Bending down to give Val a pat on the back, Faye murmured, “Come on. You and I are going to the tower.”
Chapter Fifteen
“No one is to visit Meslarches, milady,” the older guard said yet again, his face set in a forbidding scowl. “’Is lordship’s orders.”
Faye bit back an unladylike oath. Waving away the torch smoke drifting into her eyes, she glared at the two sentries barring the door to the tower’s lone chamber, built at the top of a steep stairwell. The men stood on either side of the rough-hewn, iron-barred wooden panel that looked strong enough to withstand an army. From the scorch marks burned into the door, at some point, it probably had.
At her feet, Val growled. The sound carried in the small area outside the chamber. The men glanced at the little dog with guarded wariness, but didn’t move.
Refusing to let her determination slip, Faye tipped her chin higher.
She had to find a way in there.
“’Tis clear you do not understand the complexity of my task.” Keeping her tone cool, as the men would expect of a lady who had just discovered her lover’s treachery, she said, “I shall try to explain it again. Lord Lorvais sent me. He is aware that the criminal has . . . feelings for me. I am to visit Meslarches and win his confidence, so he will reveal to me all the details about the murder.”
The guards looked at each other. “Lord Lorvais did not mention this plan to us.”
“Hardly surprising. A man of his authority is very busy. He is attending to an important matter right now, after giving strict orders he did not wish to be disturbed.” She glanced at her nails, then smiled at the two men. “If you do not believe me, go ask him yourself.”
More suspicious glances.
Throwing up her hands, allowing desperation to bleed into her tone, she said, “Why would I lie to you? Why else would I have come here? I do not wish to see that . . . that lying, murderous bastard ever again.” She sniffled, then dabbed the corners of her eyes. “Lord Lorvais got nowhere with his interrogation. If I can be of duty to my lord, then”—she shuddered—“I must.”
“There, now, do not weep.” The older guard shrugged his shoulders as though to relieve an uncomfortable burden. He reached for the key hanging on a peg rammed into the mortar between two stones. “I will let ye in. Knock three times on the door when ye wish ta come out. All right?”
“Thank you.”
The keys jangled, the sound shrill in the area’s narrow confines. Metal rasped against metal, a click, and then the panel groaned inward. Faye stepped inside, Val at her heels.
She hardly heard the guard’s parting words to her, or the door boom shut. As her gaze fell upon Brant, a dull, agonizing ache washed through her.
He sat on the rough wooden floor, his legs drawn up, arms crossed over his knees. His bowed head rested upon his forearms. Against the fabric of his tunic, his dark hair spilled wild and untamed. She wondered, when he raised his head, if in his eyes she would see a similar wildness.
Chains trailed from his wrists and ankles to bolts in the wall. Grooves in the floorboards revealed how far he could reach before the chains held him firm. Not very far. A relief, to a certain point, for if she stayed beyond the gouged line, he couldn’t touch her.
Yet, to see him fettered like some kind of beast . . .
He is a murderer, Faye. Never forget that.
Even Val seemed reluctant to approach him. The little dog sat at her feet, his little body quivering while he stared at Brant.
With unsteady fingers, she pushed hair back behind her ear. The fabric of her gown whispered, and then . . . more silence. He didn’t seem to realize she and Val were there, or he didn’t care to acknowledge them.
Rubbing her arms against the breeze blowing in through the crooked shutters blocking the one, small window, she took another step forward. The room held no furniture—not even a pallet to sleep on—only bare, stone walls. By nightfall, ’twould be near freezing.
Val’s clawed footfalls echoed. Whining, he scooted over to Brant. He pushed his little nose against Brant’s leg.
Slowly, with what seemed painful effort, Brant lifted his head. “Val.” The chains clanked as he reached down and scratched the dog’s head. Val squirmed and licked his hand.
Faye smothered a moan. As touching as ’twas to see him comfort Val, she shouldn’t pity Brant. He was a ruthless criminal. Even as she’d succumbed to his sensual spell, believing him to have the soul of an honorable warrior, he’d kept his horrific crime a secret from her.
The sharp bite of betrayal tightened her jaw. She would tell him about the journal, and then she would leave, never to see him again.
Brant seemed to be aware of her silent condemnation, for as his fingers gently plowed through Val’s fur, his mouth tightened.
Still, he didn’t look at her.
“Brant.”
“You should not be here.”
How thin his voice sounded, a ghostly echo of the mesmerizing, arrogant man she’d known—and taken to her bed.
“I had to see you.”
“To be sure I am properly imprisoned?” His bitter laugh rebounded off the cold walls. “Torr made certain of that.”
She shifted her hold on the journal. Anticipation quickened her pulse, as well as wariness. How would Brant react when she told him of the journal? Would he become enraged?
If he could kill his own brother, might he harm her?
Nay. He wouldn’t hurt her.
Brant’s gaze met hers. Red rimmed, his eyes glittered with anguish. For a moment, as he looked at her, his expression softened. Then he glanced away. “I know I have no right to ask. Yet, since he cannot ask himself, I must do so for him. Please . . . see that Val finds a home, milady.”
Milady, he had called her. Not Faye. His way of enforcing emotional distance between them. Steeling the foolish disappointment from her tone, she said, “Do not worry. I will care for Val.”
“Thank you.”
Val whimpered. With a last pat, Brant lifted his hand away. “Go, Faye.”
“Not yet.”
“Go. Now!”
His roared command stung like a slap. She didn’t whirl around and stride to the door, however, for she knew why he spoke with such force. He was turning her away—to protect her. To prevent her from being hurt any further by his actions.
An odd act of conscience for a man guilty of cold-blooded murder.
With a low groan, Brant dragged his fingers through his hair. Her throat ached as she stared down at his tousled head, bent once more, hopelessness undermining the proud set of his shoulders. What she would give to know what had happened between him and Royce on crusade that led to the killing.
Despite the caution and anguish warring inside her, she walked closer. Iron links rattled. He lurched to standing, faster than she thought possible for a chained man. Turned to her in profile, he strode the few yards his bonds permitted.
She halted, close enough to touch his rigid back.
He was trembling.
“Brant, look at me,” she said, hating the plea in her voice.
His chained hands balled into fists. “I should never have let myself care for you. I should not have lain with you. For that I am sorry.”
She forced down the impulse to say how wondrous her time with him had been.
Faye, my treasure.
The sense of moments slipping away, the knowledge that Torr would soon return to his solar and find her gone, spurred to her to forge ahead. “There is something I must show you.”
“God’s blood, Faye.” Brant swung around, his dark hair tangling over his wet eyes. “Go. Please!”
He shook like a man struggling to hold back a tremendous emotional wave—one that could very well swamp him and demolish his last shreds of reason. Seeing the journal might shatter his self-control.
Yet, she could not—must not—let her risk be in vain.
Faye freed the journal from her
tunic sleeve. She held the book out to him.
Beneath the tangled shadow of his hair, his gaze narrowed. “What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
He stood motionless. She sensed him studying the journal. Knew the precise moment shock jolted through him.
The chains clanked. Reaching out, he took the tome.
Cradling it in his left palm, he ran his hand over the soiled cover. His disbelieving touch lingered over the dark stain. He blinked hard, then drew the journal open.
“Mother of God.” His head snapped up. Fury and confusion gleamed in his eyes. “How did you get Royce’s journal? Where—?”
“I found it in Torr’s solar.”
“Torr’s solar?” Brant whispered hoarsely. “How did you come to be in his chamber?”
She struggled not to shudder at his furious tone. Deciding not to answer his last question, she said, “Torr keeps his flasks of tonic in a secret hiding place under some floorboards. I found the journal there.”
“How long have you known about the journal?”
Brant’s accusatory tone slashed deep, but she refused to avert her gaze. “I only found it moments ago. I brought it straight to you.”
He swallowed before his gaze returned to the book. “The lying whoreson! He kept it all these months, when I thought it lost. God’s teeth! How long had Royce been dead before Torr took the journal? Or, did he steal it before my brother died?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Faye said. “Why did Torr keep the journal secret? Why did he not give it to you?”
Brant’s fierce gaze fixed on her. “What else did you find?”
Such fury radiated from him. A tremor wove through her, prompting her to take a step back. “A knife.”
“Show me.”
She bent and slipped the dagger from her shoe. “’Twas Elayne’s. She kept it with her always.”
“It, too, used to be my brother’s.”
“Your brother’s? How did Elayne come to have it?”
Brant’s mouth flattened. “I do not know, but I mean to find out.”
“The journal, the knife, Angeline’s disappearance. All are connected somehow.”
He nodded, and his expression hardened. “Now, more than ever, you are in grave danger, milady.”
“From you?” she blurted, before she could catch herself.
Surprise lit Brant’s gaze. He scowled. “From Torr. He will know, when he finds the journal and dagger missing, that you betrayed him. He will be very angry.”
Fear shivered through her. Brant spoke true. Still, she mustn’t be blinded by panic. Not now, when she needed her wits about her. “The journal and knife were at the back of the recess. He may have forgotten about them. He may not even notice them missing.”
Brant’s scowl deepened, as though she babbled like a fool. “Faye.”
“I am not witless. By this eve, I plan to be long gone from Caldstowe.”
In the midst of crossing his arms, he froze. “What do you mean?”
She rubbed her lips together, determined not to lose her resolve. “I am riding to Waverbury to see if Angeline is being held captive there. I promised Elayne I would protect her little girl, and the days are passing. Right now, ’tis my only clue to her whereabouts.”
Brant’s arms dropped to his sides. “You cannot travel alone. ’Tis too dangerous.”
”No more dangerous, I vow, than my staying at Caldstowe.”
“Give me the knife, Faye.”
Shock convinced her to take a step back. “Never! You are a murderer.” If he lunged for her now, he might catch her before she reached safety.
Faye sucked in a breath to scream for the guards.
Brant made no move to pursue her. He shook his head and appeared disappointed that she distrusted him. “I will not harm you. I will use the dagger to break the locks on the chains.”
She released her held breath. “If you try to run from here, the guards will kill you.”
“I will wait for the right moment to escape. My life is already forfeit. I would rather die finding out the truth about the journal than rotting in the king’s dungeon.” A roguish smile curved his lips. “Surely you understand that?”
How she wished he wasn’t so handsome when he smiled. “I do, but—”
“My escape will also provide a distraction. I will keep Torr occupied, so he and his men will not pursue you on your journey to Waverbury.”
Voices carried from beyond the door. The guards were growing impatient. Any moment, they might step inside and tell her to leave. If they found her with the knife—
She thrust the dagger into Brant’s hand. Relief and gratitude shadowed his gaze, as well as something else she couldn’t define. “I hope you get your answers,” she whispered, unable to voice all of the emotions welling up inside her. This was likely the last time she saw him.
He nodded. Unsheathing the knife, he dropped to his knees and shoved the dagger tip into the lock at his ankle.
Disquiet tingled at the base of her skull. She’d assumed Brant would hide the knife in his garments. Why didn’t he wait until she had left before he unfastened his chains?
The voices outside rose. One sounded concerned, as if they wondered what might be happening to her.
Drawing in a calming breath, she crossed to the door. Shutting out the muffled clink of chains behind her, she smoothed her damp hands over her gown. She’d accomplished what she had come to do. Now, she must focus on her ride to Waverbury.
Goodbye, Brant.
She raised her hand to knock. “Come, Val.”
The barest whisper—no more—alerted her of movement behind her. Before she could spin around, a muscled arm locked about her waist. Brant jerked her back against him.
The dagger’s cold blade pressed to her throat.
Brant’s voice rasped against her ear, “Tell the guards to open the door.”
Chapter Sixteen
Faye froze as the knife pressed against her skin—not hard enough to pierce her flesh, but to ensure that she obeyed him. Her pulse pounded so fiercely, she imagined Brant could hear it, too, hammering like a fist upon a tabor.
Her bottom touched his thighs, while her shoulders pressed against his broad torso. A damp chill raced over her skin, moistening her brow, hands, and the soles of her feet. How stupid to have let her emotions overrule her common sense. Now, she was Brant’s hostage.
Fie! She had returned his brother’s journal, given Brant a knife to free him from his chains, and he showed his gratitude by taking her captive?
His arm around her waist tightened. “Knock,” he growled against her hair. His tone warned he wouldn’t tolerate refusal.
Do not heed him, her conscience shouted. Scream! Warn the guards that he is free.
If she disobeyed him, he might harm her. She couldn’t rescue Angeline if she were dead.
Raising her fist, Faye rapped twice on the wooden panel. The guards had instructed her to knock three times. Mayhap they would realize something was wrong. Or, would they believe she’d forgotten what they’d told her?
“Milady?” a guard outside said, his voice muffled through the wood.
“I wish to leave now,” Faye called back, praying he understood her signal.
“You did not knock three times.”
Oh, God!
“Faye,” Brant snarled in her ear. He sounded so ferocious, she moaned.
“I forgot!” she yelled through the door. “I-I am sorry.”
Silence. Muttered conversation. The key rasped in the lock.
“Well done,” Brant murmured, his breath stirring her hair.
The door swung inward.
Before she could cry out, Brant kicked the panel fully open. It crashed against the chamber’s stone wall. From outside came the ominous squeal of swords being drawn.
Brant dragged her through the doorway. Val scampered beside him.
The younger guard face
d them. “Halt! Milady, you helped him escape. You tricked us.”
“I forced her to help me,” Brant said.
Faye barely held back an astonished cry. Brant had lied to protect her—a curious moment of chivalry. Yet, her surprise fled on a growing sense of trepidation, for a lethal tension suffused the smoky air.
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