My Lady's Treasure

by Catherine Kean

  Chapter Eight

  Faye’s face crumpled on another despairing moan. The sound bore such anguish, the hairs at Brant’s nape tingled, a sensation akin to ants crawling from the base of his skull into his hairline.

  What in God’s holy name was wrong?

  Rising to his feet, he held out his hand, palm up, displaying the filthy little lamb. Water ran between his fingers to spatter on the rocks. Ignoring Val’s disgruntled barks, he said, “You weep for a child’s toy?”

  She was shaking so hard, she looked about to collapse. She nodded, then immediately shook her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Apprehension warred with his impatience to begin the treasure hunt. “What is it, Faye? Aye, you are weeping for this lamb? Or nay?”

  “Aa—” Her hands pressed to her belly. She shuddered, as though racked by terrible pain. Her face looked ashen.

  As she wobbled on her feet, Brant caught her elbow. “Sit,” he said between clenched teeth. He did not mean to speak so harshly, but he could not quell his growing concern.

  Brant expected a scathing refusal, a tart reply that he had no right to order her about like his dog. Yet, she did not scorn him, or try to escape from his authoritative grip. When he tipped his head toward a large stone beside her, she sniffled, then wilted down onto it.

  Cradling the lamb in his hands, Brant sat opposite her. His gaze slid from the pathetic looking toy back to her, acute helplessness sharpening his worry. What should he say? How did he comfort her? He had little experience comforting the fairer sex. He could slay an opponent with two slashes of his sword, but confronted by a lady’s tears …

  Brant cleared his throat, a sound rife with awkwardness. Part of him longed to sit beside her, slide his arm around her shoulders, and draw her against him … but he could not. Touching her would add another volatile element to this already unexpected twist of events.

  Faye’s ladylike indignation had kept a welcome emotional distance between them. But raw, honest tears …

  Sniffling again, she wiped her face with her mantle’s sleeve. Her gaze did not leave the bedraggled toy, and she made no attempt to explain her desolation.

  “Faye?” he coaxed.

  When the silence between them dragged, his concern tinged with misgiving. She would not weep so, and refuse to explain, unless she wanted to withhold the reason from him.

  The lady had a secret. One that was devouring her.

  Like his own secret devoured him, it seemed.

  He might have smiled at the irony of such a common bond between them, except at that moment, she reached out and took the lamb from his hands. Her slender fingers looked pale against the grubby, wet cloth.

  A sob broke from her, before fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Enough.

  “Faye, what is wrong?”

  She bit her bottom lip, then shook her head.

  “’Tis only a toy.” His voice sounded rough, as though spoken by another man.

  So gently, as though ’twere a precious object, she stroked the little lamb. “’Tis Angeline’s,” she whispered at last. “She would not part with it, unless …” She swallowed hard. “Unless …”

  “How can you be certain this lamb is Angeline’s?”

  “’Tis hers. I know.”

  “How?”

  “The blue ribbon, and … stitched eyes.”

  From her horrified expression, she thought Angeline dead. Faye’s anguish stabbed Brant like a dagger, the steel-edged pain driven deeper by guilt. While he had no part in Angeline’s abduction apart from negotiating the ransom, he could not let Faye believe such a grim fate had befallen the child.

  Leaning forward, bracing his arms on his knees, he struggled to reassure her. “’Tis the lamb which matches the ewe, the one I discovered in your linen chest.”

  Faye nodded. “They were made especially for her, by a craftsman in the village.”

  “The village close by?” Brant asked, gesturing toward the distant church spire.

  “Aye. He has a stall at the market every week. He loves to … to make toys for the children.”

  “Which means he has made more than one ewe and lamb.”

  Faye paused in her tender stroking of the toy. Her moist gaze lifted and locked with his. How desperately, it seemed, she wanted to believe him.

  “This could be any child’s lamb, Faye.”

  With her finger, she wiped tears from the corner of her mouth. Hope shimmered in her eyes, warming them to the color of sun-warmed emeralds.

  At last, he was reaching her, slaying her ghastly assumptions. “He has likely made many such as this. Hundreds.”

  “True,” she said slowly.

  “Angeline’s lamb is probably with her,” Brant went on, relieved that at last, Faye’s tears might end. “’Tis doubtful harm has befallen her. Why would the kidnappers want to hurt her?”

  His confident words carried in the morning air. Yet, even as he spoke, he saw disquiet creeping back into her gaze. “I cannot imagine. You, of all people, might know.”

  Brant dragged a hand over his jaw. “I do not. As I told you before, I was hired only to collect the ransom. I was not involved in her abduction.”

  Torr, however, was familiar with the kidnappers.

  The words burned for release. Brant forced them down, for he could not tell her. To betray Torr in such a manner would take Brant dangerously close to breaking his blood oath. A code of honor between knights he could not forsake, especially after all Torr had done to protect Brant months ago.

  Even more daunting, if Faye realized he had no significant role in the kidnapping, she might decide he was of no use to her in her quest to rescue Angeline. The arrangement forged between them would be as solid as a bridge made from twigs. Flimsy. Insubstantial.

  She might resolve not to help him find the treasure, and Royce’s lost dream—within Brant’s grasp for mayhap the last time—would forever remain unfulfilled.

  He must not relinquish Royce’s goal. Not now. Brant must perpetuate the falsehoods, embellish them with the luster of Celtic gold itself, if he had any hopes of succeeding. To tell Faye the truth doomed him to failure.

  Exhaling a long breath, he dragged his hands through his hair. She was studying him so intently, he shrugged to relieve his discomfort. “Faye, as far as I know, you have no reason to worry. Angeline is fine.”

  Her stare did not waver. She clearly expected more of an answer.

  He looked across the river. The less he said, the better. There was power in withholding all but the smallest details.

  “Brant—”

  “As far as I know,” he repeated, “she is well.”

  Faye’s breath hissed between her teeth. She shoved to her feet. Val gave a startled yap before scampering several yards away.

  Brant scowled down at his linked hands. He sensed his control of the situation slipping from his grasp.

  “I want to see Angeline.”

  He forced a brittle laugh. “’Tis not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  He tilted his head to look up at Faye. Her hands were pressed to the front of her mantle, between her breasts, the frayed end of the lamb’s ribbon just visible at her fingertips. “I must see her,” she said. “You know the abductors, as well as how to contact them. All I want is to know for myself that she is all right.”

  “’Twas was not part of our agreement, milady.”

  She huffed a breath. “I see.”

  Brant pushed up to standing. He looked down at her tense, upturned face. Tears still glimmered on her lashes. Her lips flattened, but she did not break his gaze. Nor did she make further demands he could not carry out. “Now,” he said in a curt tone, “to ensure we will both benefit from our agreement, I hope we can resume—”

  “—the search for the gold.” She spoke as though he had asked her to drop to her knees and kiss his grubby boots.

  Refusing to give ground, he quirked an eyebrow. “That is why we are here.”

/>   Her eyes narrowed. Her hands, still cupped protectively around the lamb, curled tighter against her ribcage. “How vile, to care more about the treasure than a child.”

  Brant thrust up his hand. “Do not corrupt the truth. I did not say—”

  “You did not have to.”

  She was trembling again. Despair did not shimmer in her eyes now, but iron resolve. Before he could say one word in his defense, she bit out, “The gold was found here.” She gestured to the nearby mound of stones. “’Twas underneath a wooden board, lodged amongst dirt and stones.”

  He crossed to the area she had indicated and stooped to examine the rocks. When he braced one hand on a nearby stone, the rock’s chill seeped into his palm, numbing his hand. But he did not care. “How deep in the dirt? How far amongst the stones?”

  “Close to the surface,” she snapped. “If you look, you might discover more gold.”

  The note of finality in her voice made him pause. Still at a crouch, he turned to face her.

  Turning her back to him, she started to walk away.

  “Where are you going?”

  Her strides slowed before she swung back to face him. The rosy hue had started to return to her cheeks. “I have told you what you wanted to know. I have kept my part of our arrangement.”

  Disquiet rippled through him, akin to the aftereffects of a stone hurled into the river. The chill in his palm spread. “You have shown me rocks and earth. We have yet to find the treasure.”

  She tucked hair behind her ear. Then, holding the lamb against her chest with both hands, she whirled and strode toward the horses.

  “God’s blood!” He stared at the proud line of her back. He did not mistake the purpose in her strides. “Faye, come back.”

  Her posture stiffened, but she did not stop walking. A few more strides and she would reach her mount.

  With an angry shove, he rose to standing. “Where are you going? We are not done.”

  She abruptly halted. Spinning around, she glared at him. “Aye, knave, we are.”

  “What?” He struggled to control his rising fury. “We had an agreement.”

  “Had,” she agreed.

  “Faye!” Brant growled.

  “Keep the goblet. Take whatever riches you find. I never want to see you again. Angeline is worth more than any wretched treasure, and I will rescue her on my own.”

  ***

  Faye sensed Brant’s outrage, heard his foul curse. She caught her mare’s reins and swung up into the saddle. After tucking the lamb against her thigh, she spurred her mount toward the road.

  Her heart thumped like a wild creature against her breastbone. She half-expected to hear Brant’s running footfalls, to feel his hands grabbing for her. With a quick nudge of her heels, she urged her horse to a canter. When she rode over the bridge, the mare’s mane whipping into her eyes, she dared a glance back.

  Brant stood where she had left him, his hands folded across his chest, watching her. A silent figure all in black, frightening, but also beautiful—in the same way lightning split apart the heavens, yet also illuminated them with awe-inspiring brilliance. The scar on his cheek looked brutally stark in the morning light. He did not gesture, did not call to her, but his rage crackled across the yards between them.

  Tearing her attention away, she stared ahead down the road. “Ha!” she cried, urging her horse to a gallop. Bending closer to the animal’s warm neck, inhaling the comforting scents of leather and horse, she rode from the river.

  From him.

  She surrendered to her mare’s rhythmic gait, grateful for the strength beneath her when her body shook with emotional exhaustion. She struggled to subdue a wave of guilt. How rash of her—and, aye, foolish—to have given the knave the goblet. She prayed Elayne would forgive her for making such a choice. However, from the moment Angeline unearthed the gold cup, it had become a tremendous responsibility. A burden that had fallen upon Faye when Elayne died.

  Faye trembled. No longer was she responsible for keeping the vessel, and the location of the find, a secret. Yet, she also did not have it to barter for Angeline’s freedom. Celtic gold would be far more tempting to the abductors than aught else she could offer them.

  Steeling herself against rising worry, she reminded herself the kidnappers had demanded a ransom of silver, not gold. While she did not know for certain, she suspected Brant had not told them of the cup; he likely aimed to keep it, and any more riches he discovered, for himself. Greed had vanquished his loyalties to his fellow criminals. If he had informed them of such a treasure, ’twould not still be in his possession. The abductors would have seized it—or killed him to possess it.

  Unless he had told them of the goblet, as well as more gold to be found, and they, too, were in on his scheme to find it. Through his cunning arrangement with her, Brant might be working on behalf of them all to locate the riches.

  Which meant his only motive for his bold, passionate, magical kisses was to seduce his way into her confidence, to make her trust him with the secrets of the gold. That way, she would willingly lead him to the treasure.

  Would he … could he … be so ruthless?

  ’Twas entirely possible. The man was a rogue. Why, of all idiocy, did the notion of him manipulating her hurt so much?

  Tamping down a flare of resentment, Faye struggled to refocus her thoughts. The plot she imagined could well be true, but, in truth, she had no evidence Brant was a fortune seeker for anyone but himself. Moreover, she did not know his exact relationship to the kidnappers. He seemed shocked to learn Angeline was a child. Such a vital misunderstanding implied he was not involved in organizing the kidnapping—as he had told her—and had not seen the little girl with her abductors. Would he not have done, if he were part of the scheme? At the very least, he would have known Angeline was a child.

  Also, his efforts to convince her that Angeline was hale, and not harmed in any way, showed concern for the little girl’s welfare.

  Only the most foolish, smitten fool would be swayed by a knave’s compassion, a voice inside her cautioned. His attentiveness could be merely a ploy to furrow his way deeper into your trust, because he sensed your reluctance to share what you knew about the gold.

  True. Still, his reactions at the lake had seemed spontaneous, rather than rehearsed. In those tense, awful moments, he had seemed … genuine.

  Shifting in the saddle, she looked over her shoulder. Far behind her glimmered the river. There was no dark figure, his cloak whipping about him, thundering down the thawing road behind her.

  Facing forward again, she sighed. Brant must have accepted that their arrangement was ended. Realizing she would not be swayed, he thus chose not to pursue her.

  With a gentle tug on the reins, she slowed her horse to a canter. On the faint breeze, she caught the acrid smell of wood smoke. Not far ahead, smoke-encircled cottages lined the roadside. She approached the outer fringes of the village.

  Whether her suspicions about Brant were right or wrong did not matter. She had told him where the goblet was found, and given him the gold. She never had to see him again.

  Even if he returned uninvited to her chamber.

  Even if he threatened to say he was her lover.

  If he were so bold as to visit Caldstowe Keep again and confront her, she would make good her threat to scream, and he would face the consequences.

  As Faye headed toward the village, she fought the unwelcome heaviness stealing through her, the weight of new responsibility. Her quest to rescue Angeline might be more difficult working alone. Yet, she was not without wits or resources.

  Especially if she went to Torr.

  A dangerous notion, especially when the kidnappers had told her not to tell anyone. However, if she explained the situation to Torr, and told him how important it was to keep it secret, the abductors would never know.

  Being Angeline’s father, did he not deserve to be aware of the kidnappers’ demands? Was she wise to keep what she knew from him, when he must be gra
vely concerned?

  Looking up from her mare’s neck, she recognized the familiar part of the road. Instinct had brought her to the place where she always felt welcome. Wispy smoke rose from the wattle-and-daub cottage enclosed by an uneven wooden fence. The stoked fire told her Greya was home, as did the painted sign depicting a bunch of rosemary that hung from the lowest branch of the hazelnut tree.

  Grasping the little lamb, Faye drew her horse to a halt and dismounted. Patting her mare’s neck, she led her through the gate made from wooden sticks bound together, then closed it behind them, taking care to secure the latch. She headed to the thatch-roofed shelter, where chickens nested in wooden boxes stuffed with straw and a sway-backed cow chewed cud. After tethering the mare to one of the posts, Faye crossed to the wooden door and knocked.

  Moments later, the panel creaked open. From the muted shadows inside, Greya smiled.

  “Lady Rivellaux.” She drew the door open wider. “I knew ’twas you.”

  A smile tugged at Faye’s lips. “Somehow, you always know.”

  “I do, for you—” Greya’s motherly smile faltered. “What happened to your cheek? Let me have a look.” Stepping back, the old woman motioned Faye in. Today, Greya wore her silver gray hair, the hue of winter sunshine grazing a cold lake, braided and pinned around her head. Her tresses glimmered in the light of candles clustered on a nearby wall shelf.

  For a moment, Faye hesitated. In all the morning’s commotion, she had forgotten about her injury. While she was glad of Greya’s willingness to inspect the wound, she did not wish to explain how she got it.

  “Come,” Greya insisted. “Please. Before all the fire’s warmth leaves the cottage.”

  Faye nodded. She could not very well leave now, could she? Moreover, the bruised part of her soul reminded her she was exactly where she wanted to be. She stepped over the threshold.

  Greya closed the door. The breeze rustled bunches of lavender, rosemary, dill, and other herbs hanging upside down from the ceiling. The drying herbs gave the cottage’s interior a comforting fragrance, a scent Faye always associated with Greya. Faye breathed in deep, and felt some of the morning’s strain slip out of her.