Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  With a bleat of protest, Lady Rivellaux squirmed in his arms. Scowling, he dismissed the swell of old memories—as, gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the enticing perfume of the woman so close to him, he could dip his head to nuzzle the creamy-pale curve of her neck, right there where a wanton lock of hair curled like a silken ribbon against her skin.

  The odd sense of enchantment which drew him to this stubborn, lovely woman was no more than an illusion, evoked by the intimacy of firelight and gilded shadow, enhanced by his own carnal need. No more.

  The sooner he was rid of Lady Rivellaux, the better.

  Brant loosened his hold, intending to release her and cross the room to put much needed distance between them.

  Her body shook. She wavered.

  Cursing under his breath, he slid supporting arms around her once more, hoping she wouldn’t lose consciousness again. If so, it meant the knock to her head was more severe than he’d thought, and thus he would need to find a healer. One who wouldn’t ask a slew of questions.

  The lady listed slightly forward, her belly pressing against his forearms as she drew in deep breaths. Then, with a choked huff, she swatted at his arms.

  “Unhand me.”

  “I will, if you can stand on your own.”

  “Of course I can.”

  Brant’s eyebrows rose at her defiant tone. “Very well.” Drawing his arms away from her, he stepped back.

  She squared her shoulders, an attempt at elegant pride despite her bedraggled state. She winced. Her hand flew to her cheek, swollen and purplish even in the dim light. The smooth line of her jaw tightened with pain.

  Before her legs could buckle again, he looped one arm around her waist and guided her back to the pallet.

  “Nay,” she groaned.

  “Aye.” His tone ordered immediate compliance.

  With an indignant sigh, she sat. Tilting her face away from him, she massaged her brow. With her other hand, she smoothed her gown with jerky swipes.

  Sitting a short space away from her on the pallet—close enough to catch her if she fainted, but far enough to allow her a sense of her own space—he moved the tray of food closer. The fare’s aroma made his stomach gurgle. “Eat. ’Twill improve your strength.”

  Her hand dropped away from her forehead. Her green eyes, hard with frustration and wariness, studied him.

  “While you eat, we will talk.”

  “I have naught to say to you.”

  Little claws clicked on the floorboards. With tentative steps, Val crossed to Brant, sat, and nuzzled his leg.

  Her gaze on the little dog, she said, “Why does he only have three legs?”

  Brant’s mouth flattened. He imagined the wretched thoughts racing through her mind. If he were vile enough to help abduct her friend Angeline, he could also harm a helpless animal.

  Disgust coiled up inside him. He scratched the back of his neck where his linen shirt stuck to his skin, and inwardly groaned that he couldn’t simply stand and strip off his garments. Let her think what she liked. He didn’t owe her the truth. Mayhap ’twould be easier for both of them if she thought him a depraved beast.

  “What happened to the dog?” she pressed.

  Ignoring her question that seemed to hover in the air between them like a grisly specter, Brant took the bowl of pottage from the tray and offered it to her along with a spoon.

  Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I told you—”

  “To regain your strength, as well as reach the door the next time, you must eat.”

  Hands clasped in her lap, she looked at the fare. She gnawed her bottom lip. “You might have told the innkeeper to poison it.”

  “If I wanted you dead, I would have left you at the lakeshore. I would not have bothered to save you.”

  Her brow knit with a contemplative frown. “True.”

  Doubt still lingered in her gaze, so he tipped the bowl to his mouth, sipped the disappointingly bland broth, then wiped his lips with his thumb. “No poison.”

  Her head dipped in cautious acknowledgement before she said quietly, “I still do not understand. Why did you save me? You had the gold.”

  The reasons, complex and dangerous, tangled up inside him. A log shifted in the hearth, scattering glowing red embers. He watched them swirl, then fade, before he forced a careless shrug. “I have no grievances with you.”

  “You mean, you would receive less payment for abducting Angeline if I came to harm.”

  Brant exhaled a weary sigh. He would accomplish naught by telling her his payment didn’t depend at all on her welfare. Holding out the pottage one last time, he said, “I will not offer it again, milady.”

  Her gaze slid to Val, licking his mouth, before a faint smile tugged at her lips.

  “Is this your dog’s dinner, too?”

  “Val will not let food go to waste.”

  At last, she took the bowl as well as the spoon. Her slender fingers brushed his in the exchange, and he sensed her little jolt when she drew away, splashing broth onto her lap. She cursed under her breath.

  He pretended not to notice. Breaking off two pieces of the dense brown bread, he popped one into his mouth. He tossed the other to Val, who jumped into the air and caught it before landing back on all three legs and chewing noisily.

  A wry chuckle came from the lady.

  Brant glanced at her. She sat with the bowl cradled in one hand, the spoon poised over the vegetable-laden broth.

  Moisture shimmered on her bottom lip. Before he could stop the thought, he imagined the lush softness of her mouth—softer even than the long strands of hair that had begun to dry in shiny, copper-red waves about her shoulders.

  She dipped the spoon, then parted her lips to take the mouthful. He couldn’t drag his attention away. As though beguiled by a fey spell, he stared, aware in that moment of the muted snap of burning wood, the rasp of his own breath, the thickening beat of his pulse.

  The lady hesitated. Her wary gaze flicked to him. Her emerald eyes, bright with uncertainty, seemed to mirror the same emotions coursing through his body. An odd sense of longing pulled at him.

  Bewitchment!

  He wanted no part of it.

  Brant snatched another hunk of bread, rose, and strode to the hearth. Val trotted at his heels. From behind him came a ragged exhalation followed by the clink of the spoon against the earthenware bowl. He refused to let his errant thoughts imagine her eating. Breaking off another morsel, he tossed it to Val, who again snatched it out of the air, swallowed it down, and sat waiting for more.

  Brant bent, picked up his saddlebag, then worked the ties, hoping as he did so that the leather wasn’t wet all the way through and that his spare clothes would be dry enough to wear.

  He sensed her keen gaze upon him, watching the movement of his hands. He jerked the ties free and flipped open the bag. In the shadowed depths, gold glinted against the wool of his folded brown tunic.

  “Do you still have the goblet?” she asked, her voice intruding over the fire’s crackle.

  He squeezed his rumpled hose in his palm. A bit damp, but better than the garments he wore. “’Tis in a safe place,” he said. Better she thought he didn’t have the vessel, than for her to try and cross the room to get it. She might hurt herself. He didn’t want to be responsible for yet another injury.

  “Is the goblet in your bag?”

  He rubbed his cold lips together and yanked out his tunic before flipping the bag’s flap down again. “Do not worry your lovely head about it, milady. At the moment, your well-being is more important.”

  She gave a little snort, as if she couldn’t believe he cared one whit about her. “Since I cannot remember coming here, you could well have met with the kidnappers while I was unconscious.”

  “True.”

  “Is that what happened? Did you hand the gold cup over to them? Or did you hide it away, somewhere I do not know, so when you are finished with me you can sell it?�
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  Before he could answer, another knock rattled the door. She started and looked toward the wooden panel.

  “Remember,” he muttered to her as he dropped his tunic on the chair. “Not a word.”

  She shot him a frosty glare. He sensed, however, she would obey. She, too, must have realized the wisdom of no one knowing she was with him, alone, in this seedy tavern room. Moreover, she likely believed that if she didn’t heed him, she would lose any chance to rescue Angeline.

  Brant crossed to the door and drew it part way open to find the innkeeper holding a steaming bowl of water.

  “Nice an’ ’ot,” the innkeeper said, his gaze sliding past Brant into the chamber. Draped over his arm were more blankets, cloths and a gown, which he passed to Brant. “Anythin’ else, milord?”

  “Nay, thank you.” Brant abruptly shut the door, curtailing the man’s curious stare.

  The lady watched him from her perch on the bed’s edge as he placed the water bowl down on the hearth tiles. When he walked to the table near her, she tensed, but he paid her no heed as he set the candles on the floor, picked up the table, and moved it close to the fire’s warmth. He carefully placed the bowl on the tabletop.

  After moving his tunic and helm, he drew over the chair. “There. Not quite the luxurious arrangements you are used to, I imagine, but ’tis the best I can do. At least you can sit while you are bathing.”

  Her fingers curled tighter around the spoon. “Bathing?”

  “The innkeeper brought a gown.” Brant draped the plain woolen garment over the chair back, along with the cloths. “’Tis a servant’s garb, but ’twill do until the fire dries your other clothes.”

  The lady’s lips pursed.

  “We both need to remove our wet garments,” he went on, trying to temper his impatience. “You will get a chill. I will guide you over here, and then you will wash—”

  “I will not bathe with you in the room.”

  “’Tis the only way. If we are to preserve your anonymity, I cannot ask one of the other women in the tavern to tend you. Nor can you stand unassisted. If you fell—”

  “You cannot force me to bathe.”

  He set his hands on his hips. The fire’s warmth at his back felt gloriously good. One more moment, and he would strip off his clothes, here and now, regardless of her sensibilities.

  “Lady Rivellaux, we can remove your garments one of two ways. You remove them yourself and”—he gestured to the gown the innkeeper had brought—“put this on, or I will remove them and dress you myself.”

  “The nerve. The—!”

  His eyebrow arched. “We have an agreement?”

  She set the bowl of pottage on the floor with a thunk, then folded her arms across her bosom. He tried not to notice the way her indignant posture framed her breasts.

  “I do not bargain with knaves.”

  How wicked that he found pleasure in her refusal. “So I am undressing you myself.” He started toward her.

  With a little squeak, she pushed herself up, wobbling like a twig in a storm. “I will bathe myself.”

  “Are you certain you can manage?”

  Her eyes glinted like gemstones. “I will manage.”

  Still, he took her arm and led her to the fire. Her stiff, angry steps were stronger this time, but he heard her muffled groan of relief when she reached the chair and dropped down on it.

  Her chin raised to a stubborn tilt. “You will turn your back.”

  Brant shook his head. “You may need assistance.”

  “I am not a witless child.” She paused. Her tongue darted out over her bottom lip. “If I need help, I . . . shall ask.”

  He tore his gaze from the dewy shimmer of her mouth. The way his blood heated, he should immediately accept her concession. With a curt nod, he said, “Very well.”

  Crossing his arms, he turned to stare at the fire’s shadows dancing on the opposite wall. They shifted on the rough wooden wall . . . and the blanket-strewn pallet.

  From behind him came the rustle of fabric.

  He stared at the wall. His vivid imagination conjured images of her drawing the clinging gown up her legs. Up her pale thighs. Up to her waist, as she prepared to pull the fabric over her head—

  More hushed rustling.

  He blew out a breath and forced himself to count to ten.

  Water trickled. She must have dipped a cloth into the bowl. A whisper followed: fabric gliding over bare skin.

  He swept a hand through his snarled hair. The faint hiss was astonishingly loud. Sheer torture, this was. A fierce enchantment of sound. He would have to control his imagination before it corrupted all of his noble intentions.

  Closing his eyes, he fought to mold his thoughts in a fashion far less tantalizing.

  Ten toothless, wart-spotted old hags.

  Nine toothless, wart-spotted old hags—

  Val nuzzled his leg, then sank his teeth into his hose.

  “Ow!” he snapped, and half turned to scowl down at the little mongrel. Out of the corner of his eye, Brant caught a glimpse of the lady with her eyes shut, holding her hair atop her head with one hand, sweeping the cloth over her neck with the other. She’d pushed her bodice down to expose more skin, but hadn’t slid it past her breasts.

  Before he could look away, his shameful gaze snapped to her legs. She hadn’t drawn up her gown, after all.

  Yet.

  He snapped his attention back to the wall. Balled his hands into fists.

  Tried to imagine incredibly foul-looking hags.

  Water splashed. Another rustle.

  “I . . . I am going to remove my gown now.”

  Argh!

  A silent cry for mercy welled up inside him. “You . . . need me to help you?”

  “Nay! I . . . Do not turn around.”

  “Fine.”

  “Swear that you will not!”

  He almost smiled at her panicked voice, but she sounded like she might faint with distress. “I swear, upon my honor.” What shreds remained of his honor, anyway.

  Brant tried to block out the betraying slide of cloth, even as Val butted against his leg. He crossed to the tray on the pallet, snatched up more bread and fed it to the dog.

  Val’s chewing didn’t disguise the rasp of fabric.

  Devilish anticipation niggled inside Brant, tempting him to turn his head. To spy upon her in this vulnerable moment, despite his vow.

  She could hardly stop him. And he was quite sure her body looked nothing like an old hag’s.

  Tension, as thick as invisible smoke, pervaded the room. He had to block out the noise. He had to stop his mind turning the shifting shadows into two lovers locked in an intimate embrace, shifting and rolling. He had only one recourse left: conversation.

  “You asked before what happened to Val,” Brant said.

  “Aye.” She sounded a little breathless, but also grateful he had offered to break the strained silence.

  “I was on my way to a tournament near Glastonbury,” he said, his voice sounding like someone else’s. “I found him lying on the roadside. His front leg was twisted at an odd angle and bleeding.”

  “Mercy!”

  “I vow he ran under the wheels of a cart. Rather than have to care for him, his owner left him to die.” Brant frowned down at the little dog, sitting beside his feet, looking up at him with expectant brown eyes. “As clever as he is, Val has a habit of getting into mischief.”

  “Why did you name him ‘Val’?”

  “’Tis short for Valor. No one deserves the name more.”

  A frustrated huff came from behind him, then more rustling.

  “Milady, are you managing—?”

  “I am fine!” she shot back, before the last words had even left his lips. “W-what happened next with Val?”

  “I thought at first he was dead. When I rode past, he struggled to raise his head. His whole body shook when he looked up at me. In his gaze, I saw
his agony. However, I also glimpsed something more . . .”

  The room had fallen strangely silent. Even the fire seemed to pause its greedy crackle. “What?” she asked, the word a wisp of sound that prickled the hairs on his skin like a lover’s caress.

  He couldn’t quite explain exactly what he’d seen in the suffering animal’s eyes. A haunted acknowledgment of abandonment, mayhap. An acceptance that death was inevitable. Yet, also a compelling will to live. Whatever he’d seen, it had touched him and refused to let him ride away.