He lay on his back, eyes closed, his dark, tousled head pillowed on his saddlebag. A patched blanket covered him from mid-waist to the tip of his bare feet poking out from the blanket’s hem. Before stretching out on the floor, he had donned clean garments. His others lay spread out on the hearth tiles beside her shift, gown, and mantle. The arrangement of rumpled clothing looked oddly intimate.
A tingly flush skittered over Faye’s skin. She snapped her gaze away. Far wiser to look at something else. Anything else.
The firelight dancing on the walls.
The light gleaming on the stoneware bowl on the table pushed into the corner.
The texture of the door panel.
How shameful that her gaze returned to him.
Beneath the blanket, his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. One broad arm lay draped across his abdomen. The other stretched out alongside his body, within grabbing reach of a dagger. He’d told her the weapon was for their protection, in case a drunkard decided to climb the stairs and challenge the door’s rickety bolt.
How tempting to believe the knave really was concerned about her safety. In truth, she doubted he cared for much more than the gold she felt quite certain he’d stowed in his bag, and his little dog who looked upon his scarred countenance with such doting adoration. The rogue had no doubt chosen to rest his thick skull upon the wretched bag so she couldn’t search it during the night while he dozed.
Faye glowered at him, the embodiment of cold-hearted, treasure-seeking selfishness. The body of a ruthless ruffian.
A magnificent body, though, ’twas.
A betraying awareness warmed her belly when she remembered the muscled perfection of his torso kissed by firelight. Very different to Hubert’s flaccid softness. Unfair, mayhap, to compare her aged husband’s physique to this warrior knave’s. Yet, where Hubert’s belly was rounded with age as well as indulgence, this man’s was as firm as polished stone. Where Hubert’s skin was ashen from lack of physical exertion in the sun, this rogue’s glowed with a bronze luster.
If she squinted, just a little, against the fire’s light, she could again imagine him standing there, as bold as sin—
“You are not able to sleep, milady?”
Shock raced through her. His eyes were open.
His keen gaze fixed upon her face. His hair shifted across the saddlebag while his head tilted slightly to one side. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. Did he know the traitorous thoughts that had almost materialized in breath-snatching glory in her imagination?
Heat burned her cheeks. Inwardly scolding herself for blushing, she said, “The storm is fierce tonight.”
“Aye.”
His assessing stare didn’t waver. Across the expanse of floorboards, his gaze seemed to hold a silent command, compelling her with its brilliant intensity to stare back.
Never would she let herself fall under this insolent knave’s sway.
Nudging the blanket farther up under her chin, she said, “You cannot sleep either.”
His shoulders moved in a faint shrug. “I do not sleep much, even when the heavens are quiet.”
“Why not?” A rather personal question, but any insight into this knave’s mind was certain to come in useful.
Even before her words faded, a hint of danger, of a tortuous, soul-deep secret, shadowed his features. Then it vanished, and his mouth eased into a crooked grin. “There are far more interesting ways to spend the night hours than sleeping.”
His husky tone left little doubt as to what he was referring.
The intimate, physical joining of a man and a woman.
What Hubert, too, had sought in the darkness, with awkward fumbles and almost apologetic gropes. A chill shivered through Faye, followed by the crushing need to press her palm to her belly. To remember the cherished joy that had been good about her marriage.
Her hand trembled.
The knave’s voice cut through the haze that seemed to have crept into her mind. “I have shocked you.”
Shaking her head, she curled her fingers into her gown, over her abdomen. “I am not a maiden. I know of what you speak.”
“Of course you do. You are a widow.”
Faye frowned. Her head might pound like a blacksmith’s anvil, but she couldn’t remember telling him she was once married. She didn’t discuss such matters with strangers.
Had she rambled on about her private life after the blow to her head? How utterly mortifying. “How . . . do you know I am widowed?” she asked.
For the faintest moment, self-condemnation deepened the lines around his mouth, as though he realized he had made a grievous error. Then his hand drifted in a lazy wave. “A man can tell if a woman is a virgin.”
Ha! Did he now try to thwart her suspicions with such an outrageous statement? Curiosity nagged. Mayhap she hadn’t been utterly witless after her injury, after all. “How, pray tell? Surely there is only one way”—she ignored her burning face—“to determine a woman’s innocence.”
His eyebrows raised. Intense quietness lagged, underscored by the wind gusting outside. With his blatant lack of a reply, the silence mocked.
“You cannot tell a woman is virgin by merely looking at her,” Faye said.
He smiled. “I do not have to undress her, either.”
Cheers erupted from the downstairs tavern room, followed by clumsy footfalls on the stairs. In the ensuing rowdiness, she heard a woman’s throaty laughter, low and enticing. The wind outside moaned.
Shivering again, Faye pressed her fingers tighter to her belly. The barrenness there ached. She would rather hear the knave’s voice, coax him into more conversation, as dangerous as it was, than lie awake, tormented by her thoughts.
Despite the sensual way he’d threatened her earlier, she did not fear he might be seduced by their conversation into ravishing her. If he’d intended to force her into intimacy, he would have done so before now.
Carefully shifting up on one elbow, she gave him a pointed look. “What gives an innocent woman away? I am curious to know.”
“You expect me to tell you my secrets, milady?”
An answering, wry smile tugged at her lips. “You seem a man of a great many secrets. You will have plenty left, if you divulge only a few.”
“Very true.”
Their gazes locked. Heady anticipation slipped through her, capturing her in a strong, sensual magic.
What fascinating secrets lay hidden in his smoldering gaze: the reason his handsome face bore a terrible scar; the names of all the warriors he had vanquished in the frenzied heat of battle; and all the women, both innocent and experienced, he had artfully seduced into his bed.
Footfalls stomped on the stairs, then the landing floorboards. Someone approached: a man and woman, judging from the murmurs.
The spell shattered. Faye looked away.
Val leapt to his feet. Ears pricked, he stared at the door and growled.
Drawing in an unsteady breath, Faye willed her pulse not to pound with such reckless excitement. When had she lost all common sense? How could she speak so coyly with Angeline’s kidnapper? If the couple hadn’t come up the stairs, what might she have said, or done?
The barest sound alerted her that the knave rose to a crouch. He snapped his fingers. Val instantly quieted.
Staring at the door, the man reached for his dagger and slipped the glinting blade from its leather sheath.
The floorboards outside the door squeaked.
Tugging the bedding around her, Faye sat up straight. She fumbled with the blanket, desperate to grasp enough to shield her face if need be.
His expression taut with concentration, the knave moved swiftly to the door, the knife in his hand. He pressed his back to the wall and looked poised to attack. His tunic outlined the broad planes of his torso, while his snug hose revealed the impressive musculature of his legs and thighs.
How sinful that a primitive mewl roused somewhere deep inside her.
Something bumped against the door.
The bolt rattled on its hinges.
With a gasp, Faye pressed her face into the blanket. The wool grazed her wound, and she bit her bottom lip to stifle her cry.
A man cursed in the hallway outside. “Oh, me lovely. Me lovely.” Footfalls thudded again, this time retreating down the corridor.
Another thud.
A groan of pleasure.
Followed by a rhythmic—
Oh, dear God. The man and woman were coupling. In the hallway. Against the wall.
Heat scorched Faye’s face. She felt the knave’s gaze upon her, but couldn’t look up from the blanket to meet his stare. She simply could not!
Faye fell back on the pallet, rolled over to face the wall, and wrapped the blanket tightly around her head to cocoon herself in darkness. Her belly lurched like a boat on a rough lake. Mercy, she should not have lain down so quickly.
Through a blur of pain and nausea, she heard wood squeal against wood. The knave had pushed the side table against the door. Val’s claws ticked on the floor. Then, silence.
Val and his rogue master must have lain down on their bed of blankets.
Did she dare peek to see for certain?
She couldn’t. Not with . . . that . . . going on in the hallway.
“Are you all right?” The knave’s voice, laced with humor, reached her, muffled through the cloth covering her ears.
“I . . . I want to sleep now.”
Shutting her eyes tight, blocking out the muted noises as best she could, Faye begged for the encroaching darkness to overwhelm her. A merciful escape.
On a throb of pain, shadows rushed into her mind.
Escape . . .
She woke to the sensation of being smothered. She coughed. Batting her sleepy hands, she tugged the blanket from her face and gulped in breaths of fresh, cool air.
As the muzziness cleared from her mind, she became aware that the storm no longer railed outside. The cacophony in the downstairs room had quieted. Nor could she hear the fire burning.
Turning slightly on the pallet, she glanced toward the hearth. The blaze had died down to one charred log.
The knave’s bed was empty.
Expecting to see him standing in a shadowed corner, she glanced about the room.
She was alone.
He had expected her to slumber on. He’d probably taken Val for a walk.
Biting her lower lip, she sat up. Nervous heat skittered across her skin. Where was the saddlebag? Had the knave taken it with him?
Most likely. Of all the rotten luck—
Aha! There, tucked behind the table. An excited cry bubbled inside her.
She scooted to the edge of the pallet, then stood. With tentative, yet determined steps, she crossed to the table, knelt, and pulled the saddlebag out onto the floorboards. Her clammy palms slipped over the worn leather.
Be forewarned, milady, the knave’s voice rumbled in her mind. Touch my saddlebag again, and there will be consequences.
Consequences? Ha.
She didn’t intend to see him ever again.
Faye opened the bag. Inside glimmered the gold cup.
Relieved tears stung her eyes. His scent, earthy and male, wafted as she drew out the chalice. A tremor ran through her, but she shrugged it away. Thank God she still had a means to bargain with Angeline’s abductors and win the little girl’s freedom.
She jumped as wood creaked behind her. Only the water-logged tavern walls drying after the storm. Yet, now that she had the gold cup, she must leave as quickly as possible.
Fighting a renewed headache, she crossed to the hearth, set down the chalice and gathered her still-damp clothes. If only she could stay in the dry gown . . . but if she arrived back at Caldstowe in a servant’s garments, Torr would be suspicious. He would ask questions that might contradict her carefully thought-out story—that she was thrown from her spooked mare while riding through the storm to visit Greya and had huddled under an oak all night until she could make her way back to the keep.
With desperate tugs, Faye shed the gown and struggled into her own garments. She prayed not to hear Val and his master ascending the stairs.
As she secured the gold cup at her waist using her belt, a man’s voice carried from down below.
The knave returning?
She must leave—now—and crouch in the shadows at the top of the stairs until he had passed by. Otherwise, she would never get away.
Faye grabbed her mantle, pulled the heavy garment about her shoulders, and yanked the hood up over her head to conceal her features. On shaky legs, she hurried to the door.
Easing the panel open, she stepped out into the hallway.
Smothering a yawn with his hand, Brant pushed open the tavern door. Val loped at his heels, tongue lolling, his fur damp with dew after his ecstatic, barking pursuit of the four woodpigeons pecking in the grassy verge.
Val had almost caught one of the plump, witless birds, too. Yet, with a sharp whistle, Brant had curtailed his pursuit. Lady Rivellaux would wake soon. He would be wise to keep watch on his saddlebag.
And her.
Truth be told, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from staring at her most of the night. She’d huddled in her blankets with her back to him, but in the shadowed darkness, he’d still made out the curves of her body beneath the bedding. The memory of her lovely face tinted pink with embarrassment had teased him with merciless persistence. Sleep, however, had eluded him.
The tavern door closed behind Brant. Bleary-eyed, the tavern owner looked up from the overturned table he was setting aright on its four uneven legs.
“Good morn,” Brant said, trying to stifle another yawn.
The man gave a terse smile. “Good day to ye, milord. Busy night, was it?”
Brant ignored the owner’s prying gaze. “I would like hot water and fare sent up to my chamber.”
The man nodded. Then, with his booted foot, he nudged the three drunkards sprawled face-down on the floor. One of them groaned. “Go on, now,” the owner groused. “Me wife cannot sweep the floor with yer fat arses in the way.”
“Do not yell,” another sot grumbled, pushing up on an elbow. The two other men slowly rose. There were other revelers, Brant noted, curled in corners or on the tavern floor where they’d eventually fallen in a drunken stupor. At the hearth on the opposite wall, a young girl knelt and tried to coax the fire to kindle.
Brant’s gaze shifted up the staircase to the shadows cloaking the landing, only a few paces from his chamber. He wondered if the lady slept on, or if the men’s raised voices had wakened her. If so, and if she were as determined to look in his saddlebag as he imagined, he should return to the room right away.
“Send up my order as soon as possible,” Brant said, unable to leash an impatient growl. Sidestepping a sleeping farmer wrapped in the arms of a partially clothed strumpet, Brant strode for the stairs.
Val scampered two steps ahead of him, his clawed steps echoing the rap of Brant’s boots. Snuggled together in the dark shadows in a corner of the landing, three strumpets stirred. Among them, he recognized Deane, the well-endowed wench with the blemished skin, who had offered herself to him last eve. From her dejected expression, he guessed she hadn’t managed to attract a customer, and likely not for many nights before that; the men who frequented the tavern obviously preferred younger, fresher-faced whores. Curled beside her, another strumpet pulled a cloak closer about her before giving a petulant sigh and huddling nearer to the wall.
On the faintest breeze wafting across the landing, he caught a floral scent: Lady Rivellaux’s fragrance.
Brant’s steps slowed. Misgiving coursed through him as he glanced toward the dozing women. Swathed in shadow, he could barely make out their forms.
He inhaled a careful breath. He discerned only the smells of damp wood, wet dog, and wood smoke.
Lady Rivellaux’s scent might have been carried on a draft wafting under the chamber door. Or, more likely, his lascivious mind conspired to drive him mad.
; Brant headed for the chamber. With a faint shudder of relief, he saw the wooden panel was closed, just as he’d left it.
Behind him, someone stomped up the staircase—judging from the mutters and heavy footfalls, a woman of considerable girth. Most likely the tavern owner’s wife, whom Brant had glimpsed the other day.
“Up ye get, ye lazy whores,” she said, her words accompanied by rasps of a broom and sleepy groans of protest. “Ye’ll earn yer keep, ye will, or ye can find somewhere else ta sleep.” Whisk, whisk. “Go on. Off ta the kitchens. There’s plenty o’ ale mugs ta scrub.”
More grumbles. “’Tis still early,” a strumpet moaned.
“There is an order in fer ’ot water and fare. Ye will fetch it.” Whisk, whisk. “Shoo! Afore I use this broom on ye!”
Clothing rustled. Standing with his hand on the door handle, Brant’s mind shot back to the previous evening and the torment of listening to Lady Rivellaux undress. If he had to listen to that again this morn—
He pushed open the door, vaguely aware of the strumpets descending the stairs.
The fire had burned low, but there was still enough light to glance about the room . . . and see that the lady’s bed was empty.
Brant whirled on his heel. The saddlebag lay beside the table. Open. In two lunged strides, he crossed to it, but he knew, before he looked inside, that the gold cup was missing.
Fool! He had underestimated the lady. And now the chalice was gone.
A vision of Royce’s blue eyes, wide with pain and disbelief as the spark of life faded, stabbed through Brant’s mind. Shaking, a sickly sweat dampening his skin, he stared at his right hand. His fingers were curled as though he once again gripped the dagger that had plunged into Royce’s belly.
On the incoming breeze, Brant caught a metallic, bloody scent. He saw again Royce’s body sprawled on the tent floor, a crimson pool spreading around him, his hair sticky with blood. He remembered Royce’s last, whimpered words. “Brant. Oh, God . . . Help me, Brant . . . Help me . . .”
Bile filled Brant’s mouth. He swung to face the door.
Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection Page 98