Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  There was little space between the doorway and the stairwell. As, judging by the guards’ smirks, they well knew. Fighting in such a confined area meant someone would be gravely injured—or would die.

  “Let her go, Meslarches,” the older guard said, raising his weapon. Torch light flashed down the steel blade.

  “Stand down.” Brant’s fingers flexed on the knife handle. “Do as I say, and Lady Rivellaux will not be harmed.”

  Val growled.

  The knife eased away from her throat a fraction. Run, Faye! Now, her mind screamed. She stomped on Brant’s foot and wrenched sideways to break free of his hold. Brant grunted, a sound of surprise. Faster than she imagined possible, his arm slammed her back against him.

  “Foolish, milady,” he snarled.

  The guards exchanged glances. As the younger man edged forward, Val growled again. Teeth bared, the little dog lunged. He bit the man’s calf.

  “Ow!” the sentry bellowed. Raising his sword with both hands, he pointed the tip downward to plunge into the little dog.

  Faye gasped as Brant lurched her sideways. Struggling, she glanced over her shoulder, to see Brant’s booted foot smash into the young man’s chest. He cried out as he flew backward into the wall. His head lolled.

  The man slid to the floor. His sword clanged down beside him.

  “You killed him!” Faye choked out.

  “He is still breathing,” Brant said. “He will feel rotten, though, when he wakes.”

  A challenging roar echoed. Brant spun her again. Her body shielding his, they faced the second guard. Digging her nails into his tunic sleeve, she clawed at Brant’s hold. He didn’t seem to notice.

  Down at the sentry’s feet, Val growled, hunkered down, and prepared to leap at him.

  Scowling, the guard kicked out. The dog darted to the side, but not fast enough. The man’s boot connected with Val’s ribs. Yelping, the little mongrel landed on his side. His eyes rolled. His legs flailed, as though he could no longer stand.

  “Val!” Faye cried.

  Brant cursed. Rage flowed from him, so fearsome, she couldn’t suppress a panicked moan.

  Panting, Val struggled to his feet. Baring his teeth, he trotted behind the sentry.

  The guard edged between Brant and the stairwell, blocking the route of escape. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Release the lady,” he said, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder at Val. “’Twill not bode well for you if she is wounded.”

  “Or you,” Brant growled. His arm tightened possessively around Faye’s waist.

  The man adjusted his grip on his sword, clearly preparing to attack. “I will not ask you again, Meslarches. Let her go.”

  “I cannot.”

  Faye sensed the barest flick of Brant’s hand at her waist. A signal. When the sentry lunged forward, Val leapt up. His teeth sank into the guard’s buttock.

  The man howled. Staggered back. “God forsaken little—”

  Val jumped away. In that same instant, Brant spun Faye to one side and kicked the man’s sword arm. The weapon keeled sideways. With a pained grunt, the guard recovered his hold on the weapon, but Brant delivered another swift kick.

  Groaning, one arm clutching his stomach, the man staggered. He stumbled over his fallen comrade and sprawled on the floor. Spitting a foul oath, he drew himself up to his hands and knees. He grabbed for his sword that had skidded a hand’s span away.

  “No one kicks my dog,” Brant said. Another kick, and the guard crumpled to the floor.

  Eyes bright, Val scampered over to Brant.

  “Good work,” Brant murmured, and the little dog’s tail swayed.

  Blinking hard, Faye stared at the stone wall. She wouldn’t regret that Brant had once spoken to her with affection. That he had treasured her.

  Behind her, he drew in a breath and slowly released it, a sound of both relief and anticipation. When he exhaled, hair tickled her cheek. She reached up to smooth her tresses back into place.

  Brant’s wry laughter rumbled against her back. “Now, now, milady.”

  She stiffened, telling him with her defiant posture how much she despised being held hostage. “I will not go with you.”

  “You will.” The knife again pressed against her throat. She hardly dared to breathe.

  “Walk.” He half shoved, half hauled her toward the stairwell. “Careful. Do not trip over that guard’s legs.”

  “Knave,” she muttered under her breath.

  “Do as I ask, Faye,” Brant said, regret in his voice.

  She resisted the answering tug of her heart. “I will never forgive you for using me in such a loathsome fashion.”

  He jerked her to a halt. “Use!” From his lips, the word sounded like the coarsest oath. His hand at her waist curled into the fabric of her gown, as though he struggled to restrain something more—something crucial—he wished to say.

  As though it cost him great effort, his fingers relaxed. His strides brisk, he pushed her toward the stairs. “Move.”

  ***

  Step by uneven step, Brant maneuvered himself and Faye down the stairwell. With each movement, her body brushed against his. Her tresses tickled his jaw. Her delicate fragrance teased him every time he inhaled. He could lose himself in the bewitching sway and scent of her. That is, if he wasn’t concentrating on keeping her under control with the dagger, while making sure he didn’t cut her.

  The thought of piercing her skin, even accidentally, made him shudder. He would die before he hurt her, although she mustn’t perceive his true feelings. She must believe him to be the desperate criminal she imagined him to be, until he had her away from Caldstowe.

  Genuine fear couldn’t be feigned. If she didn’t fear Brant—totally and completely—Torr would suspect that she’d helped him escape.

  “Where are you taking me?” Faye demanded, her voice sounding strained.

  “Wherever I wish.”

  “Let me go. Please.”

  Never, a voice inside Brant answered. You will always be mine, my treasure.

  “I will not tell anyone you are free. I swear it, upon my soul.”

  She might keep his secret. As long as she could. However, once the guards at the top of the stairs regained consciousness, they would pursue her for the full details of his escape. Furious, wanting Brant recaptured as soon as possible, Torr might permit his men to wrest information from her through any means.

  A frightening thought.

  “Brant.”

  “You will come with me, milady.” Faint light stole into the shadows below. “Quiet, now,” he said. “I do not wish to draw any more attention.”

  “You do not,” she muttered.

  He resisted a smile. “I would hate to injure anyone else—or have to kill them. If you obey me, we can avoid bloodshed.”

  She quivered against him, but said no more when he propelled her down the dank stairs. He halted several steps above a stone landing separating the upper and lower portions of the stairwell. To the left, an arched entry opened into a torch lit corridor. Once, judging by the hinges still bolted to the stone, a door had barricaded the steps up to the tower chamber. While that door no longer existed, the passage threshold was the ideal place for Torr to post guards.

  Pausing too, Val glanced back at Brant, as though seeking direction.

  Turning Faye, releasing her just enough to nudge his body around in front of hers, he pressed her back against the wall.

  Holding the knife to her neck, he tilted his head to listen to the sounds coming from the corridor. Wretchedly difficult to concentrate, with her breath fanning across his neck, short, nervous pants that forced her breasts against his tunic. Despite his need to focus, his gaze dropped to her bodice. The sight of her bosom, squeezed against him, sent wanton heat surging through his loins.

  A trembling sigh broke from her lips. The sound rippled inside him with delicious aftershocks, for she’d made sounds like that when they’d c
oupled.

  Narrowing his gaze, he mentally shut out the sensual barrage. ’Twas not only his life under threat, but hers. He had vowed to protect her. He would.

  A sound echoed in the near distance. Brant strained to hear. Clipped footfalls. Laughter. Guards. From the increase in the noise level, he deduced they were walking toward the stairwell.

  He glanced at Faye. Judging by the glint in her eyes, she’d heard the sentries as well. Her cool stare conveyed an outward façade of obedience, but he sensed mutiny simmering within her. He fought the gut-wrenching urge to dip his head and kiss her. To thwart her fury with stronger magic of his own. To insist the intimacy they’d shared was very special to him, and always would be.

  Brant drew back. Now wasn’t the time for tenderness. Knowing Faye, she would take advantage of such a moment to knee him in the groin and bolt toward whoever approached.

  A warning growl rumbled from Val. The footfalls were louder.

  Drawing the dagger from her throat, he motioned for her to move away from the wall. Her gaze spitting fury, she nonetheless seemed to remember his threat to cause injury or kill if need be, for she complied. He locked his arm around her waist, hauled her across the landing, and forced her down the lower stairs. Val scampered ahead.

  From the corridor above, he heard two men talking. Any moment, they would reach the opening into the stairwell.

  “Faster,” he growled in Faye’s ear, rushing their descent. The rustle of their garments seemed eerily loud, as did the scratch of Val’s claws.

  Their legs tangled. She wavered.

  Whipping the knife away from her neck, he steadied her before she pitched forward. He pulled her back against him, ignoring her indignant huff.

  “Who goes there?” a man bellowed from the corridor.

  Cold air gusted from the dark stairs below, bringing the earthy scents of dirt and horse. Further down, the stairwell opened into the bailey.

  The guards’ footfalls sounded on the landing. “Who goes there? Answer!”

  Brant shoved Faye onward.

  Steel rasped. The guards had drawn their swords. “Halt!”

  Pounding footsteps echoed.

  “Run,” Brant snapped. His and Faye’s harsh breaths echoed back from the inky darkness. They were descending into near blackness, when the shadows began to thin.

  A stout, wooden door came into view.

  Brant grabbed the iron handle. He yanked the door open. Sunlight streamed into the stairwell. As he dragged Faye into the bailey, Brant glanced over his shoulder, to meet the gaze of a guard several yards behind.

  “Milady!” the man cried.

  “Stay back,” Brant growled, pulling Faye toward the thatch-roofed stables. “If you do not, I will kill her.”

  Another armed guard broke from the stairwell, his expression grim.

  Stones skittered beneath Brant’s boots while he continued his determined path toward the stables. “Do as I tell you, Faye,” he snarled against her hair.

  “Do I have a choice?” she shot back.

  Ears pricked up, Val loped toward the stables, where horses drank from a long trough. Brant’s destrier stood tied to a nearby post. A gangly stable hand, a lad of about twelve summers old, paused in the midst of running a brush over the horse’s gleaming coat. Such thorough grooming denoted possession.

  Torr had already claimed the destrier for his own.

  Bastard.

  Struggling to control his anger, Brant glanced back at the guards in pursuit. More sentries stalked him now. Step by step, they backed him toward the stables.

  Val’s excited barks, along with nervous whinnies, came from the direction of the water troughs. Val, it seemed, was doing his best to provide a diversion.

  A wry smile touched Brant’s mouth before he spied a man running along the wall walk, heading toward fellow guards. No chance now of a quick, surprise escape. Dread, as hard as stone, plummeted into Brant’s gut.

  Val brushed against his leg. Tongue lolling, the little dog darted toward the surrounding men and growled, clearly looking forward to a fight.

  Brant’s gaze locked with the closest guard’s. “Tell the lad to ready my destrier.”

  “Release the lady. Then we will discuss your horse.”

  Brant snarled. He forced Faye’s head higher with the knife. A little moan broke from her, while her hands flew wide, fingers outstretched in shock. Her body quivered against him.

  “Ready my mount,” Brant said. “Now.”

  His gaze sharp with concern, the man looked from Brant to the destrier. The stable hand stood wide eyed, his mouth gaping. The brush dropped from his hands and landed in the dirt.

  A shrill wail erupted to Brant’s right. Maidservants drawing water from the well stared at him in horror. Hands flailing, an older woman dropped her basket of washing. “Lady Rivellaux,” she sobbed, collapsing on the well’s stone rim.

  Snapping his gaze back to the guard, Brant said, “I will count to three. If you do not give the order to saddle my horse—”

  “Please!” Faye gasped.

  “One.”

  “Brant,” she sobbed. “Do not—”

  He ignored the sharp stab of his conscience. “Two.”

  Crying out again, the woman covered her face with her hands.

  The guard cursed, then nodded to the boy. “Go.”

  The young man disappeared into the stable and quickly returned with the tack. His face ashen, he dragged over a wooden mounting block and began to saddle the destrier. Another lad led the other horses back into the stable.

  Each jingle of metal, each creak of saddle leather, wore upon Brant’s fraying patience. Tension, as thick as invisible fog, stretched across the bailey. The passing moments seemed suspended, gripped in an eerie spell that threatened to erupt into bloody confrontation.

  “Hurry,” Brant growled at the boy.

  While Faye trembled in his arms, guards herded the maidservants toward the bailey wall, while they in turn comforted the weeping woman. Huddled in the far shadows, clinging to cloth dolls, children condemned Brant with their unwavering stares.

  The wall walk, he noted, was now crowded with guards. Archers sighted along arrows nocked into bows. Sweat dampened Brant’s upper lip. The archers would try to slay him as he mounted the horse. If not before.

  “Horse is ready,” the boy said.

  Walking backward, Brant dragged Faye with him. Her legs buckled, but he halted and steadied her so she regained her balance. A kindness, he realized, that cost him distance between him and the nearest guards.

  Signaling to Val, Brant pulled Faye to the destrier’s side. The little dog paced to and fro, teeth bared and growling, while Brant checked the saddle and bridle’s fastenings. Then, his arm firm at Faye’s waist, he whisked her around the horse’s hindquarters into the space between the animal and the stable, removing them from the archers’ clear sighting range.

  Keeping watch on the lads peering out from the building’s shadows, Brant lowered the dagger from Faye’s throat. “Get on the horse.”

  Outrage sizzled in her gaze. “May you roast in hellfire.”

  He bit back the commands that would force her to his will. Her lips parted, no doubt to verbally flay him, but he caught her around the waist, yanked her to him, and covered her mouth with his own. His tongue forged deep, plundering the remembered sweetness of her. Reminding her of their shared pleasure.

  Her rigid body lurched in his hold. She screamed beneath his mouth. Then, with a stubborn, yielding little groan, she surrendered to him.

  I love you, Faye, he told her with his softening kiss. I love you, my treasure, and always will. His eyes stung with the fierceness of his emotions.

  Breaking away, he pushed her back against the horse’s side. Breathing hard, eyes glazed, she stared back at him, desire etched into her beautiful features. She blinked, clearly trying to discern what had just happened. Seizing that moment of compliance, he sheat
hed the knife and pushed her up into the saddle. He whistled for Val. Bending down, he snatched up the little dog and swung up behind Faye.

  The guards were everywhere. As thick as flies on a corpse.

  Eyes narrowing against the wintry sunshine, he studied the pebbled ground between the stable and the gatehouse.

  Between death and freedom.

  Faye squirmed against him. He sensed her intentions before she slid part way out of the saddle, intending no doubt to drop to the ground and run. He snaked his free arm around her, pulled her securely into the V made by his thighs, then said, “Take Val. Tuck him into that leather bag by your leg.”