Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

Brant strode down to Torr, who struggled to stand. His arm and bloody stump flailing, Torr scrambled backward in the water, creating violent waves. Spitting a foul oath, shaking, he raised his sword.

  “This is for Royce.” Holding his blade in both hands, Brant positioned the weapon. And thrust down.

  A hissed gurgle faded to a whisper of bubbles. Brant withdrew his sword and stepped away from the pool.

  Behind him, the inky water lapped over Torr’s body. It sank slowly out of sight, as though pulled down by invisible hands. Still poised to attack, his sword was the last to disappear. The polished steel glinted, cold and gray, before it vanished.

  Faye hugged Angeline tight. “’Tis over, my lamb.” Relief, mingled with sadness, shivered through her.

  Head down, his breathing ragged, Brant strode away from the water. His sword dropped to the ground with a shrill clang. Cradling his wounded arm, he fell to his knees before the ruined journal. A sound like a sob broke from him.

  Tears blurred Faye’s vision. A torrent of emotions welled inside her as she crossed to him. She gently set Angeline down on the ground and knelt beside him.

  His dark, unruly hair shielded his face from her. “Brant,” she whispered. “Are you badly wounded?”

  His body trembled as he sucked in a breath. “My wounds are not mortal.” Slowly, as though it cost him monumental effort, he looked up at her. His eyes glistened. “Faye.”

  Her heart wept at the agony in his gaze. Catching his hand, she linked her fingers through his. “You saved my life, as well as Angeline’s.”

  The faintest smile touched his lips.

  Never would she forget the wondrous play of his mouth over hers. The magical bliss of his kiss. “Thank you.”

  He nodded. Remorse clouded his features. “Murder, it seems, is what I do best.”

  Anguish burst inside her, robbing her of breath. “Brant—”

  “There is so much I must say to you, Faye. For all I have forced you to endure, I am sorry. Believe me, all I wanted was to protect you—”

  “Brant.”

  “To keep you safe from Torr’s madness—”

  “Brant! Will you cease talking and listen to me? Or”—she forced wry challenge into her voice—“must I count to three?”

  Surprise registered in his eyes. The barest grin softened his features. “Very well. I am listening.”

  Squeezing his hand, she said, “You are the bravest, most honorable man I have ever known.”

  He shook his head.

  “Torr is to blame for Royce’s death, not you. He arranged the whole confrontation, intending for you to kill your brother.”

  “My God, Faye . . .”

  Brant was drawing away from her emotionally. She would not lose him now.

  Reaching out, she cupped his sweat-streaked face in her hands. How she relished the roughness of his stubbled jaw, the warmth of his skin, and the puckered ridge of his scar against her palm.

  He was alive.

  Hers.

  “Brant,” she whispered, “I love you.”

  His eyes widened. His lips parted, and he looked about to speak.

  Pressing forward, she kissed him.

  A low, helpless groan rumbled in his throat. For the space of one heartbeat, he remained immobile. And then, as though her kiss shattered a paralyzing spell, his mouth opened beneath hers. His tongue slid between her teeth, seeking, hungry, as his good arm slid around her to yank her close.

  Feverishly, he kissed her. He held her as if he dared not let her go. As though he meant to lay claim to her very soul, not just for now, but forever.

  At last, the kiss gentled to the sweetest brush of lips. With a sigh, Brant drew back. He nuzzled her cheek. “Faye,” he murmured, “how I love you.”

  Faye stared into his eyes, her heart swelling with joy . . . until a tiny cough reminded her they were not alone. She glanced over at Angeline, staring at them with big, curious eyes. Val sat beside her, his tail wagging.

  Smiling, Faye drew the little girl into the crook of her arm and kissed her cheek.

  “Hello, Angeline,” Brant said.

  She gave him a shy smile before hiding her face against Faye’s shoulder.

  Brant’s arm slid away from Faye. He rose. “Come.” He winced as he shifted his wounded arm. “I will be glad to leave this cavern.”

  When she stood, Faye became aware of movement near the entrance. Torr’s men crowded into the cave. Two of the sentries, their expressions grave, crouched beside the guard’s headless body.

  A sickening lump clogged Faye’s throat. Torr’s men might hold her and Brant responsible for their comrade’s death. They could well condemn Brant not only for Royce’s murder, but that of the guard and Torr.

  Before she could speak, the sentry she’d seen earlier strode forward. “Lady Rivellaux.”

  “A-aye?” she said warily.

  “As you know, we did not obey Lord Lorvais’s orders to leave. With the storm raging outside, we chose to wait in the passage.” His gaze slid to Brant. “We heard all. We decided not to intervene, in case we curtailed Torr’s confessions.”

  “Earlier, you tried to stop me.”

  “Nay, milady. I tried to ask you not to reveal us to Lord Lorvais.” His mouth formed a grim smile. “None of us wanted to be murdered for disobeying him.”

  “I see.” She held the man’s gaze. “Then, if you heard all, you know Brant saved my life as well as Angeline’s. He is not to blame for his brother’s death or any other killing.”

  Admiration lit the man’s gaze. Turning to the guards by the entrance, he said, “The lady speaks true. Let them pass. You”—he pointed to another man-at-arms—“help move our friend’s body outside.”

  After the men lifted and carried the dead guard out of the cave, Faye reached down to take Angeline’s hand. Her small fingers were closed. She carried a rock, no doubt.

  “Angeline, leave the rock here in the cavern, where it belongs.”

  A puzzled frown darkened the little girl’s brow. “Not rock. Goad.”

  “Show me!”

  The little girl opened her fingers. A rough-edged gold coin, featuring the image of a running horse, lay in her palm.

  “Brant,” Faye whispered. “Look.”

  He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers. He inhaled a harsh breath. “I saw a drawing of such a coin in Royce’s journal.”

  Faye took the Celtic coin from Angeline’s hand and handed it to Brant. Wonder shone in his eyes as he looked at it, then at her.

  His mouth flattened. He turned and tossed the coin into the pool. It winked once as it drifted out of sight.

  Faye gasped. “Why—?”

  Brant pressed a slow, tender kiss to her lips. “I do not want the rest of the gold, Faye. ’Tis safest if it remains hidden here. I am already richer than any legendary king, for I have Angeline”—he kissed her again—“and I have you, Faye. My lady love. My treasure.”

  —The End—

  Bound by His Kiss

  Acknowledgments

  Writing this sexy novella was a fun challenge, and one that I undertook with the encouragement of my wonderful critique partners: Nancy Robards Thompson, Teresa Elliott Brown, and Caroline Phipps. Thanks so much to you three amazing gals for your excellent critiques and creative advice. Whatever would I do without you?

  Chapter One

  Nottinghamshire, England, 1192

  “Something is amiss.” Lady Miranda de Vornay’s grip tightened on her mare’s reins as she glanced into the forest that crowded the narrow dirt road she traveled.

  The ten armed riders escorting her closed their formation.

  “’Twill be all right, milady,” said the grizzled knight beside her, his voice carrying over the clop of hoof beats. “We will soon be through these woods.”

  His words were clearly meant to comfort her. His hand, though, had settled on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

  How
she’d looked forward to riding to Dreyswell Castle, home of her future husband, Lord Bramwell Hawksley, on this glorious spring day. ’Twas her last visit as an unwed maiden. They’d be married on the church portico in three days’ time.

  For countless nights, she’d dreamed of him, the squire she’d kissed at her father’s keep three years ago while visiting her family. When she’d returned to her uncle’s castle, where she was being fostered, she’d lost contact with Bram—until last month. He’d returned from fighting on crusade with King Richard to claim his inheritance, which included Dreyswell Castle.

  Joy had glowed inside her to see Bram again. Somehow, he’d seemed different than she remembered, but he would have changed. He’d become a knight, a man, while she’d grown to womanhood. Once they became reacquainted, especially as husband and wife, they’d enjoy again the fiery passion they’d once shared.

  Today, as she’d ridden into the forest that was part of Bram’s estate, she’d thought back upon the day they’d become betrothed, and their thrilling kiss years ago. Her excitement had quickly turned to unease.

  Glancing again into the woods, she said, “I sense we are being watched.”

  “Outlaws.” The knight beside her scowled.

  Miranda pressed her hand to her throat, over the costly brooch fastening her navy wool cloak.

  “Do not be frightened. These woods harbor men who hold no loyalty to King Richard or those governing for him while he is on crusade, but you are safe with us.”

  The knot of unease inside Miranda grew. The sensation of being intensely studied, as though someone scrutinized her from her braided hair coiled about her head to the toes of her embroidered shoes, made her palms dampen on her reins.

  Her father’s men were well trained in case of an attack. She’d keep her head held high and her gaze fixed straight ahead. She’d think about finally kissing Bram on the mouth again, on their wedding night, as they pulled off each other’s clothes, kisses greedy and—

  With a sharp hiss, an arrow streaked past her left shoulder. She jumped with a shriek as the arrow embedded in a tree behind her.

  “Draw weapons!” the knight beside her yelled. More arrows whistled through the air. Shouts broke out among the men-at-arms, along with the rasps of swords being drawn and the whinnies of horses.

  Heart hammering, Miranda reached for the dagger concealed within her cloak. She’d never used it before, but at least she had some way to defend herself.

  “Protect the lady,” a man-at-arms ordered from up ahead.

  As the riders moved to encircle her, scores of armed outlaws ran out of the undergrowth, some wearing leather hoods with eye slits, others wearing masks that concealed the top half of their faces. More arrows flew. Swords clashed. A knight screamed in agony.

  The outlaws were closing in.

  As Miranda struggled to control her spooked horse, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a drawn sword strode out of the forest. He looked straight at her, his eyes blazing through the openings in his mask. His unflinching stare and purposeful strides toward her implied he meant to . . . take her.

  Terror raced through her, chased by a shocking tingle of excitement. Somehow, he seemed vaguely familiar. A wisp of indistinct memory brushed her fear. How could she know an outlaw? She couldn’t. Her senses were tricking her.

  Seeing a gap in the throng of fighting men, Miranda gestured to her knight who was battling several outlaws. “There!” she cried.

  “Go!” the knight yelled. “I will be right behind you.”

  With a kick of her heels, Miranda spurred her mount forward.

  “Not this day, milady,” a rough voice growled. She shivered as her gaze locked with that of the man who’d spoken: the tall rogue, claiming the last yards between them.

  She urged her horse onward again, but outlaws swarmed in upon her, grabbing for the reins and pulling the wild-eyed animal to a halt. The rogue she’d seen earlier approached.

  Miranda cast a frantic glance at her escort. Surrounded, they were being forced to relinquish their weapons.

  Her breaths harsh, she brandished her dagger. “Stay back,” she shouted to the thugs surrounding her.

  Laughter rippled through the outlaws. The rogue reached her side and looked up at her. His mouth, not hidden by the mask, tilted into a wry grin. “Give me the dagger.”

  “Step away.” How proud she was of her fierceness. “I warn you—”

  “And I warn you. If you wish your men to remain alive, you will sheath your knife and hand it to me. Then, you will dismount. I will not repeat my demands.”

  As Miranda stared down at him, anger burned within her, along with a sense of helplessness.

  The rogue extended a hand, a silent demand for the knife. Her movements stiff, Miranda removed the leather sheath from her cloak, shoved in the knife, and handed it down to him, shuddering at the brush of his callused fingers against hers.

  The roughness of his hands bespoke a man used to fighting. He might be a mercenary. Oh, mercy, what did he want with her?

  He secured the knife in his belt and raised both arms, an offer to help her down. A ridiculous show of chivalry. She’d never accept the help of an outlaw rogue!

  Ignoring him, Miranda slid down from her horse and smoothed her garments into place. His height forced her to raise her chin to meet his stare. This close, she saw shiny, dark brown hair escaped from the edge of his mask, the strands the same color as the stubble darkening his jaw. His eyes were brown, too, his stare bold and possessive, and she fought the urge to cower.

  “Why did you attack us?” she asked, focusing her anger into her biting tone.

  The rogue’s smile broadened, revealing a strong, even set of teeth.

  “What is it that you want?” she demanded.

  His hand lifted to capture a strand of hair escaping from her braid. “What I want, milady, is you.”

  ***

  “Me?” Miranda’s eyes, as bright and blue as he’d remembered, widened. She jerked her head to the side, causing him to lose hold of her honey-gold hair as it slipped like silk against his fingertips. “What do you mean?”

  Her nervous breaths caused her full, pink lips to part, her generous bosom to rise and fall beneath the drape of her cloak. She was beautiful, more so than he’d expected. In the years since he’d last seen her, she’d grown from a spirited young girl to a woman. One who’d snare the interest of any hot-blooded male. Including those who didn’t deserve her.

  Lust raced through him to settle in his hard loins. Now was not the time to indulge in her loveliness; he had more important priorities. “Later, there will be time for questions.” He signaled to one of his men, standing at her horse’s head.

  Her gaze flicked to the man who approached, drawing a coil of rope from his belt.

  “Nay.” She pushed back against the horse’s belly. “How dare you! I will not be tied.”

  “Milady!” her knight called from several yards away, followed by the grunts and thuds of a struggle.

  “Your safety, and that of your escort,” the rogue said, “depend on how fast you do as I say.” Ignoring the fear in her expression, he took the rope, uncoiled it, and grabbed her left wrist. She struggled, but he quickly caught her right hand and bound her wrists together in front of her, noting, as he did so, the softness and creamy whiteness of her skin, further proof of her gentle life. With a twinge of remorse, he hoped her skin wouldn’t be bruised or cut by the ropes, necessary as they were.

  Dropping her bound hands, he met her stare, challenging the indignation blazing in her eyes. “I am sorry for the bonds,” he said. “However, I will not let you injure my men, nor escape.”

  Her chin jutted higher. “You tied me because you are a coward.”

  Rage spiked within him, as keen as his lust. “Far from a coward. You would be wise to remember that.” Turning on his heel, he addressed his most trusted men. “You know what to do.”

  They nodded, motione
d others to follow them, and joined the outlaws already surrounding her escort.

  “Wait! You said my men would be safe if I obeyed you.”

  He half-turned to assure her that she need not worry; her escort would be released, so he could use them to inform his lordship at Dreyswell of her abduction. But even as the words formed in his mouth, he realized the wisdom of withholding that information. He well remembered how willful she could be. Fear for her men’s well-being would make her cooperate.