My Lady's Treasure

by Catherine Kean

  “No child could ever be a burden,” she said firmly. “I made a promise to Elayne. I will not break it.”

  “And so you will endanger your life to find her child. Would she ask that of you?”

  “Fie! Brant—”

  “Give me but one more day. I will find proof of Torr’s involvement.”

  She looked up at him. His bold presence dominated the small garden, claiming all focus. Even the sparrows had quieted, as though spellbound. “How can I wait another day? To think of Angeline alone, terrified—”

  “I know.” His gaze traveled the length of Elayne’s effigy before he sighed. “I cannot help but wonder if she were alive, what she could tell us about Angeline’s disappearance.”

  Shock rippled through Faye, followed by a rush of anger. “What do you mean?”

  A tight smile touched his lips. The almost insignificant gesture revealed a great deal. He had known Elayne. When had they met? How long had he known her? Faye did not recall Elayne ever mentioning him.

  “Mayhap she knew what mischief was brewing,” he said.

  “You cannot possibly mean Elayne was involved!”

  Thrusting up one hand, he said, “I do not claim such. Yet, it cannot be coincidence that days before her death, she sent a rider with a letter urging me to come to Caldstowe.”

  “I did not realize you were a friend of Elayne’s.”

  If he noticed the tension binding her words, he did not acknowledge it. His head dipped in a stiff nod. “We had not spoken in a long time. We were … close. Once.”

  How close? Faye wondered, with an unwelcome sting of jealousy. Her mind teased her with a vision of Brant and Elayne standing together in profile, smiling, his hands sweeping through her hair before they settled at her waist to draw her in for a kiss. Setting her jaw, Faye forced away the image.

  “Her note claimed the matter was urgent. I could not refuse her request. She had no reason to contact me, unless she had no one else to turn to.” Brant paused. “Not even her husband.”

  An ache cut through Faye. Surely Elayne had known she could trust Faye with anything. Every free moment, those last difficult days, she had spent at Elayne’s bedside. She had wiped Elayne’s fevered brow, pressed the goblet of herbal infusion to her lips, held her hand during the mad fits that had wracked her, and fulfilled all of her demands, including her request to send one of the stable hands to her chamber. When the man had arrived, Elayne had struggled to sit up, then asked Faye to leave. Elayne was lady of the household, and Faye had no right to question her.

  Mayhap that day, Elayne had given the letter to the man before ordering him to find Brant.

  “I packed my belongings and rode out that same day. When I reached Caldstowe, I learned she had died. I was too late.”

  Voices and footfalls carried from the bailey. They were the sounds of the daily castle routines. The same noises had come in through Elayne’s chamber window while she lay between life and death, her body twisting in pain. Faye shut her mind to the memories. Better to remember her dear friend in pleasant moments, rather than the ones fraught with anguish.

  Especially those moments when, choking words through broken lips, Elayne had begged Faye to protect Angeline.

  “I promise,” Faye had whispered over and over. “I promise.”

  The memory fragmented. With a start, Faye realized her hands clasped the stone figure’s, as though offering comfort. “’Tis unfortunate you did not see her before she died,” she said softly. “Still, you have not given me a good reason not to go to Torr.”

  Brant’s gaze narrowed. “Faye.”

  “What harm is there in asking Torr?”

  “Ask me what?”

  A gasp wrenched from Faye at the same time Brant whirled to face the garden entrance. A curious frown on his handsome face, Torr stood on the path.

  “Ask me what, Faye?”

  She forced a little laugh. “Well, I—”

  Brant stepped forward, shielding her body with his own. Dipping his head in lazy greeting to Torr, Brant chuckled. “Ask why you have never introduced me to this exquisite young lady. Do you mean to keep her all to yourself?”

  Astonishment rippled through Faye, while warmth flooded her face. How deftly Brant contrived the falsehood. How well he leapt into his role of protector. She should be annoyed with him for seizing control of the situation, but, without his interference, she would still be scrambling for words.

  Brant glanced back at her. In his gaze, she saw a command to play along with his ruse.

  Averting her gaze, she looked at Torr. A smile teased the corners of his mouth.

  Taking another step nearer Torr, Brant threw his hands wide. “I could not help but speak to her, when I saw her standing alone by this tomb. A woman so vibrant and lovely, in a place reserved for the dead.” He shook his head. “I hoped to see her smile.”

  Torr’s gaze shifted to Faye. Under his scrutiny, her face burned. She again felt his fingers in her hair, twisting the strand around and around his hand. “Did you?” he asked.

  “Make her smile?” Brant gave a wry snort. “I vow she did not like my flattery.”

  Play along, Faye told herself, even as her pulse thumped at an uncomfortable pace. Corroborate his tale, and all will be well. Arching an eyebrow, she said, “Flattery, indeed. He is a knave with a clever tongue.”

  Brant grinned. “So the wenches tell me.”

  Torr chortled, then so did Brant. Their bawdy laughter carried through the garden. Two maidservants passing by paused to stare at them before hurrying on.

  Scowling, Faye crossed her arms. Whatever they were laughing about was most certainly rude.

  She longed to thrust her head high and stomp out of the garden. However, she had been here first. Pride refused to let her walk away.

  Wiping his eyes, Torr smiled at her. “Do not be angry, Faye. We are only enjoying a … man’s jest. I trust the proper introductions have been made?”

  Before Faye could utter one word, Brant dropped into a gallant bow. “Brant Meslarches, milady.”

  “Brant, may I introduce Lady Faye Rivellaux, wife of the late Hubert Rivellaux and a dear friend of Elayne’s and mine. She has lived at Caldstowe since her husband’s death.” His smile broadened. “She is, of course, welcome to stay here as long as she likes.”

  “An immense pleasure, lovely lady,” Brant said. As he straightened, she caught mischief glinting in his eyes. He enjoyed every moment of them pretending to be strangers.

  Well, so would she.

  “How gracious you are, sir,” she said, while Torr strode to her side. “Have you visited Caldstowe before? Despite my months here, I do not remember seeing you.”

  A hint of warning shadowed Brant’s gaze.

  “Do you live close to Caldstowe?”

  He shrugged, neatly avoiding a definite reply. “Mayhap you simply did not notice me. There are many knights at Caldstowe—indeed, in the surrounding lands for many leagues—who owe allegiance to Lord Lorvais.”

  “Hmm. Mayhap.”

  With a lop-sided grin, he added, “’Tis hardly a matter for a lady like yourself to dwell upon. Surely you have more pressing concerns.”

  Oh, the knave! Feigning innocence, she said, “Indeed?”

  Annoyance glinted in Brant’s cool blue eyes. “From your poignant expression earlier, milady, I vow ’tis so.”

  His words ended on a familiar huskiness. Tension sparked anew inside her. So much challenge threaded through his words that she wanted to contradict him, to continue their battle of wits and words. However, they had managed to successfully thwart Torr’s suspicions. For now, mayhap ’twas enough.

  “Well,” Torr said, “now you two are acquainted, why do we not go to the great hall to dine? The cook has prepared roasted quail.”

  “That sounds lovely,” Faye said.

  Torr smiled at her. “You wished to speak with me, did you not? After the meal, we will talk.”

  ***

  Following a few pa
ces behind Faye and Torr, Brant glared at Torr’s arm slung around her waist. His fingers, slightly splayed on her mantle and pressed to her swaying hip, had a possessive air about them. With his flesh, he branded her as his own.

  Brant gritted his teeth. He itched to knock Torr’s hand away. His mouth burned with the snarled reprimand that Faye belonged to no man.

  Not even him.

  For as much as he desired her, he did not deserve her.

  Regret clamped like a vice around Brant’s heart. Seeing her and Torr walking side by side, he knew that, from appearances, Torr was the kind of man she would choose as a husband. Wealthy, respected, a lord of great authority, he would provide her with a lifestyle worthy of a lady, with all the luxuries Elayne had enjoyed.

  Unlike Brant, who had no estate to call his own, with barely enough coin to pay for his food, drink, his dog, or his horse. A man who had murdered his brother. Curling his hands at his sides, he fought the surge of self loathing which threatened to choke him.

  Ahead, Torr dipped his head near Faye’s ear, as though to murmur a secret. “I have yet to see you wear Elayne’s gowns.”

  “I know.” She turned her face—just as Torr moved close enough to brush his lips against her hair—to glance at a girl carrying a basket of eggs. How neatly Faye avoided the intimate contact. Frowning, Torr straightened.

  Gladness shivered through Brant. Mayhap some of what he had told her had made an impression—made her consider, at least, Torr’s involvement in the snarled tapestry of deception.

  God’s teeth! If only he had proof.

  “Tomorrow morn, you can speak with one of the keep’s seamstresses,” Torr said. “I will arrange the meeting for you, if you like.”

  Faye looked back at Torr. Clever, how he recaptured her attention, a verbal snare disguised as an offer of assistance.

  Brant continued to glare at Torr’s back, at the elegant drape of his cloak enrobing him in respectability. A cloak of deception, if Brant’s suspicions were correct.

  “’Tis very kind of you,” Faye answered, “but I fear I am busy tomorrow morn. Mayhap another day.”

  “Very well,” Torr said, sounding peeved. He seemed to sense Brant’s stare, for he swiveled while he walked. “You are quiet back there, my friend.”

  Brant forced a careless smile. “I am famished. I can think of naught else but your cook’s fine fare.” He nodded to Faye. “And, of course, the fine conversation during the meal.”

  In the near distance, a woman’s voice carried. “Milord!”

  “Conversation, indeed.” Raising his eyebrows, Torr looked out across the inner bailey.

  Turning on his heel, Brant followed Torr’s gaze. By the well, a buxom serving wench, her arms laden with firewood, struggled to dislodge the scruffy cap that had slid down over her face to reveal long brown hair.

  “Milord,” she called again. Brant frowned. She did not gesture to Torr, but … him.

  Brant tore his gaze away. She could not be summoning him. He knew very few of the servants at Caldstowe. With absolutely certainty, he knew she was not one he had ever met for a quick tumble behind the stable.

  “A friend of yours?” Faye asked.

  “I do not know who she is,” he bit back, hating the strained quality of his voice. He had no reason to feel guilty about the wench mistaking him for another man.

  “Whoever she is, she is certainly eager for your attention.”

  Brant resisted a smile. Did he hear jealousy in Faye’s voice?

  He looked back at the servant. She had set down her armload of wood to right her cap. Sunlight caught her pocked face. Deane.

  Catching his gaze, she beckoned again, impatience apparent in the thrust of her hand.

  Brant cleared his throat, fighting the urge to tell her to stop being so bloody obvious. He feigned a roguish chuckle. “I suppose I should see what she wants.”

  Torr snorted.

  Faye’s lips pressed together.

  Brant sauntered toward Deane. Behind him, he heard Faye and Torr’s footfalls resume.

  As he approached, the strumpet winked at him. “’Allo.”

  In the near distance, the forebuilding door creaked open. Brant sensed Torr escorting Faye inside, before the door clicked closed.

  A level of tension slid from his taut posture. “Good day.”

  Deane’s wide, conspiratorial gaze darted about the bailey. “I gots ta speak with ye. I gots news.”

  Brant’s pulse jolted. “Good.” In a low voice, he said, “Pretend to be seducing me. Move to that quiet, shadowed area beside the stable.”

  Deane tittered. With loose-hipped strides, she started backward toward the stable. “Pretend ta seduce ye? ’Tis easy. Ta ’ave a stallion like ye interested in me …” Her gaze raked over him, lingering on his groin. “Mmm.”

  Brant grinned and swaggered forward, matching her strides. As they entered the shadows, he reached out and flicked aside the ties of her cap.

  Her bosom bounced on a brazen giggle.

  Two more steps, and her bottom hit the stable’s wattle and daub walls. Pressing one hand to the rough wall, he leaned over her. “Tell me your news.”

  Her tongue darted between her lips. “First, ’ow ’bout a kiss?”

  “’Twas not part of our agreement.”

  Her face creased into a lusty grin. “’Twould help with the pretendin’.”

  Unable to hold back an impatient growl, he said, “The news?”

  She loosed a petulant sigh. Then her gaze shadowed. “’Tis about a young girl who works in the kitchen, named Blythe. She ’as been a big ’elp ta me, she ’as.”

  “Aye?”

  “Well, ya see, the other eve, as we ate our pottage after gettin’ ’is lordship’s meal, she told me about somethin’ she ’ad seen. She could not put it from ’er mind.”

  “Go on,” Brant said, toying with Deane’s cap tie.

  “She feared what she ’ad witnessed. ’Er eyes were ’uge. She was shakin’. Made me promise not ta tell another soul, and I told her ’twould be all right. She told me she snuck out a few eves ago fer a quick tumble with ’er young lover. ’E’s a farmer’s son, ye see. She came back in the dark hours, meanin’ ta ’urry through the postern gate. When she got close, she saw two men on ’orses. She did not know what was ’appenin’, so she ’id in the brush.”

  Anticipation hummed inside Brant. “What happened?”

  “They was speakin’ ta another man in quiet voices. Like they did not want ta be overheard.” Deane’s mouth tightened before she whispered, “Blythe saw that little girl bein’ lifted onto one o’ them ’orses.”

  Brant froze. “Is she certain she saw Angeline?”

  Deane nodded. “There was just enough moonlight that Blythe saw the child. Would never mistake that li’l angel’s face. She was all wrapped up in a blanket, mind, and sleepy.”

  The question Brant wanted—nay, needed—to ask, hovered on his lips. He looked at Deane. “Lord Lorvais?”

  The strumpet’s eyes widened before concern glinted in their depths. “’Is lordship handed the child over to those men.”

  Anger and elation surged like a heady brew in Brant’s veins. “She definitely saw Torr?”

  “Aye. She saw ’is lordship’s face. No mistakin’.”

  Brant pushed away from the wall. At last, he had proof for Faye. “Who else has Blythe told?”

  “No one. She feared Lord Lorvais would find out and she would lose ’er job.” Deane’s voice became a whisper. “Or worse.”

  “I must speak with this girl.”

  Indignation sharpened Deane’s gaze. “Why? Do ye not trust what I ’ave told ye?”

  Trying very hard to control his impatience, Brant bestowed upon her his most charming smile. “Of course I do. There may be other details, though—important ones—that she remembers.”

  “If I tell ’er ye wish ta speak with ’er, she will know I broke me promise.”

  Brant touched Deane’s cheek, so different from
the silken softness of Faye’s skin. “Since you have provided such excellent information, I will pay you another five pieces of silver.”

  Deane looked away. She shrugged before her gaze slid back to his. “This eve, Blythe goes ta spend a few days with ’er mother, who is plagued by achin’ joints. I could, mayhap, see if she will speak with ye—”

  “Good. As soon as possible.”

  “—Fer the silver and a kiss, me lusty lord.”

  Brant scowled, challenging her coy grin. He had paid her well to gather information for him—he did not owe her a kiss—but he leaned in to drop a quick kiss on her cheek.

  Rolling her eyes, she grumbled, “’Twas not a kiss.”

  Brant spun away from her, resolve glowing as hot as coals in his gut. The only woman he intended to kiss full on the mouth had disappeared into the keep, escorted by the man responsible for causing her anguish. A merciless bastard who had participated in his own daughter’s kidnapping, and pretended not to know her whereabouts.

  Why? Ah, God, why?

  Brant’s gaze narrowed on the forebuilding. He started toward the keep, his boots crunching on the dirt. Over his shoulder, he said, “I will be in the great hall, dining with Lord Lorvais. Tell the girl I wish to speak to her. Hurry.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Are you certain you are all right, Faye?” Torr asked, his voice carrying in the dank forebuilding along with their footfalls. His arm tightened around her waist, so her hip brushed against his.

  All right? A voice in her head screeched. How, by the blessed saints, could she be all right?

  Forcing down the denial, concentrating on the narrow, uneven stone steps ascending to the hall, Faye nodded to Torr, even as she struggled to temper the storm of emotion inside her. How foolish of her to let him keep his arm at her waist. How weak of her not to have found some way to thwart the unwanted body contact, to put discreet distance between them. ’Twas unfair to encourage his attentions. At the moment, however, his possessive hold was an anchor securing her to the cold sea of reality.