificant gesture revealed a great deal. He’d known Elayne. When had they met? How long had he known her? Faye didn’t recall Elayne ever mentioning him.

“Mayhap she knew what mischief was brewing,” he said.

“You cannot possibly mean Elayne was involved!”

Thrusting up one hand, he said, “I do not claim such. Yet, it cannot be coincidence that days before her death, she sent a rider with a letter urging me to come to Caldstowe.”

“I did not realize you were a friend of Elayne’s.”

If he noticed the tension binding her words, he didn’t acknowledge it. His head dipped in a stiff nod. “We had not spoken in a long time. We were . . . close. Once.”

How close?
Faye wondered, with an unwelcome sting of jealousy. Her mind teased her with a vision of Brant and Elayne standing together in profile, smiling, his hands sweeping through her hair before they settled at her waist to draw her in for a kiss. Setting her jaw, Faye forced away the image.

“Her note claimed the matter was urgent. I could not refuse her request. She had no reason to contact me, unless she had no one else to turn to.” Brant paused. “Not even her husband.”

An ache cut through Faye. Surely Elayne had known she could trust Faye with anything. Every free moment, those last difficult days, she’d spent at Elayne’s bedside. She had wiped Elayne’s fevered brow, pressed the goblet of herbal infusion to her lips, held her hand during the mad fits that had wracked her, and fulfilled all of her demands, including her request to send one of the stable hands to her chamber.

When the man had arrived, Elayne had struggled to sit up, then had asked Faye to leave. Elayne was lady of the household, and Faye’d had no right to question her.

Mayhap that day, Elayne had given the letter to the man and ordered him to find Brant.

“I packed my belongings and rode out that same day. When I reached Caldstowe, I learned she had died. I was too late.”

Voices and footfalls carried from the bailey. They were the sounds of the daily castle routines. The same noises had come in through Elayne’s chamber window while she lay between life and death, her body twisting in pain. Faye shut her mind to the memories. Better to remember her dear friend in pleasant moments, rather than the ones fraught with anguish.

Especially those moments when, choking words through broken lips, Elayne had begged Faye to protect Angeline.

“I promise,” Faye had whispered over and over. “I promise.”

The memory fragmented. With a start, Faye realized her hands clasped the stone figure’s, as though offering comfort. “’Tis unfortunate you did not see her before she died,” she said softly. “Still, you have not given me a good reason not to go to Torr.”

Brant’s gaze narrowed. “Faye.”

“What harm is there in asking Torr?”

“Ask me what?”

A gasp wrenched from Faye at the same time Brant whirled to face the garden entrance. A curious frown on his handsome face, Torr stood on the path.

“Ask me what, Faye?”

She forced a little laugh. “Well, I—”

Brant stepped forward, shielding her body with his own. Dipping his head in lazy greeting to Torr, Brant chuckled. “Ask why you have never introduced me to this exquisite young lady. Do you mean to keep her all to yourself?”

Astonishment rippled through Faye, while warmth flooded her face. How deftly Brant contrived the falsehood. How well he leapt into his role of protector. She should be annoyed with him for seizing control of the situation, but without his interference, she would still be scrambling for words.

Brant glanced back at her. In his gaze, she saw a command to play along with his ruse.

Averting her gaze, she looked at Torr. A smile teased the corners of his mouth.

Taking another step nearer Torr, Brant threw his hands wide. “I could not help but speak to her, when I saw her standing alone by this tomb. A woman so vibrant and lovely, in a place reserved for the dead.” He shook his head. “I hoped to see her smile.”

Torr’s gaze shifted to Faye. Under his scrutiny, her face burned. She again felt his fingers in her hair, twisting the strand around and around his hand. “Did you?” he asked.

“Make her smile?” Brant gave a wry snort. “I vow she did not like my flattery.”

Play along
, Faye told herself, even as her pulse thumped at an uncomfortable pace.
Corroborate his tale, and all will be well
. Arching an eyebrow, she said, “Flattery, indeed. He is a knave with a clever tongue.”

Brant grinned. “So the wenches tell me.”

Torr chortled, then so did Brant. Their bawdy laughter carried through the garden. Two maidservants passing by paused to stare at them before hurrying on.

Scowling, Faye crossed her arms. Whatever they were laughing about was most certainly rude.

She longed to thrust her head high and stomp out of the garden. However, she’d been here first. Pride refused to let her walk away.

Wiping his eyes, Torr smiled at her. “Do not be angry, Faye. We are only enjoying a . . . man’s jest. I trust the proper introductions have been made?”

Before Faye could utter one word, Brant dropped into a gallant bow. “Brant Meslarches, milady.”

“Brant, may I introduce Lady Faye Rivellaux, wife of the late Hubert Rivellaux and a dear friend of Elayne’s and mine. She has lived at Caldstowe since her husband’s death.” His smile broadened. “She is, of course, welcome to stay here as long as she likes.”

“An immense pleasure, lovely lady,” Brant said. As he straightened, she caught mischief glinting in his eyes. He enjoyed every moment of them pretending to be strangers.

Well, so would she.

“How gracious you are, sir,” she said, while Torr strode to her side. “Have you visited Caldstowe before? Despite my months here, I do not remember seeing you.”

A hint of warning shadowed Brant’s gaze.

“Do you live close to Caldstowe?”

He shrugged, neatly avoiding a definite reply. “Mayhap you simply did not notice me. There are many knights at Caldstowe—indeed, in the surrounding lands for many leagues—who owe allegiance to Lord Lorvais.”

“Hmm. Mayhap.”

With a lop-sided grin, he added, “’Tis hardly a matter for a lady like yourself to dwell upon. Surely you have more pressing concerns.”

Oh, the knave! Feigning innocence, she said, “Indeed?”

Annoyance glinted in Brant’s cool blue eyes. “From your poignant expression earlier, milady, I vow ’tis so.”

His words ended on a familiar huskiness. Tension sparked anew inside her. So much challenge threaded through his words that she wanted to contradict him, to continue their battle of wits and words. However, they had managed to successfully thwart Torr’s suspicions. For now, mayhap ’twas enough.

“Well,” Torr said, “now that you two are acquainted, we will go to the great hall to dine. The cook has prepared roasted quail.”

“That sounds lovely,” Faye said.

Torr smiled at her. “You wished to speak with me, did you not? After the meal, we will talk.”

***

Following a few paces behind Faye and Torr, Brant glared at Torr’s arm slung around her waist. His fingers, slightly splayed on her mantle and pressed to her swaying hip, had a possessive air about them. With his flesh, he branded her as his own.

Brant gritted his teeth. He itched to knock Torr’s hand away. His mouth burned with the snarled reprimand that Faye belonged to no man.

Not even him.

For as much as he desired her, he didn’t deserve her.

Regret clamped like a vice around Brant’s heart. Seeing her and Torr walking side by side, he knew that, from appearances, Torr was the kind of man she would choose as a husband. Wealthy, respected, a lord of great authority, he’d provide her with a lifestyle worthy of a lady, with all the luxuries Elayne had enjoyed.

Unlike Brant, who had no estate to call his own, with barely enough coin to pay for his food, drink, his dog, or his horse. A man who had murdered his brother. Curling his hands at his sides, he fought the surge of self loathing which threatened to choke him.

Ahead, Torr dipped his head near Faye’s ear, as though to murmur a secret. “I have yet to see you wear Elayne’s gowns.”

“I know.” She turned her face—just as Torr moved close enough to brush his lips against her hair—to glance at a girl carrying a basket of eggs. How neatly Faye avoided the intimate contact. Frowning, Torr straightened.

Gladness shivered through Brant. Mayhap some of what he’d told her had made an impression—made her consider, at least, Torr’s involvement in the snarled tapestry of deception.

If only he had proof.

“Tomorrow morn, you can speak with one of the keep’s seamstresses,” Torr said. “I will arrange the meeting for you, if you like.”

Faye looked back at Torr. Clever, how he recaptured her attention, a verbal snare disguised as an offer of assistance.

Brant continued to glare at Torr’s back, at the elegant drape of his cloak enrobing him in respectability. A cloak of deception, if Brant’s suspicions were correct.

“’Tis very kind of you,” Faye answered, “but I fear I am busy tomorrow morn. Mayhap another day.”

“Very well,” Torr said, sounding peeved. He seemed to sense Brant’s stare, for he swiveled while he walked. “You are quiet back there, my friend.”

Brant forced a careless smile. “I am famished. I can think of naught else but your cook’s fine fare.” He nodded to Faye. “And, of course, the fine conversation during the meal.”

In the near distance, a woman’s voice carried. “Milord!”

“Conversation, indeed.” Raising his eyebrows, Torr looked out across the inner bailey.

Turning on his heel, Brant followed Torr’s gaze. By the well, a buxom serving wench, her arms laden with firewood, struggled to dislodge the scruffy cap that had slid down over her face to reveal long brown hair.

“Milord,” she called again.

Brant frowned. She didn’t gesture to Torr, but . . . him.

Brant tore his gaze away. She couldn’t be summoning him. He knew very few of the servants at Caldstowe. With absolute certainty, he knew she wasn’t one he had ever met for a quick tumble behind the stable.

“A friend of yours?” Faye asked.