“I am sorry.” She yearned to tell him why she had dared to ride away yesterday. For Angeline’s safety, she could not. “I did not realize the tempest would be so fierce,” she added. “I hoped to reach Greya’s before the rain started.”
Suspicion shadowed Torr’s gaze.
Faye forced a wry laugh. “Do not look at me so! You know I visit her at least once a week. Since Elayne died, she has become one of my dearest friends.”
His golden hair shifted when he nodded. “True.” Yet, wariness lingered in his gaze.
Pain spread across her brow. An answering ache roused in her heart. Tell him the truth, it whispered. Show him the ransom note. Confide in him, and he can help you save Angeline.
She could not. She must not.
“Faye?”
Pressing her hand to her forehead, she said, “It has been a long night, and I am weary. Please, Torr, may we speak of this later? I am eager to bathe and be rid of my damp garments.”
“Of course.” Torr spun on his heel. He motioned to a young girl walking toward the keep’s forebuilding. “You, there. Fetch a bath for Lady Rivellaux.”
The startled girl dropped into a curtsey. “Aye, mil—”
“Do not dally! Go!”
She lurched to standing, then bolted for the kitchens.
A stable hand strode over from the stables, carrying a wooden mounting block. He set it on the ground by Faye.
The guard behind her shifted. “I will help you down, milady.”
“Nay, I will,” Torr answered, before she could respond to the man’s kind offer.
Faye gnawed her lip. She did not like to encourage physical contact with Torr, but if she refused him now, she would further pique his suspicions. Moreover, with her head throbbing and her body close to exhaustion, ’twas foolish to try to dismount without assistance; she could well fall in a heap on the dirt.
“You are most kind,” Faye murmured, as Torr’s other hand slid up to her waist. He drew her down to the mounting block. When her soaked shoes landed on the wood, her body brushed against his. She twisted free of his hold and stepped to the ground.
A vivid memory of standing pressed against the knave’s warm, muscled body skittered through her mind. A flush heated her face, even as she fought a rush of pure dread. He would know, by now, she had stolen the goblet. What would he do?
Torr touched her arm. “I will ask the cook to prepare you an herbal infusion and order ointment sent up for your wound. Is there aught else you need? Shall I escort you to your chamber?”
“Nay, thank you.” She gave him a grateful smile, then walked to the forebuilding.
After stepping into the enclosed outer stairwell that led up to the main keep, she blew out a shaky breath. The burning reed torch on the wall near her flickered. Pressing her palm against the cold stone for support, she began to climb the stairs.
Was it unseemly for a lord, whose wife had recently died, to be so attentive to a widow? Torr had been extremely kind to her by allowing her to live at Caldstowe without asking any kind of payment in return. Surely, suspecting his intentions was unfair and unwise, when fatigue and pain muddied her logic.
Faye reached the great hall and crossed the expansive, rush-strewn chamber with a quick wave to the maidservants arranging trestle tables for the midday meal. Step by careful step, she took the wooden stairs up to the area reserved for the lord, his family and guests. She passed the guarded double doors to Torr’s solar and made her way along the torch lit passage to her room.
She stepped inside, pushed the door closed, then melted back against the wooden panel. Her gaze traveled over the fire snapping in the hearth, her narrow bed, the trestle table against the wall, to settle on the straggly bouquet of wildflowers. She and Angeline had picked them together last summer, the little girl’s blue eyes shining with pleasure. Unable to throw the blooms away, Faye had bound their stems and hung them upside down in her chamber to dry, before tucking them into an earthenware pot.
Tears stung Faye’s eyes. Oh, Angeline.
A rap sounded on the door. Faye started. Had Torr decided to follow her up to her chambers, to see if she were all right?
Smothering her misgiving, Faye depressed the door handle. A stout woman with black hair, braided in a coil around her head, stood in the corridor, holding a small pot and a mug.
“Milady, Lord Lorvais said ye ’ad need o’—” She gasped. “Oh!”
Faye instinctively touched her cheek.
Shaking her head, the woman thrust the pot into Faye’s hands. “Ye need this fer certes. ’Tis excellent salve, made by one o’ the best ’ealers in this land. Greya’s ’er name.”
Faye smiled. “I know Greya.”
“Very skilled, she is. Could very near raise a man from the dead, I vow.” The woman handed over the mug. “’ere is yer infusion. Would ye like me ta take a look at that wound for ye, milady? Apply the ointment? ’Ow about a ’ot compress ta ’elp ease the pain?”
The woman’s kindness touched deep within Faye, stirring fragile emotions too close to brimming over. “Thank you, but I can manage.”
“If ye need aught else, milady, de not ’esitate ta ask.” After dropping into a graceful curtsey, she walked away.
Faye started to shut the door, but heard voices in the passage. Lads approached carrying a wooden bathing tub. Behind them, boys lugged buckets of water. After opening the door wide, she stood aside while they placed the tub near the hearth. The boys made several more trips to the kitchens for water, cloths, and soap, before Faye thanked them and ushered them out.
Standing beside the tub, she stripped off her garments. When she glanced at her discarded clothes, her memories shot back to the tavern room and the items drying before the fire. What had the knave done when he found her gone? Had he shoved his partly dry clothes into his saddlebag, mounted his horse, and commanded Val to track her?
Did he still hunt for her, as a ravenous falcon pursued a hare?
Shivering, she stepped into the tub with an awkward splash. Speculating about the knave—whom she hoped to never see again—was not only senseless, but took her concentration from more pressing concerns. Her attempt to rescue Angeline had failed. Now, she must find another way to negotiate with the kidnappers.
Faye snatched up a soft linen cloth and the soap. After bathing, she would go to the quiet place where she always retreated to think; by the morn’s end, she must know her next course of action.
With brisk strokes, she scrubbed her body to remove all trace of the knave’s hands upon her. Then she gently washed her face, wincing at the sting of soap in her wound. Sliding back in the tub, she soaked her hair, scrubbed it, then twisted the slippery length to remove most of the water. In the firelight, the droplets glittered as bright as tears.
The warm bath coaxed her to lie back, close her eyes, and doze—a temptation she refused. She left the tub, dried, and, ignoring her aching limbs and cheek, drew fresh garments from her linen chest pushed against the wall. Hubert had bought her the gray wool gown. She had recently renewed the well-worn garment by embroidering blue flowers along the neck. One day, she hoped to buy new things, but for now, what she had must do. She would not ask Torr for coin to buy clothes. Nor could she bear to alter Elayne’s luxurious silks, which he had given her after she died.
“Please, make use of them,” he had said, handing her an armload of exquisite gowns. “She wanted you to have them.”
Sitting on the end of her bed, Faye pushed her feet into leather shoes. “Elayne,” she whispered to the silent chamber. “How I miss you.”
Faye brushed out her hair, donned her spare, forest-green mantle and made her way down to the bailey. Murmuring “good morn” to the children tossing a stick for a playful wolfhound and the servants drawing well water, Faye crossed to the gardens. Herbs clustered in one stone-walled bed. Fallen leaves scattered over the paths, browned grass, and soil where spring seeds would be soon be planted.
A hedge enclosed the garden corner close
st to Caldstowe’s tower, the part of the keep built soon after the Norman Conquest. Faye pushed open the squeaky, wrought iron gate and stepped inside.
Cut from gray stone, a reclining woman stared up at the sky overhead. Pressing her hands over the carved ones of Elayne’s tomb, Faye bent her head. “I will not fail you,” she said, looking down at the rigid portrayal of her friend’s features. “I have not forgotten my vow to you. I will bring Angeline home safely, I promise.”
A sparrow twittered from the hedge, as if answering her. With a sad smile, Faye sat on a raised stone by the tomb. Looping her arms around her knees, tilting up her chin, she closed her eyes and let the calm of the place seep into her. The sunlight soothed her wounded cheek.
How to best rescue Angeline … ?
In the garden beyond, she caught the rumble of male voices.
Not unusual. Yet, warning prickled through her.
Faye opened her eyes and pushed to her feet. When the hushed conversation carried again, goose bumps rose on her arms.
She recognized Torr’s voice.
And the other—
Hardly daring to breathe, she crept to the hedge. Parting the interwoven branches, she peered through. Torr stood by the fish pond, breaking a twig apart with his fingers. Beside him was a tall, dark haired man. His back faced her, but there was no mistaking his warrior physique, or his aura of barely-leashed tension.
The knave!
The branches slipped from her fingers. Lurching back, she dragged in several choked breaths while struggling to control her panic and confusion. Why had he come to Caldstowe? What could he possibly have to discuss with Torr?
Had something happened to Angeline … something awful that had convinced the knave to confide in Torr, since he was the little girl’s father?
Mayhap the matter did not concern Angeline at all. The knave could have discovered Faye lived at Caldstowe and had come for the gold.
Her pulse pounded. She could not return to the keep. As soon as she stepped from the enclosed garden, they would see her. Until they moved away from the pond, she must wait here.
Trapped.
She fought to remain calm, while trying to hear what the men were discussing. Yet, the birdsong from the garden, the breeze stirring the hedge leaves, and the day-to day activity in the bailey conspired to muffle their words.
One thing, however, she knew for certain: the men were not arguing. Their voices did not rise and fall in bitter accusation, but remained at a constant level … which implied an amicable conversation. It also suggested Torr and the knave … knew each other.
Before she could ponder that startling thought, another noise intruded. Leaves rustled by her feet. Lowering to a crouch, she peered under the hedge. From the other side, Val raised his little nose from the ground. He stared back at her.
“Shoo,” she muttered between her teeth. “Go away.”
Val barked.
Faye sensed, rather than saw, the knave’s head turn. Before she could stop her instinctive reaction, she shot to her feet. Thank God the hedge grew tall enough to hide her.
“Val!” he shouted.
She flinched.
Val yapped again. More rustling.
Was the wretched little dog going to dig his way under the hedge and reveal her?
A sparrow, chirping with indignant fervor, burst from the nearby branches. Val raced after it, barking excitedly. The knave and Torr laughed.
Crunching gravel alerted her that the men moved away from the pond. Daring to peek through the hedge again, she saw they were walking toward the stables. Not at a brisk pace, but at a leisurely jaunt. As though the men were friends.
How could that be? She had never seen the knave at Caldstowe before. She would remember such a scarred face.
The thought nagged, even as she forced it to the back of her mind. She counted out ten deep breaths. Then she hurried to the gate, cringing when it squeaked open.
The men stood chatting by the stable. Thank goodness they had not heard the gate. Light glinted off the knave’s hair and played in tantalizing planes of light and shadow across his back. Her hands tingled with the memory of touching him.
Tearing her gaze away, Faye strode toward the forebuilding. Part of her begged to break into a run, but she must not be conspicuous. Did the knave see her leave the garden? Was he watching her now? She dared not glance over her shoulder. Dared not meet the knave’s cold, cunning gaze and know she, the hare, was cornered.
As she reached for the forebuilding’s door, two maidservants waved to her from the open kitchen doorway. “Lady Rivellaux.”
Oh, God!
Faye waved back, grabbed the iron handle, and bolted inside, hoping the knave had not heard the maidservants’ call. She hurried to her chamber. Each step seemed to take an eternity.
At last, Faye reached her room. She shut the wooden panel behind her, removed her mantle, then crossed her chamber. Kneeling on the floor, she pushed aside her linen chest and pressed her fingers to the loose wall stone she had discovered long ago. Gently wiggling the stone, she pried it out. A grating rasp, and it came free. Gold glittered in the darkened cavity.
A relieved sigh broke from her. The chalice was safe.
Her chamber, however, was the first place the knave would search.
She must move the gold cup elsewhere. But where?
With careful fingers, she eased the goblet out of the hiding place. The cool, smooth metal molded to her hand. In her palm was the weight of a child’s life.
Outside, in the corridor, came the muffled echo of voices. Her head snapped up. Sweat dampened her hand, turning the gold slick. Earlier, she had asked one of the young girls to bring more wood for her chamber’s fire. The firewood had not yet been delivered.
If the servant found her with the cup …
Faye nudged the vessel back into the recess, pushed the stone into place, and shoved the linen chest into its normal spot. She ran her hands over her gown, smoothing the fabric as she dried her palms.
No reason to be anxious. No one knew where the gold was hidden.
They would never know.
She sucked in a deep breath, tucked hair behind her ear, and faced the doorway.
And saw she was not alone.
The knave lounged with his back against her door, his arms folded over his chest.
A gasp wrenched from deep inside her. Her hand fluttered to her throat, a feeble defense against his bold, looming presence.
As their gazes clashed, his mouth turned up in a grin that did not hold even the barest hint of warmth.
“Lady Rivellaux. A pleasure to see you again.”
Chapter Five
When the lady’s eyes flared with dismay, Brant savored a delicious surge of elation. Had she really thought she could deceive him and get away with it?
“W-what are you doing here?” she choked out, while her fingers flitted over the neck of her dreary gown.
He almost laughed at her ridiculous question. “I have come to claim what is mine.”
“Really?” Her face pinkened, an exquisite flush that intensified the green of her eyes. Brant sensed her thoughts racing, trying to decide how best to deal with him. Most of all, how to keep him from taking the gold chalice.
Holding her gaze, he smiled. He was not a man to be governed by a woman. Especially one who possessed an object he desired.
“How did you get into my chamber? I did not hear the door open or close.”
“You were occupied with other matters, milady.”
Her delicate chin nudged higher, while her icy stare scorned him for setting one scuffed boot within her private chamber. Worry glimmered in her gaze, too—for her own safety, or that of her friend, Angeline, whom she hoped to rescue by offering the cup?
“Milady,” he said quietly, “I am not leaving ’till I have the goblet.”
Her hands balled into fists. From the willful spark in her eyes, she looked about to throw herself across the room at him. “You cannot have the ve
ssel. It does not belong to you.”
“Nevertheless, I will have it.”
“Why? To satisfy your selfish greed? To sell it and fill your saddlebag with coin?” She practically spat the words.
Anger growled like silent thunder in his blood. If he told her he wanted to fulfill his dead brother’s dream, she would never believe him. She would accuse him of telling falsehoods and spinning his own avarice into gold.
“My reasons are my own.” Uncrossing his arms, he pushed away from the door. “Give me the cup, and I will be on my way.”
She did not budge. Not even the slightest attempt to obey.
“Milady.” He did not attempt to steel the warning from his voice.
The faintest smile touched her lips. “What makes you believe I have it?”
He laughed, a low, challenging sound that caused her blush to deepen. “You took it from my saddlebag before fleeing the tavern. No one else visited the chamber, except you.”
“Mayhap I gave the vessel to the kidnappers.”
“You left the tavern early this morn, and ’tis not yet midday. ’Tis doubtful you had time to write a missive, send it to the abductors, and meet with them—even if you knew how to contact them—between now and then.”
Her lashes dropped, and she glanced away.
“You also would not be so adamant to deter me, if the gold were not in your possession.” Brant’s gaze slid past her to the linen chest pushed against the wall. “Even in this chamber.”
Her shoulders rose and fell on a huffed breath. “Get out.”
Raising his eyebrows, he strode past her to the chest.
She grabbed his sleeve. “Do not!” She yanked hard enough that he heard his tunic’s seams protest. “Touch my linen chest and I—”
“You will what?” He turned and caught her hand that pulled at him with such insistence. He locked his fingers through hers, snaring her. She trembled. Her rebellious gaze snapped from their joined hands to his face. Scowling, she tugged to free her fingers.
He smiled, but did not release her.
“Let me go, knave.”
Each word dripped with fury. A grin played at his mouth. What a delectable sight she made when wild and spitting. Her hair tumbled about her like copper fire. Her body drew up taut, thrusting forward the luscious swell of her bosom. And her mouth …
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