Medieval Rogues (62 page)

Brant chuckled. “Why do you hide your legs? I shall only be tempted to reveal them again, for they are ravishing, shapely . . .”

His words became a blur of sound. A memory seared her mind: her thighs streaked crimson with blood, the day she lost her babe.

With a startled gasp, she pressed her hand to her belly. She shivered, racked by a chill that leeched all warmth from her.

The bed ropes creaked. Shifted. Brant’s arm closed around her and pulled her against his chest. “What is wrong? Are you in discomfort?”

She shook her head. Her cheek brushed against his tunic. Through the warm fabric, she heard his steady heartbeat, the pulse of life. Her stillborn daughter had never drawn even one living breath.

Faye blinked hard.

“What, then?” Brant’s arm around her relaxed a fraction. “Ah. I understand now. You fear you might have conceived a babe.”

“Nay,” she murmured.

“You worry how you will explain the child growing in your belly”—Brant’s tone hardened—“when you are a widow.”

She hated to hear anger in Brant’s voice, especially after the joy they’d shared. Raising her head, she met his wary gaze. “If there is a babe, I will cherish it. I do not care what others might say.”

“If there is a babe—” he repeated quietly.

“—I will consider it a gift. A divine miracle.” She bit down on her lip. “Especially after . . .”

Puzzlement darkened Brant’s expression. “After what?”

Grief twisted up inside her. For the first time in many long months, though, she wanted to speak of what happened. “After I miscarried my daughter.”

“God’s teeth. I am sorry. If I had known—”

She took his face in her hands, silencing him by pressing her thumbs to his lips. His eyes moist with regret, he gently kissed her. “Please,” he breathed on her damp skin. “Forgive me.”

With a sad smile, she touched his ruined cheek. “We both have our scars.”

Disquiet flickered in his gaze before he smiled. “We do. However, if I have given you a babe, I will not abandon you, or my responsibility to my child. This I promise.” As though to affirm his vow, Brant drew her forward and kissed her. The tender kiss soothed like a healing balm.

His tongue slid between her teeth, deepening the sensual contact, offering another taste of pleasure. In answer, she met the thrust of his tongue, encouraging his desire. With a hungry growl, he eased her back down upon the bed.

His hand slid under her gown, gliding it up her thigh. The friction of the fabric against her skin sped her pulse with anticipation.

A knock sounded on her chamber door.

She lurched, making the bed ropes creak.

Breaking the kiss, Brant drew back.

Turning her head on the coverlet, Faye glanced at the door. She hadn’t locked it after Brant had stepped into her chamber, or before their lovemaking.

Another knock.

Brant blew out a breath. “Damnation,” he whispered.

“I must answer it,” she whispered back, pushing up.

“Must you?” A mischievous grin pulled at his lips while his hand buried into her hair, twisting it around and around as though to hold her firm.

Another brisk rap. “Faye?”

“Torr!” she rasped.

The teasing mirth vanished from Brant’s expression. He tipped his head toward the opposite side of the bed.

Rising to her feet, Faye nodded. A wise plan. He would hide until she’d finished with Torr and he went away.

The bed ropes creaked as Brant swung his legs onto the coverlet. More creaks and groans as he scrambled toward the other side. She smoothed her hair with frantic hands, hoping her efforts would be enough to thwart any suspicions Torr might harbor.

Muttered voices came from outside.

“I-I will be right there,” she called.

The door opened inward.

In the midst of straightening her bodice, she froze.

Torr stepped into her chamber. As his gaze fell upon her, then Brant, poised to lunge off the bed’s opposite side, his mouth hardened. His face twisted into a forbidding scowl.

Reaching back, he swung the door closed. The slam reverberated like a crash of thunder.

“Torr,” she said. In the awful silence, her acknowledgment sounded like a curse.

His furious gaze returned to her. With painstaking slowness, he glanced her over, seeming to notice every damning detail: her mussed tresses, burning face, reddened mouth, and creased gown. Still clutching her bodice, her fingers curled so tightly, she vowed her knuckles would crack.

Behind her, bedding rustled. Footfalls thudded as Brant strode around the bed, fastening his hose. Faye dragged her gaze from him, to find Torr’s dagger-sharp gaze still upon her.

“Explain yourself, Meslarches,” he ground out.

Brant stood beside her. “What shall I explain?”

Torr’s lip curled. “Did he broach your chamber, Faye, and try to hurt you? Did he force himself upon you? Tell you not to cry out for help?”

Tremendous rage echoed in his voice. She struggled to hold her head high. “Nay.”

“Why, then, is he in your chamber? Scrambling across your bed, no less, like a knave afraid of being caught with his hose around his ankles?”

Brant raised his brows. The irreverent gesture somehow expressed all of what had happened between him and her.

An angry breath exploded from Torr. “Earlier, you wished to speak with me, Faye. Why? To tell me you have taken a lover?”

He almost spat his question, as though her taking a lover was akin to committing a heinous crime. Anger skittered in a hot-cold flush across her skin. “That is not why I wished to speak with you.”

Brant’s arm slid around her waist in silent reassurance. Strength seemed to flow from his body into hers, bolstering her courage like an elixir. “When I did not answer your knock,” she added, “you should not have entered my chamber. I wish you had respected my privacy.”

Astonishment lit his gaze before his eyes again narrowed. “You seem to have forgotten you live in my keep, Faye.”

In other words, he would do as he pleased.

Torr spread his hands wide. “I do not mean to sound unreasonable. You must understand I had to step inside. ’Tis my sworn duty, as lord of Caldstowe, to care for those in my household. You complained earlier of a headache. For all I knew, you were too ill to walk to the door. Lying senseless on the floor, even.”

Brant snorted.

Torr’s contemptuous gaze snapped to him. “And you. Were the other wenches not enough to satisfy your lust?”

Anguish lanced through Faye, grazing the tender edge of her soul. She sensed Torr’s malicious intent to wound Brant, to control the situation. Still, she couldn’t help glancing at Brant.

He stared at Torr. A brittle smile tilted Brant’s mouth.

“You were not satisfied with wenches,” Torr went on. “You had to seduce a lady. A widow still grieving for her husband.”

Faye sucked in a harsh breath. When she looked up, Brant’s intent gaze locked with hers.

“I did not lie to you, Faye. I did not couple with those other women.”

“What convincing words.” Torr’s laughter sounded almost smug. “You are a devious rogue, Meslarches.”

Faye tipped her chin higher. “I trust Brant.”

“Do you, indeed? I have known him far longer than you. I vow he would have told you whatever you wished to hear, if it meant you took him to your bed.”

Brant swore under his breath.

Faye gasped. “What a wretched thing to say!”

“Believe me, he is hardly a man innocent of guilt. You have been deceived.”

So I have
, her conscience screeched.
By you
.

With effort, she bit back the hateful words. To lash out at Torr in such a rash manner, to provoke him further, was very foolish.

When she didn’t answer, he said, “You do not believe me?”

A deliberate taunt. He dared her to challenge him. To argue what a brave, honorable champion she’d found in Brant.

His arm at her waist shifted, as though he sensed the disquiet tingling through her veins. Why would Torr taunt her so? What reason did he have to goad her into challenging him?

What did he know about Brant that she didn’t?

Torr smiled, yet warmth didn’t brighten his gaze. He looked at Brant. “How well you have hidden your true nature from her.”

Her unease deepened, sharpened by a new confusion. “True nature? What do you mean?”

“Enough.” The anger and pain in Brant’s voice reminded her, for some peculiar reason, of the hint of a secret she’d glimpsed earlier in his gaze. “There is no deception between Faye and me,” he said with quiet menace. “Do not insist there is.”

Torr crossed his arms over his tunic. Raising his eyebrows, he said, “Really? For her to have allowed you to couple with her, she must have thought you to be a man of a certain . . . caliber.”

Faye shivered as Brant’s muscled arm at her waist tautened. His fingers clenched into her gown, as though he battled to control his rising fury. “My relationship with Faye is none of your affair.”

“She is an honored guest at Caldstowe. Since she was a dear friend of Elayne’s, I consider her my friend as well. ’Tis my obligation to warn her when I know she is making a grave error in judgment.”

Choking back a furious cry, Faye stared up at Brant’s rigid profile. Fury, yet also intense anguish, radiated from him. Why did he seem in such torment? Did he believe she would never wish to see him again because of what Torr had said? Surely, after the magical bond they’d shared, he didn’t believe that.

She nudged closer so her hip pressed to his. An offer of comfort, as well as a promise that she wouldn’t forsake the intimate pledge forged between them. Meeting Torr’s gaze, she said, “Surely ’tis my choice whom I take to my bed.”

Torr scowled. “Listen to me—”

“Leave her be.” Brant took a step forward. Cool air brushed Faye’s hip, separated from Brant’s warmth. How she yearned to reach out and draw him back.

Hands on his hips, Brant said, “Your disagreement is with me, Torr, not her. You and I will speak outside.”

“Very well.” A sly grin twisted Torr’s mouth as he faced the door. “Remember, Faye, he is not worthy of you.”

Brant’s breath hissed between his teeth. “And you are?”

His fingers on the door handle, Torr halted. He slowly turned. His face contorted with such terrifying rage, Faye’s hand flew to her throat. He looked about to challenge Brant to a swordfight to the death.

She lurched forward a step, dismay shrieking inside her. How did she stop the disagreement from dissolving into bloody violence? She would never forgive herself if Brant were mortally wounded, or died, because of a disagreement that started over her.

“Torr, please.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. He continued to glare at Brant, a look that would have sent most men cowering on the floorboards pleading “Forgive me, milord.”

Returning the steely glare, Brant didn’t flinch. He didn’t attempt to speak.

An invisible, seething current filled the chamber: a battle of wills between the two men who stood locked in silent combat.

A sense of something transpiring—something crucial and life-altering—shifted the chamber’s mercurial energy.

Faye twisted her hands together. If only she understood!

Torr laughed, a sound rife with gloating arrogance. Extending his arm in mocking chivalry, he said, “Go on, then. Tell her the truth. Tell her just how unworthy you are.”

His words lashed like strikes of a whip. With his challenge, the atmosphere in her chamber changed again. A dark spell seemed to have been cast, for the rebellion in Brant’s expression wavered. Defiance melted from his posture, to be replaced by resignation.

Faye reached out to touch his arm.

His gaze, when he glanced at her, held a terrible bleakness.

Torr’s mouth turned up in a cruel smile. Reaching for the door handle again, he said, “Come, Brant.”

Revulsion flooded Faye’s mouth. Torr commanded Brant as though he were a stupid mongrel who owed him lifelong obedience, not a man with an independent will.

Brant turned toward the door.

“Brant!” The half whisper, half sob broke from her. If he left now, he admitted he was unworthy.

He wasn’t! Honor glowed strong and true in his soul. She didn’t doubt it.

Hands balled at his sides, he swung back to face her. Torment shone in his eyes, an agony not forged in this conflict. Her own anguish recognized that such misery drove much deeper, and had gnawed at his soul for long, painful months.

“I am sorry, Faye,” he said. “Torr spoke true. I deceived you.”

Brant’s voice sounded like another man’s. A stranger’s.

Tears scalded her eyes. “Do not speak such wretchedness.”

A despairing smile, devoid of all hope, touched Brant’s mouth—the same skilled mouth that had kissed her. Pleasured her. Murmured
Faye, my treasure
.

“I am not worthy—”

“Brant!” she sobbed. “Cease!”

“—because I am a murderer. I killed my own brother.”
 

Chapter Fourteen