My Lady's Treasure

by Catherine Kean

  Faye, my treasure, he had whispered earlier.

  Smiling, she opened her eyes. He lay on his side, one muscled leg still draped over hers. What a rogue he looked, with his hair an unruly snarl, his eyes aglow with triumph, and his hose still unfastened, an oversight which suggested he might wish to pleasure her again.

  Oh, mercy.

  As delicious heat spiraled through her, all the way down to her toes, he grinned. “Well?”

  “Well what?” By the saints, she could not be so bold as to assume he wanted to couple again.

  Could she?

  “Did I speak true about the pleasure?”

  She nodded, her hair whispering against the coverlet. “’Twas more wondrous than I ever imagined.”

  His grin broadened. How devastating he looked when his gaze narrowed with smoldering intent. He linked his hand through hers and drew it to his mouth. He kissed her fingers, one by one, a slow, deliberate brush of his lips that transformed the sinful heat inside her to a nagging hunger. “Does that mean you would like some more?”

  Laughing, she said, “Aye, when I have caught my breath.”

  “You need only ask, and pleasure is yours.” He winked. “There is much I can teach you, Faye.”

  She pushed up on one elbow, bringing her face closer to his. As she fingered aside sweat-matted tresses, her gaze fell to her naked thighs. Her rumpled gown still rode to her waist. Shyness swept through her. Ridiculous, really, considering the intimacy she and Brant had just shared. Yet, as her face warmed, she sat up, wriggling her hips to tug the gown down over her knees.

  Brant chuckled. “Why do you hide your legs? I shall only be tempted to reveal them again, for they are ravishing, shapely …”

  His words became a blur of sound. A memory seared her mind: her thighs streaked crimson with blood, the day she lost her babe.

  With a startled gasp, she pressed her hand to her belly. She shivered, wracked by a chill that leeched all warmth from her.

  The bed ropes creaked. Shifted. Brant’s arm closed around her and pulled her against his chest. “What is wrong? Are you in discomfort?”

  She shook her head. Her cheek brushed against his tunic. Through the warm fabric, she heard his steady heartbeat, the pulse of life. Her stillborn daughter had never drawn even one living breath.

  Faye blinked hard.

  “What, then?” Brant’s arm around her relaxed a fraction. “Ah. I understand now. You fear you might have conceived a babe.”

  “Nay,” she murmured.

  “You worry how you will explain the child growing in your belly”—Brant’s tone hardened—“when you are a widow.”

  She hated to hear anger in Brant’s voice, especially after the joy they had shared. Raising her head, she met his wary gaze. “If there is a babe, I will cherish it. I do not care what others might say.”

  “If there is a babe—” he repeated quietly.

  “—I will consider it a gift. A divine miracle. Especially after …” She bit down on her lip.

  Puzzlement darkened Brant’s expression. “After what?”

  Grief twisted up inside her. For the first time in many long months, though, she wanted to speak of what happened. “After I miscarried my daughter.”

  “Faye! God’s teeth, I am sorry. If I had known—”

  She took his face in her hands, silencing him by pressing her thumbs to his lips. His eyes moist with regret, he gently kissed her. “Please,” he breathed on her damp skin. “Forgive me.”

  With a sad smile, she touched his ruined cheek. “We both have our scars.”

  Disquiet flickered in his gaze before he smiled. “We do. However, if I have given you a babe, I will not abandon you, or my responsibility to my child. This I promise.” As though to affirm his vow, Brant drew her forward and kissed her. The tender kiss soothed like a healing balm.

  His tongue slid between her teeth, deepening the sensual contact, offering another taste of pleasure. In answer, she met the thrust of his tongue, encouraging his desire. With a hungry growl, he eased her back down upon the bed. His hand slid under her gown, gliding it up her thigh. The friction of the fabric against her skin sped her pulse with anticipation.

  A knock sounded on her chamber door.

  She lurched, making the bed ropes creak.

  Breaking the kiss, Brant drew back.

  Turning her head on the coverlet, Faye glanced at the door. She had not locked it after Brant stepped into her chamber, or before their lovemaking.

  Another knock.

  Brant blew out a breath. “Faye,” he whispered.

  “I must answer it,” she whispered back, pushing up.

  “Must you?” A mischievous grin pulled at his lips while his hand buried into her hair, twisting it around and around as though to hold her firm.

  Another brisk rap. “Faye?”

  “Torr!” she gasped.

  The teasing mirth vanished from Brant’s expression. He tipped his head toward the opposite side of the bed.

  Rising to her feet, Faye nodded. A wise plan. He would hide until she had finished with Torr and he went away.

  The bed ropes creaked as Brant swung his legs onto the coverlet. More creaks and groans as he scrambled toward the other side. She smoothed her hair with frantic hands, hoping her efforts would be enough to thwart any suspicions Torr might harbor.

  Muttered voices came from outside.

  “I-I will be right there,” she called.

  The door opened inward.

  In the midst of straightening her bodice, she froze.

  Torr stepped into her chamber. As his gaze fell upon her, then Brant, poised to lunge off the bed’s opposite side, his mouth hardened. His face twisted into a forbidding scowl. Reaching back, he swung the door closed. The slam reverberated like a crash of thunder.

  “Torr,” she said. In the awful silence, her acknowledgment sounded like a curse.

  His furious gaze returned to her. With painstaking slowness, he glanced her over, seeming to notice every damning detail: her mussed tresses, burning face, reddened mouth, and creased gown. Still clutching her bodice, her fingers curled so tightly, she vowed her knuckles would crack.

  Behind her, bedding rustled. Footfalls thudded as Brant strode around the bed, fastening his hose. Faye dragged her gaze from him, to find Torr’s dagger-sharp gaze still upon her.

  “Explain yourself, Meslarches,” he bit out.

  Brant stood beside her. “What shall I explain?”

  Torr’s lip curled. “Did he broach your chamber, Faye, and try to hurt you? Did he force himself upon you? Tell you not to cry out for help?”

  Tremendous rage echoed in his voice. She struggled to hold her head high. “Nay.”

  “Why, then, is he in your chamber? Scrambling across your bed, no less, like a knave afraid of being caught with his hose around his ankles?”

  Brant raised his brows. The irreverent gesture somehow expressed all of what had happened between him and her.

  An angry breath exploded from Torr. “Earlier, you wished to speak with me, Faye. Why? To tell me you have taken a lover?”

  He almost spat his question, as though her taking a lover was akin to committing a heinous crime. Anger skittered in a hot-cold flush across her skin. “That is not why I wished to speak with you.”

  Brant’s arm slid around her waist in silent reassurance. Strength seemed to flow from his body into hers, bolstering her courage like an elixir. “When I did not answer your knock,” she added, “you should not have entered my chamber. I wish you had respected my privacy.”

  Astonishment lit his gaze before his eyes again narrowed. “You seem to have forgotten you live in my keep.”

  Faye swallowed hard. In other words, he would do as he pleased.

  Torr spread his hands wide. “I do not mean to sound unreasonable, Faye. You must understand I had to step inside. ’Tis my sworn duty, as lord of Caldstowe, to care for those in my household. You complained earlier of a headache. For all I knew, you were
too ill to walk to the door. Lying senseless on the floor, even.”

  Brant snorted.

  Torr’s contemptuous gaze snapped to him. “And you. Were the other wenches not enough to satisfy your lust?”

  Anguish lanced through Faye, grazing the tender edge of her soul. She sensed Torr’s malicious intent to wound Brant, to control the situation. Still, she could not help glancing at Brant.

  He stared at Torr. A brittle smile tilted Brant’s mouth.

  “You were not satisfied with wenches,” Torr went on. “You had to seduce a lady. A widow still grieving for her husband.”

  Faye sucked in a harsh breath. When she looked up, Brant’s intent gaze locked with hers.

  “I did not lie to you, Faye. I did not couple with those other women.”

  “What convincing words.” Torr’s laughter sounded almost smug. “You are a devious rogue, Meslarches.”

  Faye tipped her chin higher. “I trust Brant.”

  “Do you, indeed? I have known him far longer than you. I vow he would have told you whatever you wished to hear, if it meant you took him to your bed.”

  Brant swore under his breath.

  Faye gasped. “What a wretched thing to say!”

  “Believe me, he is hardly a man innocent of guilt. You have been deceived.”

  Aye, so I have, her conscience screeched. By you. With effort, she bit back the hateful words. To lash out at Torr in such a rash manner, to provoke him further, was very foolish.

  When she did not answer, he said, “You do not believe me?”

  A deliberate taunt. He dared her to challenge him. To argue what a brave, honorable champion she had found in Brant.

  His arm at her waist shifted, as though he sensed the disquiet tingling through her veins. Why would Torr taunt her so? What reason did he have to goad her into challenging him?

  What did he know about Brant that she did not?

  Torr smiled, yet warmth did not brighten his gaze. He looked at Brant. “How well you have hidden your true nature from her.”

  Her unease deepened, sharpened by a new confusion. “True nature? What do you mean?”

  “Enough.” The anger and pain in Brant’s voice reminded her, for some peculiar reason, of the hint of a secret she had glimpsed earlier in his gaze. “There is no deception between Faye and me,” he said with quiet menace. “Do not insist there is.”

  Torr crossed his arms over his tunic. Raising his eyebrows, he said, “Really? For her to have allowed you to couple with her, she must have thought you to be a man of a certain … caliber.”

  Faye shivered as Brant’s muscled arm at her waist tautened. His fingers clenched into her gown, as though he battled to control his rising fury. “My relationship with Faye is none of your affair.”

  “She is an honored guest at Caldstowe. Since she was a dear friend of Elayne’s, I consider her my friend as well. ’Tis my obligation to warn her when I know she is making a grave error in judgment.”

  Choking back a furious cry, Faye stared up at Brant’s rigid profile. Fury, yet also intense anguish, radiated from him. Why did he seem in such torment? Did he believe she would never wish to see him again because of what Torr said? Surely, after the magical bond they shared, he did not believe that.

  She nudged closer so her hip pressed to his. An offer of comfort, as well as a promise she would not forsake the intimate pledge forged between them. Meeting Torr’s gaze, she said, “Surely ’tis my choice whom I take to my bed.”

  Torr scowled. “Listen to me—”

  “Leave her be.” Brant took a step forward. Cool air brushed Faye’s hip, separated from Brant’s warmth. How she yearned to reach out and draw him back.

  Hands on his hips, Brant said, “Your disagreement is with me, Torr, not her. You and I will speak outside.”

  “Very well.” A sly grin twisted Torr’s mouth as he turned toward the door. “Remember, Faye, he is not worthy of you.”

  Brant’s breath hissed between his teeth. “And you are?”

  His fingers on the door handle, Torr halted. He slowly turned. His face contorted with such terrifying rage, Faye’s hand flew to her throat. He looked about to challenge Brant to a swordfight to the death.

  She lurched forward a step, dismay shrieking inside her. How did she stop the disagreement from dissolving into bloody violence? She would never forgive herself if Brant were mortally wounded, or died, because of a disagreement that started over her.

  “Torr, please,” she said.

  He did not seem to hear her. He continued to glare at Brant, a look that would have sent most men cowering on the floorboards pleading “Forgive me, milord.”

  Returning the steely glare, Brant did not flinch. He did not attempt to speak.

  An invisible, seething current filled the chamber. A battle of wills between the two men who stood locked in silent combat.

  A sense of something transpiring—something crucial and life-altering—shifted the chamber’s mercurial energy. Faye twisted her clammy hands together. If only she understood!

  After long moments, Torr laughed, a sound rife with gloating arrogance. Extending his arm in mocking chivalry, he said, “Go on, then. Tell her the truth. Tell her just how unworthy you are.”

  His words lashed like strikes of a whip. With his challenge, the atmosphere in her chamber changed again. A dark spell seemed to have been cast, for the rebellion in Brant’s expression wavered. Defiance melted from his posture, to be replaced by resignation.

  Faye reached out to touch his arm.

  His gaze, when he looked at her, held a terrible bleakness.

  Torr’s mouth turned up in a cruel smile. Reaching for the door handle again, he said, “Come, Brant.”

  Revulsion flooded Faye’s mouth. Torr commanded Brant as though he were a stupid mongrel who owed him lifelong obedience, not a man with an independent will.

  Brant turned toward the door.

  “Brant!” The half whisper, half sob broke from her. If he left now, he admitted he was unworthy.

  He was not! Honor glowed strong and true in his soul. She did not doubt it.

  Hands balled at his sides, he swung back to face her. Torment shone in his eyes, an agony not forged in this conflict. Her own anguish recognized that such misery drove much deeper, and had gnawed at his soul for long, painful months.

  “I am sorry, Faye,” he said. “Torr spoke true. I deceived you.”

  Brant’s voice sounded like another man’s. A stranger’s.

  Tears scalded her eyes. “Do not speak such wretchedness.”

  A despairing smile, devoid of all hope, touched Brant’s mouth—the same skilled mouth that had kissed her. Pleasured her. Murmured Faye, my treasure.

  “I am not worthy—”

  “Brant!” she sobbed. “Cease!”

  “—because I am a murderer. I killed my own brother.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brant watched, his palms coated with sickly sweat, as Faye’s pleading gaze widened with horrified disbelief. She drew a sharp breath before she stumbled backward. Against her ashen skin, her eyes looked huge. Dazed.

  “You what?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the ugly silence. Yet, those two words echoed in his soul, stabbing like verbal daggers, cutting deeper with each repetition. You what? You what?!

  “Aye,” Torr muttered behind Brant. “What did you say?”

  Brant raised his chin another notch. His mind reeled with the chaos converging inside him, the knowledge that his world, as he knew it, had disintegrated around him.

  His life would never be the same again.

  Most of all, his relationship with Faye.

  His throat burned as if he had swallowed a fiery torch yanked from the depths of hell. To repeat his words would gouge out another bleeding chunk of his soul. God help him, but there was relief in his confession as well. Tremendous, strength-draining relief that at last, his secret was a secret no longer.

  Never again must he bear the merciless wei
ght of his burden.

  Or the chafing constraints of his blood oath.

  “I am a murderer. I killed my own brother.”

  As he spoke, he looked at Faye. She appeared as shattered as he felt. He blinked away the moisture stinging his eyes. How he wished he could have spared her the truth. How he longed to take her in his arms, bury his face in her hair, and weep how sorry he was for the repugnant sin he had committed. For not being able to stop the knife sliding into Royce’s flesh.

  Faye, my treasure.

  He had vowed he would never lie to her. Of all the wrongs he had committed in his life, he would be proud, until his last dying breath, that he had never kept the truth from her.

  For the fleeting magic they had shared, he would be forever grateful. Because of her, he had found the courage to admit what he had done. To break from Torr’s controlling grasp and accept the light of responsibility.

  “When did you kill your brother?” Painfully thin, Faye’s voice cut him in a way no physical weapon could.

  “Months ago, on crusade.”

  “How?”

  Bile flooded Brant’s throat. The remembered shouts, cries, and cacophony of that terrible day overran his thoughts. The metallic smell of blood once more tinged his nostrils, turning his stomach. “I … stabbed him.”

  “Nay!” Faye covered her mouth with her shaking hands.

  “I still cannot explain how it happened,” he blurted, her anguish so painful to him, he could scarcely breathe. “I did not want to fight him. I loved Royce. I … never meant to kill him.”

  Her face crumpled. She whirled around, turning her rigid back to him. Rippling down to her hips, her tangled hair shone like molten fire, tempting him to reach out and smooth it with his hand. An offer of comfort she would most certainly reject.

  Silence filled the chamber like a foul smoke. Brant sensed Torr’s livid gaze raking over him. Brant shoved his shoulders back. He would not recant his confession. Nor would he cower when he faced whatever punishment he deserved.

  Faye trembled. She was crying, but trying hard to muffle the sound. He blinked harder, fighting the gut-wrenching urge to cross to her, drop to his knees at her feet, and beg her not to look upon him with loathing.