My Lady's Treasure

by Catherine Kean

  Outside, a dog barked.

  Val.

  Panic kicked her pulse. Brant had followed her, after all. With his dog’s help, he had tracked her down. The chalice was not enough to satisfy his desire for gold, so he had come to convince her to resume their search, armed with fresh verbal weapons to force her to concede.

  Her gaze dropped to the lamb on the table. She would not yield, no matter what means of persuasion Brant used.

  The memory of him standing at the lakeshore, dark and forbidding, stormed into her thoughts. Before she choked on her mouthful of herbal brew, she made herself swallow. The liquid stung her throat. Her hand shook as she set the mug down with a clumsy thud.

  In mid sentence, Greya paused. She frowned. “Faye?”

  “I … heard a dog outside.”

  Waving a dismissive hand, the healer laughed. “’Tis the farmer’s who lives two cottages away. His mongrel always barks in the morn. Probably telling off the travelers heading into town to buy the baker’s fresh meat pies.”

  Faye tried to respond, but the sound refused to emerge. Her gaze flew to the shuttered windows on the cottage’s opposite wall. Too small for her to climb through, if she had to flee in a hurry.

  “Whose dog did you think it might be?”

  With a jolt, Faye’s gaze returned to Greya. Curiosity brightened the old woman’s eyes.

  “I … ah …”

  “What have you not told me, milady?”

  “Please,” Faye said, rising from the bench. “There is a man—”

  Greya rose, startling strength in her regal poise. “Man? A lord?”

  Words jumbled together in Faye’s mind like a tangle of chain mail links, interlocking and twisting around each other. Explanations. Denials. Inner cries for caution, lest she say more than was wise. Shaking her head, she said, “I cannot tell you right now. If he comes here …”

  Greya’s head dipped in a brisk nod. “Do not worry, milady. I will not let him in.” She paused. “Or, would you prefer that I do?”

  “Nay!” Faye sighed. “To be honest, I doubt he will be deterred. He is most determined.”

  The old woman’s brows raised, before an intrigued smile curved her mouth. “Is he, now?”

  Heat flooded Faye’s face. Greya clearly assumed the matter was a lover’s spat. “’Tis not … He is not … I mean—”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Mercy!” Faye whispered. She started toward the windows, before stumbling to a halt and glancing back at Greya. “Is there another way out of the cottage?”

  The healer shook her head.

  Biting down on her lip, Faye looked at the door. “Well, then, I will have to face him. I will send him on his way.”

  “Allow me, milady.” Greya pointed to the wooden bathing screen positioned to shield her bed from the rest of the room. “Wait behind there.”

  Faye’s hands curled into her gown while she started toward the door. “Thank you, but ’tis not your battle.”

  Greya caught her arm. “For a man to have upset you so, milady,” she said, “I feel obliged to do what I can to help. Now, shoo.” With a gentle nudge, she coaxed Faye toward the screen.

  Another knock, accompanied by Val’s excited yip.

  Faye shuddered, for she felt the weight of that rap all through her body. Brant must be furious, to knock with such boldness. She had never thought one simple sound could elicit such a deluge of anxiety.

  Hugging her arms over her breasts, hardly daring to breathe, she hurried behind the screen. Greya unhinged the front door. It creaked open.

  “Good morn,” Brant said, his voice a low, firm rumble.

  “Good day to you,” Greya answered.

  Faye pressed her fisted hand to her mouth, grazing her knuckles with her teeth. Her legs quaked. He could not possibly see her through the screen. Still, she felt exposed, a sensation akin to standing naked in a pool of sunlight. Waiting for him to find her.

  “I must speak with Lady Rivellaux.”

  “I am sorry, milord, but she is not—”

  An impatient growl came from the doorway. The sound seemed to prowl its way across the room, as though searching her out. Faye bit down on her knuckles.

  “Her mare is tethered in your shelter,” Brant went on. “I know she is here.”

  “Are you certain ’tis her horse?” Greya said. “I oft have animals here while I tend their wounds.”

  “’Tis hers.”

  Brant snapped his fingers.

  Oh, nay! Dread shot through Faye, for she knew the command in that simple gesture.

  An instant later, she heard the pad-pad of an animal crossing the dirt floor.

  “Wait!” Greya cried. “Your dog is not allowed in my home.”

  “I apologize, good woman, but Val has a mind of his own, it seems.” Mocking warmth curled around each husky word, and Faye shivered. Brant was warning her, in his own way, that she would not escape him.

  “Call him back,” Greya said, her tone anxious.

  “I can try,” Brant answered, again with humor. “He does not always heed me. If I may come in, I will catch him.”

  Deny him, Greya! Faye screamed in her mind. Do not let him inside!

  Faye fought the burning need to bolt. How foolish. There was nowhere to run. Mayhap Val would not find her, after all. The cottage’s herbal scent might mask her presence. Aye, she would pray that it did.

  Merlin hissed, then yowled. Val barked.

  “Stop him! Wicked mongrel. He must not chase my cat.”

  Another yowl, accompanied by the scrabble of claws.

  “My apologies, good woman. Val,” Brant called—a half-hearted summons—over the sound of animals tearing around the cottage. The door creaked again, before booted footfalls thudded on the cottage floor.

  Brant had stepped inside!

  Faye smothered a moan. She felt his presence, seeking her. She knew the moment his gaze settled on the screen. Tingles shot from her scalp to her toes, with the impact of sunshine capturing an icicle in its light, its warmth toying with the frozen beauty. Droplet by droplet the icicle began to melt, each winking tear marking the inevitable bending of the ice to the sun’s will.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Faye stood as motionless as a sculpture carved from ice. She fought the power of Brant’s stare.

  Oh, please. Leave me be.

  In the main room beyond, the cacophony of racing animals continued, and then a small body scooted past her legs. Faye gasped. Her eyes flew open, to see Merlin hunched on Greya’s bed, back arched, hissing. Val stood by the edge of the screen. His gaze darted from Merlin to Faye. Then, he yapped.

  “Wretched animal,” she whispered, glaring at the little mongrel. His tail moved in a hesitant wag.

  Any moment now, Brant would approach the screen.

  She looked about the enclosed sleeping area for something—anything—to use to defend herself, for she would not willingly leave the cottage with him. Her gaze skimmed the narrow, raised pallet covered with a patchwork coverlet, then the bedside table that bore a candle holder, three earthenware ointment pots, and a round, glazed bowl of the kind fashioned by local potters. Folded cloths lay beside the washbowl.

  Stepping forward, Faye snatched up two of the lidded pots. They likely contained facial cream and hand salve, for these were Greya’s specialties. As Faye’s palms curled around the cool pots, and she caught the lingering scent of lavender, she fought a shiver of dismay. The pots were hardly good weapons to deter a warrior like Brant. When she wielded them at him, he would most likely collapse in a fit of laughter.

  “Hand salve? Facial cream?” he might gloat. “How terrifying, milady.”

  Ha! Let him chuckle as though she were a witless simpleton. She would show him what marvelous, inventive weapons she had in her possession. One well-aimed toss, and she could send him reeling backward, clutching his brow, while she ran past him.

  Throwing the pots would mean hurting him, of course. A rather unsettling thought.


  Yet, Greya knew all means of treating wounds. She would no doubt see that, despite his bruised pride and a nasty bump, Brant was hale, even as Faye galloped off.

  Delicious anticipation rippled through Faye.

  Then she realized the room beyond the screen was astonishingly quiet.

  She listened. Apart from the snapping fire, she heard naught.

  The wretched knave must have sensed her thoughts, for his low chuckle echoed in the cottage. “Whenever you are ready, milady, you may come out from behind that screen.”

  She recoiled as if he had reached an arm around the screen to grab her. Heat scorched her face. Her fingers curled tighter around the pots. What arrogance. She may come out from behind the screen? Did he infer he granted her permission?

  How wretchedly cunning. He obviously wanted her to capitulate, rather than him having to haul her out from behind the barricade. He did not want Greya to see him force her out kicking and screaming. He wanted to preserve the illusion of a lover’s spat between them.

  Wicked, wicked man.

  Struggling to control her irritation, she wondered if he knew for certain she hid behind the screen. He could not. The wood reached almost to the floor, so ’twas unlikely he saw her shoes. She had not called out and betrayed herself. Nor had Greya told him.

  Squaring her shoulders, she glared at Val. The little dog’s ears flattened to his head. His tail stopped wagging, but he did not budge.

  Keeping watch on her, was he? Well, for all his thick skulled oaf of a master knew, Val was guarding Merlin.

  If Brant hoped his annoying words would goad her into revealing herself, he would not succeed.

  She would come out from the screen when she felt like it.

  If she felt like it.

  A giddy laugh bubbled inside her. She would wait him out. Stay here, silent and defiant, until he yawned with boredom and decided to see if, in fact, she hid behind the screen—in which case she would have ample warning to aim her pots.

  “Good man,” Greya said, sounding nervous. “Mayhap if you wait outside—”

  “I will wait here.”

  The old woman huffed.

  When the silence dragged, guilt nagged at Faye. Her willfulness made the situation very difficult for Greya. ’Twas not fair to impose upon her friendship, or her home, in such a manner.

  “Milady,” Brant called, an ominous note in his voice. “I shall count to three. If, by that time, you have not appeared—”

  Another command! What an arrogant, insufferable—

  “One.”

  Her chin tilted up a notch, even as a tremor rippled through her. She raised one of the pots, preparing her aim. She would wait him out. Aye. Excellent plan.

  “Two.”

  Her hands grew damp, threatening her secure grip. Soon, he would storm over to fetch her, and then—thwack!

  What if she missed? She had a difficult enough time swatting flies.

  What if she hit him? Would blood spatter? What if his injury left a scar?

  What if she accidentally killed him?

  “Three.”

  Oh, God! She lurched to the edge of the screen. Val scooted backward, before spinning around and scurrying over to Brant.

  Arms crossed, he stood with one hip braced against the trestle table. His glittering gaze locked with hers before a roguish smile tilted up the corner of his mouth. “There you are. I thought I was going to have to fetch you myself.”

  An angry flush warmed her face. “Disappointed, are you?”

  He grinned.

  Gliding over, Greya touched Faye’s arm. “I am sorry, milady. When his dog went after Merlin, I was concerned. Before I could stop him, he walked in.”

  Faye managed a smile. “’Tis all right.” Switching the pots to one sweaty palm, she dried the other on her gown.

  Greya’s gaze dropped to the pots. With a puzzled frown, she said, “You need more hand salve, milady? Or the facial cream?”

  Faye swallowed. “Actually—”

  “I vow those could cause a rather nasty bump,” Brant murmured, “if they were thrown at someone.”

  Raising her eyebrows, Faye said, “Mmm.”

  Before she could even think to draw back her arm—not that she intended to—Brant had crossed the space between them. She stepped back, anxious to avoid him, but he caught her hands, pried out the pots, and handed them to Greya.

  Faye gasped. “You have no right—”

  His possessive hands locked around her wrists. Looking at Greya, he said, “Leave us.”

  “You cannot order Greya out of her own home!”

  “Good woman, you have my solemn vow I will do her no harm,” he said, while Faye struggled to free herself from his grip. “What I intend to say must be said to her alone.”

  Uncertainty shadowed Greya’s gaze.

  “I do not have the slightest wish to speak with you,” Faye bit out. When his gaze, sparkling with dangerous amusement, slid back to her, she glared at him. “None.”

  “My clever, fetching, stubborn love,” he murmured with a sensual huskiness that made her belly swoop, “I regret you saw the need to run from me, but I am certain we can overcome this unfortunate disagreement.”

  She refused to heed the wanton vision flitting through her mind of him lying naked on his side in bed, smiling in that bawdy, lop-sided way, while patting the coverlet. “Do not call me your love. You know as well as I ’tis untrue.”

  “Faye.” Clucking his tongue, sounding like a man already gloating over his victory, he tugged her hands forward until they touched his tunic, warmed by his broad body. So easily he maneuvered her, despite her struggles.

  The softness of his tunic brushed her fingers. It felt like supple, tanned skin. His skin, gliding against hers. A sinful awareness coursed through her.

  Brant leaned in closer, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple. “Faye, my love, what I have to say is of vast importance to us both.”

  “I will not listen!”

  He chuckled. “Come, now, there is no reason to be ashamed of us.”

  “Ashamed?” she choked out. By the saints! How she wanted to scream at him.

  A faint clatter—the sound of small pots being set on the trestle table—intruded into Faye’s mental haze. “I shall leave you two alone to speak,” Greya said. “I will return after tending to the animals in the stable and gathering more firewood.”

  Brant smiled at her. “Thank you. If you would be so kind, would you please tether my destrier around the back of the stable so he may graze?”

  “There he will also be hidden from sight,” Greya noted with a faint smile. “Very well, milord. If you need me, milady, I am just outside.” The old woman gave them both a brisk nod, then walked out the door. It closed with a click behind her.

  Words tumbled from Faye’s lips. “What … what treachery!”

  Looking down at her, Brant’s expression hardened. “Beware, Faye. I say the same of you.”

  “Indeed? Why so? You manipulated Greya into believing we are lovers. I have done naught.”

  “Nay?” He scowled. “You manipulated me. You led me to the riverbank, and then refused to follow through with your pledge to help me find the treasure. Without any explanation, you deserted me there.”

  She sensed anguish in his words, pierced by a sense of betrayal. Truly, she had not intended to deceive him. Yet, she could never explain the tangled emotions which had hounded her, forcing her to leave. “Brant, I—”

  Releasing her hands, he exhaled a tormented sigh. “What is important, now, is that we have a chance to talk.” He paused, as if mulling his next words. “To be honest.”

  The cottage air swept over her fingers, making her aware he no longer touched her—an abandonment of its own kind. Rubbing her palms up and down her sleeves, she frowned. “What do you mean? What more is there to say?”

  His gaze snapped up to meet hers. “A great deal.” Resolve gleamed in his eyes. There, also, she saw hints of his dar
kest secrets. Gesturing to the bench running alongside the table, he said, “Mayhap you should sit.”

  She almost blurted out, I would prefer to stand. However, an element in his voice—soul-deep reluctance, or the catch conveying his unease—coaxed her to cross the few steps to the bench and sit. Clasping her hands together, she looked up at him.

  Plowing his hand into his wind-snarled hair, he paced across Greya’s home. Val lay on the floor nearby, his head on his paws, his gaze following Brant’s every movement, while Merlin peered warily around the edge of the screen.

  Pivoting on his heel, Brant turned back to Faye. “Where to begin …” His tone roughened. “Mayhap with the journal.”

  He did not seem a man to write down his musings. “’Tis your journal?”

  Hands on his hips, Brant halted. “My older brother Royce’s. For years, he kept notes and made drawings regarding a vast hoard he believed was hidden somewhere near here. A treasure that, long ago, belonged to the Celtic king named Arthur.”

  “You believe the goblet is part of this treasure,” Faye said.

  Brant nodded. Head bent, his silky hair snarling down around his face, he stared at the swept dirt floor. It seemed that what he had to reveal next, he could not speak while holding her gaze. “When Royce and I joined the king’s crusade, he brought the journal with him. He studied it every free moment, between battles or at night, when we retreated to our camp. Finding the treasure was his dream.” Remorse softened his tone. “I can still see him sitting cross legged next to the fire, cradling the book in his hands, mulling over what he had written …”

  “Does he still have the journal?” Faye asked.

  “Royce perished in the east. The journal was lost.”

  “I see.” Awkward tension whispered through the room. “I am sorry,” she added, “that he died.”

  “As am I.” Barely a rasp of sound, Brant’s voice was more poignant than if he had collapsed to his knees and sobbed.

  His grief reached out to her, intangible, yet as potent as smoke wafting from a bubbling cauldron of elixir. Her heart understood the agony of loss, of loving and losing without any way of changing what had happened. Of believing oneself responsible for a death.