Pressing her torso against him for support, Brant shifted her lower body to work the mantle free. With a little sigh, she tucked her head into the crook between his jaw and shoulder. Her breath warmed his neck, coaxing him to wrap his arms around her, to savor her enticing scent. Frowning, he ignored the temptation and pushed the mantle to the floor.
Val nuzzled the wet garment. He sneezed.
Brant gently laid the lady down again. She wore a grass green gown belted at the waist. A simple garment. However, the lines of the soaked wool hugged her curves and valleys, confirming all that had been suggested by his clumsy, earlier exploration—firm breasts, a narrow waist, tapered hips, and long legs.
Dryness parched his mouth. He unfastened the leather belt around her waist, slid it out from under her, then dropped it on the floor. That simple task, in which his fingers brushed against her garments, confirmed the thought teasing the back of his mind. He must remove her gown and shift. Not only were they soaked, but he must be sure she did not have other wounds.
He reached for the ties at the side of her gown and hesitated. Aye, ’twould be best to unfasten them, then lift her up to draw her garments over her head. Simplest. Quickest.
How many hundreds of times he had undressed a woman, yet now, of all idiocy, he had to pause and think.
With a grumpy whimper, Val squeezed between him and the pallet to nudge his hand.
“Not now,” Brant said. “Go lie by the fire.”
With a shy wiggle, Val nuzzled again.
“Go,” Brant ordered. The little dog scurried away, but only to the other side of the table, where he sat watching.
With skilled tugs, Brant worked her gown’s ties free. As the two edges separated, they revealed her white linen shift, pulled taut against her ribs and breasts. Dragging his gaze away, he fisted his hands into the fabric about her legs and gave a swift yank.
A shuddering gasp broke from her. The sound seemed wrenched from deep within. It held such terrible anguish, he froze.
Her breathing quickened. The space between them seemed to compress with an acute awareness. Brant drew his gaze from her shapely calves, exposed by her gown bunched about her knees. He glanced at her face. Her eyes were open. She blinked up at him, confusion as well as wariness clouding her gaze. She seemed to be trying to remember how she came to be lying in this room, with him hovering over her.
Her gaze moved to his scar, and her breathing became a shocked rasp. Fear, now, marked the distance between them.
Brant could not blame her for being terrified. Every morning, when he splashed water over his face, he felt as well as saw the grisly reminder. “Milady,” he said in the gentlest tone he could muster.
“Who … are you?” With a strangled shriek, she shoved her hands against him. “Do not touch me.”
He released her gown. Raising his palms in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture, he said, “I will do you no harm.”
She scrambled up to a sitting position, her legs curled under her. Blinking hard, as if to clear away sudden dizziness, she pressed back against the wall.
“I prom—”
Before he guessed her intentions, her hips swiveled. Her feet slammed into his chest.
Grunting in shock, Brant catapulted backward. His arm knocked the table. The rickety legs wobbled. With a thud, thud, thud, the candles in their metal holders clattered to the floorboards, accompanied by the sound of Val’s scrabbling claws and a startled yelp.
Brant landed on his arse. As he jerked hair out of his face to level the lady with a glare, a knock pounded on the chamber door.
“Milord,” came the tavern owner’s voice. “Yer dinner.”
***
The man pushed to his feet with lithe, angry grace. Faye twisted her fingers into the front of her gown—wet for some strange reason. Pain spiked across her cheek. The agony seared up the side of her face to join the headache which threatened to pummel away her consciousness. Choking back a moan, pressing her hand to her brow, she squinted at the stranger who looked about to throttle her.
He was a very imposing man—tall, broad shouldered, and, from the snug fit of his garments, well-muscled like a seasoned knight. Muttering an oath, he raked his hand through his shoulder-length hair, then snatched up the candles which had landed on a garment on the floor—her mantle, she realized dully—and begun to smolder.
“When I open the door, keep your head down. Do not say a word.”
She blinked to chase away the reddish shadows encroaching on her line of vision. How perplexing that his voice sounded familiar.
He glanced at her, as though to be sure she understood him. His eyes were a stunning blue, framed by dark lashes. Her belly did a peculiar little flip. How could she not remember a man with such fascinating eyes, or such uncommon features? Strong bones marked the aristocratic lines of his face, a proud nose, a squared chin with full lips. Half of his face was exceedingly beautiful, while the other half—
Impossible, not to recall a man with such a brutal scar.
Why could she not remember?
A knock rattled the door near her. “Milord?” a male voice called from outside, the sound muffled through the wood panel.
The stranger set the extinguished candles on the table. Hands on his hips, he said again, “Do not show your face or speak.”
Worry nibbled its way into her hazy mind. “W-why not?”
His expansive chest, outlined by a clinging, dark blue tunic, rose and fell on a sigh. She vaguely remembered the cold, soggy feel of his clothing from when she kicked him. “’Tis best for both of us, especially you,” he said, “if your identity remains secret.”
Secret? Why? What clandestine situation had she become drawn into, but could not remember? What if he were holding her against her will? What if he had hit her about the head in order to bring her here? Panic shivered its way into her thoughts.
Giving her a last, pointed look, the man strode to the door, drew the bolt, and pulled open the wooden panel. Holding it close to his body, he spoke in hushed tones to the man beyond.
Pressing her palms to the straw pallet beneath her, Faye scooted her body forward. Her head swam, causing an answering roil in her belly. She was going to be sick!
Nay! Sucking in a determined breath, she eased her feet onto the cold floor, then reached for the table for support. She must walk to the door. Regardless of the stranger’s commands, she would ask the man outside to send a message to Caldstowe. Torr would come to fetch her.
As her shaking hand met the table, she sensed someone watching her. A scruffy face with huge, round eyes peeked at her from behind the table legs. A dog, only a little bigger than the big-boned tom cat that hunted mice in Caldstowe’s stable.
The mongrel blinked behind its mop of fuzzy fur before its tail began a hesitant thump against the planks.
“—and a few more blankets,” the stranger said, stepping back into the room to close the door. He held a tray laden with food. The aromas of pottage and freshly-baked bread carried to Faye as he strode toward her, his boots rapping on the floorboards.
Wiggling all over, the mongrel scooted out from behind the table. Rising up on two legs, it walked over to the man.
Faye gasped. The dog only had three legs. Where one of its front ones should be was a scarred lump of fur.
Juggling the tray, trying not to step on the little dog, the stranger cursed. “Val!”
He bumped into the chair by the hearth and cursed again. “Sit. Now.”
With a miffed growl, the dog sat.
An object on the chair caught the flickering firelight. A Norman-style helm. The shadows either side of the nasal guard seemed blacker than midnight, empty yet full of secrets.
Memories careened through Faye’s mind.
Angeline’s abduction.
The meeting.
Handing over the gold goblet.
His refusal to give her the child.
“Oh, God!” Faye rose on unsteady legs.
Approachi
ng the straw bed, the man’s gaze sharpened. “Lady Rivellaux—”
“How did I come to be here with you? Where are we, you cruel, despicable thief?”
His face darkened with a scowl. “Milady, you slipped on the rocks at the lakeshore and hit your head. I carried you through the storm on my horse. We are at an inn.”
She remembered waking to see him leaning over her, his hands upon her. Revulsion ran as hot as fire in her blood, more intense even than the pain in her cheek. “Give me back the gold.”
“First, we will eat. The innkeeper is bringing heated water to bathe your wound, and there are matters to discuss—”
“Now.”
With careful movements, he set the tray of food on the pallet. He straightened to meet her stare, and a silent, warning cry shrilled inside her.
“You are in no position to threaten me,” he said.
“And you will not stop me.” She stiffened her spine. “I shall walk to the door and shout to the man beyond that you hold an innocent child hostage.”
The little dog whined.
The stranger shook his head. “Unwise, milady.”
Her head whirled, but she shook the dizziness away. “Try to stop me, knave, and I shall shout as if you meant to draw and quarter me.”
Chapter Three
Spinning on her heel, the lady took one step toward the door.
Brant sensed the moment she was about to crumple. Lunging forward, he linked his arms around her waist, right as her legs seemed to fold beneath her.
Her weight fell against him. Her back connected with his chest and belly, knocking his breath from his lungs with an awkward grunt. Her bottom brushed his loins, an entirely innocent contact caused by the circumstances, but a sluggish, irreverent interest stirred in his blood. An interest that, despite the many women he had taken to his bed, he had not felt for years.
Not since Elayne.
Long-buried hurt, a bitter sense of betrayal, taunted him like the damning memories he had shut away long ago. Those remembrances were too humiliating to drag out and fully remember. Just the glimmer of a memory of how Elayne had betrayed his youthful trust and idealistic conceptions of love brought a sickly flush crawling over his skin.
And, yet, of all stupid follies, he had not been able to refuse her plea when he had received her letter.
With a bleat of protest, Lady Rivellaux squirmed in his arms. Scowling, he dismissed the swell of old memories—as, gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the enticing perfume of the woman so close to him, he could dip his head to nuzzle the creamy-pale curve of her neck, right there where a wanton lock of hair curled like a silken ribbon against her skin.
The odd sense of enchantment which drew him to this stubborn, lovely woman was no more than an illusion, evoked by the intimacy of firelight and gilded shadow, enhanced by his own carnal need. No more.
The sooner he was rid of Lady Rivellaux, the better.
Brant loosened his hold, intending to release her and cross the room to put much needed distance between them. Her body shook. She wavered. Cursing under his breath, he slid supporting arms around her once more, hoping she would not lose consciousness again. If so, it meant the knock to her head was more severe than he thought, thus he would need to find a healer. One who would not ask a slew of questions.
The lady listed slightly forward, her belly pressing against his forearms as she drew in deep breaths. Then, with a choked huff, she swatted at his arms.
“Unhand me,” she bit out.
“I will, if you can stand on your own.”
“Of course I can.”
Brant’s eyebrows rose at her defiant tone. “Very well.” Drawing his arms away from her, he stepped back. She squared her shoulders, an attempt at elegant pride despite her bedraggled state, before she winced. Her hand flew to her cheek, swollen and purplish even in the dim light. “Oh!” The smooth line of her jaw tightened with pain.
Before her legs buckled again, he looped one arm around her waist and guided her back to the pallet. “Nay,” she groaned.
“Aye,” he said, his tone ordering immediate compliance.
With an indignant sigh, she sat. Tilting her face away from him, she massaged her brow. With her other hand, she smoothed her gown with jerky swipes.
Sitting a short space away from her on the pallet—close enough to catch her if she fainted, but far enough to allow her a sense of her own space—he moved the tray of food closer. The fare’s aroma made his stomach gurgle. “Eat. ’Twill improve your strength.”
Her hand dropped away from her forehead. Her green eyes, hard with frustration and wariness, studied him.
“While you eat, we will talk.”
“I have naught to say to you.”
Little claws clicked on the floorboards. With tentative steps, Val crossed to Brant, sat, and nuzzled his leg.
Her gaze on the little dog, she said, “Why does he only have three legs?”
Brant’s mouth flattened. He imagined the wretched thoughts racing through her mind. If he were vile enough to help abduct her friend Angeline, he could also harm a helpless animal.
Disgust coiled up inside him. He scratched the back of his neck where his linen shirt stuck to his skin, and inwardly groaned that he could not simply stand and strip off his garments. Let her think what she liked. He did not owe her the truth. Mayhap ’twould be easier for both of them if she thought him a depraved beast.
“What happened to the dog?” she pressed.
Ignoring her question that seemed to hover in the air between them like a grisly specter, Brant took the bowl of pottage from the tray and offered it to her along with a spoon.
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I told you—”
“To regain your strength, as well as reach the door the next time, you must eat.”
Hands clasped in her lap, she looked at the fare. She gnawed her bottom lip. “You might have told the innkeeper to poison it.”
“Milady, if I wanted you dead, I would have left you at the lakeshore. I would not have bothered to save you.”
Her brow knit with a contemplative frown. “True.”
Doubt still lingered in her gaze, so he tipped the bowl to his mouth, sipped the disappointingly bland broth, then wiped his lips with his thumb. “No poison.”
Her head dipped in cautious acknowledgement before she said quietly, “I still do not understand. Why did you save me? You had the gold.”
The reasons tangled up inside him, complex and dangerous. A log shifted in the hearth, scattering glowing red embers. He watched them swirl, then fade, before he forced a careless shrug. “I have no grievances with you.”
“You mean, you would receive less payment for abducting Angeline if I came to harm.”
Brant exhaled a weary sigh. He would accomplish naught by telling her his payment did not depend at all on her welfare. Holding out the pottage one last time, he said, “I will not offer it again, milady.”
Her gaze slid to Val, licking his mouth, before a faint smile tugged at her lips.
“Is this your dog’s dinner, too?”
“Val will not let food go to waste.”
At last, she took the bowl as well as the spoon. Her slender fingers brushed his in the exchange, and he sensed her little jolt when she drew away, splashing broth onto her lap. She cursed under her breath.
He pretended not to notice. Breaking off two pieces of the dense brown bread, he popped one into his mouth. He tossed the other to Val, who jumped into the air and caught it before landing back on all three legs and chewing noisily.
A wry chuckle came from the lady.
Brant glanced over at her. She sat with the bowl cradled in one hand, the spoon poised over the vegetable-laden broth. Moisture shimmered on her bottom lip. Before he could stop the thought, he imagined the lush softness of her mouth. Softer even than the long strands of hair that had begun to dry in shiny, copper-red waves about her shoulders.
She dipped the spoon, then parted her lips to ta
ke the mouthful. He could not drag his attention away. As though beguiled by a fey spell, he stared, aware, in that moment, of the muted snap of burning wood, the rasp of his own breath, the thickening beat of his pulse.
The lady hesitated before her wary gaze flicked to him. Bright with uncertainty, her emerald eyes seemed to mirror the same emotions coursing through his body. An odd sense of longing pulled at him.
Bewitchment!
He wanted no part of it.
Brant snatched another hunk of bread, rose, and strode to the hearth. Val trotted at his heels. From behind him came a ragged exhalation followed by the clink of the spoon against the earthenware bowl. He refused to let his errant thoughts imagine her eating. Breaking off another morsel, he tossed it to Val, who again snatched it out of the air, swallowed it down, and sat waiting for more.
Brant bent, picked up his saddlebag, then worked the ties, hoping as he did so that the leather was not wet all the way through and his spare clothes would be dry enough to wear.
He sensed her keen gaze upon him, watching his hands’ movements. He jerked the ties free and flipped open the bag. In the shadowed depths, gold glinted against the wool of his folded brown tunic.
“Do you still have the goblet?” she asked, her voice intruding over the fire’s crackle.
He squeezed his rumpled hose in his palm. A bit damp, but better than the garments he wore. “’Tis in a safe place,” he said. Better she thought he did not have the vessel, than for her to try and cross the room to get it. She might hurt herself. He did not want to be responsible for yet another injury.
“Is the goblet in your bag?”
He rubbed his cold lips together and yanked out his tunic before flipping the bag’s flap down again. “Do not worry your lovely head about it, milady. At the moment, your well-being is more important.”
My Lady's Treasure Page 3