My Lady's Treasure

by Catherine Kean

  Brant scooped up the mongrel, holding Val’s dripping body against his chest while he waded heavily through the water. He strode up onto the rock-strewn bank, water streaming down his hose. The soaked cloth stuck to his legs. His boots squelched.

  Brant set Val down. Clenching his jaw, he ignored the blast of wind that chilled his flesh and made his toes curl inside his boots. He must protect Faye. He would die to save her.

  Only a few yards ahead, her urgent gasps echoed. He ran after her. A triumphant smile tugged at his lips, for her sodden skirts slowed her down. She scrambled over the uneven ground, the wet ends of her hair leaving damp marks on her lower back. With a desperate oath, she veered closer to the soaring rock wall to avoid a jumble of rotting branches and debris.

  He was gaining on her.

  A branch, sharp as an accusing finger, snagged in his hose. Cursing, he kicked the branch. Pulled free.

  Raising his head, he looked ahead for Faye.

  Gone.

  Sudden, acute fear unlike anything he had ever known slammed through him. Had she fallen? He did not see her floundering, trying to get to her feet, so she might be unconscious. He scrambled to where he had last seen her.

  “Faye?” he yelled, not caring if the approaching riders or dogs heard.

  His hoarse cry carried down the narrow canyon. The sound repeated back to him, over and over, mocking his urgency.

  “Faye!” he shouted, his gaze skimming the surrounding rocks. A fallen willow lay near the rock wall, its roots and trunk trapped between boulders while its branches dangled in the river. Could she be crouched down behind the tree?

  He scrambled toward the willow.

  “Val,” he shouted. If she were hiding, the little dog could draw her out.

  To his left, a stone rattled. Val, no doubt, heeding Brant’s command.

  No furry mongrel scrambled into view.

  Brant glanced about. “Val?”

  Now his dog was missing, too.

  Wind screamed past the rock wall beside him. Rain spat. A terrible sense of loneliness taunted Brant, a torment even deeper than the day he had killed Royce.

  The baying dogs were near.

  Very near.

  He raised his hand to push windblown hair out of his eyes. And then he saw it.

  In the rock wall by the fallen willow, partly hidden by intertwining vines, he spied an opening.

  A cave?

  He lurched forward, his boots skating over uneven stones. Pushing aside the curtain of dirt-encrusted vines, he stepped inside.

  A breath of cold, damp air enveloped him. Squinting, he walked on into the grayed shadows.

  Three steps in, and something brushed his leg. Val.

  “There you are.” He glowered down at the bright-eyed little mongrel. As he spoke, he sensed they were not alone. Relief flooded through him.

  Raising his head, he spied Faye pressed back against the cavern’s wall, her hands splayed on the stone. She stood on the verge of the darker shadows, as though unwilling to go further.

  Teeth chattering, she met his gaze. She looked away. From outside, came voices and the distant ring of hooves. Riders had reached the riverbank.

  “We need a better place to hide,” Brant said. “Torr’s men may have brought torches. They will search the cave if they find it.”

  “’Tis nigh impossible to see”—she shuddered—“what lies further on.”

  In the near distance, rocks skittered. A splash. Excited yelps. Torr’s dogs were tracking their scent and coming closer. If he and Faye had any hope of remaining undetected—

  Val stared at the cave opening, where dim light broached the shadows. Ears flattening, he growled.

  “Val,” Brant snapped. “Quiet.”

  Brant turned to Faye. Stretching out his hand, he said, “Come with me. We will go deeper into the cavern.”

  She shook her head.

  Men’s voices drifted from the river. Among them, Brant recognized Torr’s. “—search every part of the shore,” he was saying. “They are here. I can sense it.”

  “Oh, mercy,” Faye whispered. She was staring down at the hole in her gown. “What if they find the torn cloth?”

  “They may not. Even if they do, we have a better chance of eluding Torr together.” Brant held out his hand. “Please. I demand naught of you, only that you come to a safer hiding place.” So I can protect you, my treasure, until I die.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she slid her hand into his. He drew her into the murkier shadows. Val followed.

  Blackness loomed, an inky veil concealing the path ahead. Brant moved on, half step by half step, feeling his way in near darkness. His palm scraped against the slick wall. Somewhere ahead, water dripped: a strong, steady sound, like a heartbeat deep in the earth.

  He shrugged tension from between his shoulders. ’Twas not a good moment to imagine a glowing-eyed dragon crouched behind the next boulder.

  Faye shuddered in his grasp.

  Aye, he knew exactly how she felt. He squeezed her fingers, and pressed on.

  “Meslarches!” Torr’s shout carried from close by. “Reveal yourself. You cannot escape my men.”

  Brant exhaled through his teeth. Give away his hiding place? Endanger Faye?

  Never, whoreson.

  “Surrender, Meslarches.” Smugness tinged Torr’s voice. “Put down your knife, raise your hands, and I may be merciful.”

  Brant scowled.

  “I trust you have not harmed Lady Rivellaux. She is, after all, a lady of exceptional … value to me.”

  A strangled noise came from Faye. Brant pressed her fingers.

  “Faye,” Torr went on, closer now. “I know you can hear me. I have come to rescue you—”

  Lying bastard.

  “—to take you safely back to Caldstowe. Your home. Cry out. Tell us where you are. We will save you from that murderer.”

  The inky passage veered downward. Brant’s heel slipped. He gasped, twisted, smacked his side against a jutting stone. He grimaced at the pain.

  From outside, a shout rang out, followed by the rattle of stones.

  “Where did you find it?” Torr’s gleeful voice, followed by a shrill laughter. “Faye,” he called. “What a shame. You tore your gown.”

  She inhaled sharply.

  “Keep moving,” Brant whispered, drawing her onward.

  “You!” Torr bellowed. “Bring the dogs. Search this part of the riverbank.”

  The tromp of footfalls came from close by. Dogs whined and barked.

  A branch snapped. Vines rustled.

  Light flared behind them. Faint at first, then stronger.

  “Milord!” a man called, his voice rebounding off the cave walls.

  Brant smothered an oath. One of Torr’s guards had discovered the entrance.

  “Search it,” Torr said. “The rest of you, keep looking along the riverbank. They might even be hiding in the woods.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Brant met Faye’s frightened gaze. A scraping sound warned that Torr’s lackey had stepped into the cave. Orange-yellow flickered over the walls and ceiling, revealing the jagged shapes of rock as well as the widening expanse of tunnel ahead. Tugging her hand, Brant urged her behind a boulder and motioned for her to crouch. She gathered her wet skirts and squatted with her back pressed to the cave wall.

  Hunkered down behind the boulder, Brant motioned to Val. The little dog looked toward the flickering light, bared his teeth, and growled. The menacing sound carried. So did the guard’s startled grunt.

  Scowling, Brant lunged out, grabbed Val, and yanked him behind the big rock, pressing his hand to the little dog’s muzzle to keep him silent.

  With cautious steps, the guard continued further into the cave.

  Faye’s icy hand bumped Brant’s. She linked her shaking fingers through his. His throat tightened at the gesture, but he dared not turn around to look at her. Even the slightest noise might betray them.

  The man walked closer. Any moment, h
e would come into view.

  Brant gently freed his fingers from Faye’s. His hand closed around a rock.

  A tall guard, garbed in chain mail armor and an iron helm, stepped past their hiding place. Light from his burning reed torch gleamed off his drawn sword.

  Drawing back his arm, Brant threw the rock. It hit the man’s helm with a loud clang.

  The guard’s body jerked. He staggered, his sword wavering. Brant lunged, sending the man crashing into the cavern wall. With a harsh cry, he slashed out with the blade. Brant jumped back, gasping as the weapon narrowly missed his chest.

  Another stone flew, originating from behind the boulder. It smacked into the guard’s leg. He winced, the slightest lapse of focus. One kick, two, and he lay slumped on the ground.

  Wiping his brow, Brant looked at Faye emerging from behind the big stone. “Well done.”

  She wiped her hand on her gown and smiled.

  Brant snatched up the sword as well as the torch that had fallen among the rocks. “Come on.” He thrust the burning reed at Faye. “We might find another way out of the cave.”

  Her gaze clouded with doubt, but she nodded and raised the torch in front of her. Head held high, she made her way around the rocks. Brant followed, Val at his heels.

  The passage curved to the right, as though following a path carved by rushing water. The ceiling rose higher. Faye skirted a boulder, went on ahead and—

  “Brant,” she whispered.

  He hurried to her side. A vast cavern opened out before them. To the right, a still, dark pool of water reflected the torchlight. Moisture glistened on the cave walls. Water dripped into a smaller pool in the distance: the sound he had compared to a pulse.

  Brant inhaled a slow, awed breath. Never in his life had he seen such a place.

  One steeped in its own kind of magic.

  Faye headed down into the cavern. In the flickering torch light, her hair glowed like copper flame, leading him onward.

  A grin tugging at his lips, he started to follow her.

  A few yards ahead, Faye paused, then bent to inspect something on the cavern floor. With a hissed, indrawn breath, she lurched to her feet.

  She screamed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Faye stared at the stretch of ground before her. What had appeared to be a length of moldering cloth, caught between protruding rocks, now seemed shockingly obvious. Her hand pressed over her racing heart, she waited as Brant pounded up behind her.

  Raising the sword to attack, he demanded, “What is it?”

  She pointed to the tattered fabric. “A … body.”

  Darting past them, Val approached the mounded cloth. He sniffed, flattened his ears, and backed away.

  With wary strides, Brant crossed to the cadaver and knelt. His face darkened with a puzzled frown. “God’s teeth.” He motioned to her. “Come closer with the light.”

  Moving nearer to the corpse—the source, no doubt, of the strange odor that had caught her attention in the first place—was the last thing she wished to do. Yet, even as the thought screamed through her mind, guilt gnawed at her conscience. Someone had died in this cave. Killed by natural causes, or … murdered. Her limbs stiff, she edged closer.

  A sudden, urgent realization slammed through her. “Torr’s men outside. They will have heard my scream.”

  His expression grim, Brant nodded. “I expect so.”

  “Fie! We—”

  “Raise the torch. More to the right.”

  His words were not a request, but an order, sharpened by intense excitement. She obeyed, unable to quell a shudder of revulsion.

  The flickering torchlight illuminated the body turned on its side, as though the deceased had fallen asleep among the rocks. The skull gaped, black eye and nose sockets framed by yellow-white bones, rendered even more stark by the tufts of dark hair clinging to the skull. A rotting cloak covered the body from shoulder to thigh. Bones protruded from what must once have been leather boots.

  She watched, hardly daring to breathe, while with the sword tip, Brant lifted the edge of the cloak. Draped over splayed bone fingers, disintegrating fabric—a tunic, mayhap—still bore the remnants of an embroidered border of interlocking knots.

  By the holy saints! In her quick skim through Royce’s journal, Faye had glimpsed similar knot designs.

  “These garments are not of our time. This man died years ago.” Shock softened Brant’s voice.

  “How long ago?” Faye whispered, needing him to voice her own, incredible suspicions.

  “Centuries ago, I vow.”

  With stunning clarity, Greya’s word came back to her. Some folk do not believe King Arthur died. There are legends he and his most trusted knights lie asleep somewhere in England’s hills. When they are needed, they will awaken to battle the enemies who threaten our lands. Once again, they will lead us to victory.

  Swallowing hard, Faye glanced further along the rocks. Her gaze fell upon another mound of fabric. And another.

  “There are more bodies. Do you think—”

  “—these people died here? Mayhap.” After gently withdrawing his sword to let the cloth fall back into place, Brant stood. “’Tis more likely the flood water unearthed the bodies and washed them from their burial place.”

  She shook her head, for she had not wondered if they had died here. Somehow, she sensed they had. “Brant,” she said softly, “do you think this man … Could he be—?”

  A rock clattered in the passage leading to the cave. Val barked. Faye spun to glance at the cavern opening, then whirled back to look at Brant. His gaze locked with hers.

  Without a word, he brushed past her, both hands tight on the sword’s grip. He halted between her and the cavern entrance, his posture tense.

  “Stay back,” he said.

  Val stood by his side, ears pricked. Footfalls carried from the outer passage, and the little dog yapped again.

  “Not far ahead,” a man’s voice shouted in the passage.

  The footfalls grew louder.

  Faye’s hands clenched. Trapped in this cavern, she could die here. The vile scheme Torr had initiated by kidnapping Angeline—whatever that scheme might be—would continue unhindered, the little girl’s fate left to his whims.

  She would not perish here in this forgotten cave. She must save Angeline.

  Pivoting on her heel, she hurried along the dark pool.

  “Where are you going?” Brant called to her.

  “To find another way out.”

  “Good. I will fend off the guards as long as I can.”

  As long as I can. Faye fought an anguished gasp, for she understood the veiled meaning in his words: until he was dead.

  Bittersweet regret washed through her. Fighting a torrent of gratitude, despair, and—heaven forbid—love, she glanced back at him. Until the very end, he would be her protector. “Thank you.” How desperately inadequate those words seemed.

  The corner of his mouth ticked up in a grin. He nodded.

  Ahead, the stone inclined in shallow steps. Holding the torch aloft, Faye scrambled up, using her free hand to steady herself as her shoes slipped over the water-streaked rock. Reaching a narrow plateau, she straightened.

  Light burst into the cavern.

  Faye glanced at the cave opening. Armed men streamed in, moving to block the one route of escape, their footfalls cacophonous in the enclosed cavern.

  Facing them all, Brant crouched, poised to attack. “Go, Faye,” he yelled.

  Her gaze traveled over his taut, muscled body. How brave and proud he looked, a lone warrior facing impossible odds. For her.

  She blinked hard, wrenched her gaze away, and stepped up onto the next rock level, fighting for balance on the slick surface.

  Sudden silence descended.

  “Faye.”

  She lurched as Torr’s voice carried in the cavern. Thrown back from the surrounding walls, his acknowledgment held an ominous quality. A dark, intangible power. Barely regaining her balance, she look
ed at him. His lips curved up in a mirthless smile. His gaze slid from her to Brant. “Meslarches.”

  Torr stepped forward with a faint chime of his chain mail armor. Unscrewing the top of a flask, he drank, then shoved the vessel into the leather bag at his side. His tone gentle, he said, “’Tis all right, Faye. I know you are very frightened, after all that has happened, but I am here now. I will keep you safe.” Tilting his head, he signaled to his men to move further into the cavern. They fanned out on either side of Brant.

  “Come down from the rocks, Faye. Walk to me. Together, we will return to Caldstowe.”

  He spoke so pleasantly. An illusion. She sensed tremendous anger lurking just beneath the surface of his genial façade. Fury he might unleash upon her for stealing the journal.

  “Now, Faye.”

  Her chin tilted up at his brusque tone. “I am not going back to Caldstowe.”

  Astonishment flared in Torr’s gaze before he laughed, a sound akin to rocks grating together. “What do you mean?” His smile wavered, as though he struggled not to laugh again. “You must be suffering shock, Faye. I know you have endured a great deal, and that your trust has been shattered by one you trusted.” Glaring at Brant, Torr added, “’Twill be all right, Faye. Return to Caldstowe with me, and you will see ’tis so.”

  “Leave her be,” Brant growled.

  “Brave words from a murderer who used her to escape. You will suffer for your boldness, Meslarches. I will see to it myself.” His feigned pleasantness returned. “Come here, Faye. Please, do not keep me waiting.”

  A shudder crawled down her back. “As I told you, I am not returning to Caldstowe.”

  “Nay? Where will you go, then?” He flung out a hand, indicating the cavern, as if to point out the idiocy of her statement. To show the futility of her wish to govern her own destiny.

  The frustration simmering inside her for so many agonizing days welled inside her. Here, now, she would ask the dangerous question she wanted answered. “Torr, where is Angeline?”

  His mouth dropped in surprise. His expression hardened with suspicion. “What?”