Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  Sitting near the table, Val’s ears quivered. He wiggled several steps backward.

  “Come,” Brant snapped. “Find her.”

  If she’d gone to the kitchens with the strumpets, she hadn’t gone far.

  He thundered across the landing, ignoring the startled expression of the tavern owner’s wife, and tore down the stairs. He threw open the kitchen door; it crashed against the wall.

  Standing by a pot bubbling over a fire, a group of wenches screamed.

  “The lady,” he snarled. “Where is she?”

  “L-lady?” a strumpet said with a nervous titter. “I can be yer lady, mil—”

  “Three pieces of silver,” he ground out, “to whoever tells me where she is.”

  Delighted squeals erupted. “What does she look like?” one cried.

  “What’s she wearin’?” another yelled.

  “Red hair. A gray mantle,” he said.

  “The new girl!” another said, elbowing her way to the fore. “She went out the back door, ta fetch—”

  The rest of her words faded on the roar filling Brant’s ears. Bolting to the door, he yanked it open. The small dirt yard beyond, that led out to the well and stables, was empty. A bucket rested on the well’s stone ledge.

  Lady Rivellaux had fled.

  Anger seared his gut. He would saddle his horse, hunt her down . . .

  A triumphant smile tilted his mouth.

  Let her run.

  He didn’t need to chase her.

  He knew exactly where to find her.

  Chapter Four

  Escorted by a contingent of men-at-arms, Faye rode into Caldstowe Keep’s sun-drenched bailey. The smells of rain-washed stone, horses, and baking bread surrounded her, familiar and welcoming. She sighed. How wondrous to be back within the keep’s walls, safe from that arrogant knave.

  “Faye!”

  Torr’s shout carried over the crunch of hooves. She fingered aside the wool blanket draped about her—brought by the guard who rode behind her on the horse—and glanced in the direction of approaching footfalls.

  At a near run, Torr skirted a maidservant hauling a pail of water. His blond hair, normally combed in sleek waves about his shoulders, was unkempt. Worry tightened his handsome face. Even his costly blue silk tunic and black hose looked disheveled, as if he had slept in them.

  When he drew near, the guard reined the winded horse to a halt.

  She smiled down at him. “Torr.”

  “Milord, we found her walking the road from the village,” the man behind her said. “The other men are still looking for her mare.”

  Halting next to her, Torr’s light brown eyes widened with dismay. “Your face! What happened?” Reaching up, he clasped her hand. “’Tis a nasty wound.”

  The warmth of his touch elicited a shiver of unease. “The mare threw me in the storm. Frightened, she galloped off. I dared not try to reach Greya’s cottage on my own,” Faye said, careful that her tone didn’t waver and betray her lie. “I waited under a tree until morn, when I set out toward the village. Your men found me soon after.”

  His gaze dropped to the front of her blood-stained mantle, visible where the blanket parted at her neck. “A healer should look at your wound.”

  “Truly, the injury is not too severe. In a few days, ’twill be no more than a bruise.”

  “Still, you will have it tended.” His fingers tightened on her hand. “I was very worried, especially after the violent storm. The thought of you facing that tempest . . .”

  The dull headache that had taunted Faye during the journey became more intense. She hadn’t meant to cause him anxiety, especially when he must be frantic with concern for his little girl.

  “I am sorry.” She yearned to tell him why she’d dared to ride away yesterday. For Angeline’s safety, she couldn’t. “I did not realize the tempest would be so fierce,” she added. “I had hoped to reach Greya’s before the rain started.”

  Suspicion shadowed Torr’s gaze.

  Faye forced a wry laugh. “Do not look at me so! You know I visit her at least once a week. Since Elayne died, she has become one of my dearest friends.”

  His golden hair shifted when he nodded. “True.” Yet, wariness lingered in his gaze.

  Pain spread across her brow. An answering ache roused in her heart. Tell him the truth, it whispered. Show him the ransom note. Confide in him, and he can help you save Angeline.

  She could not. She must not.

  “Faye?”

  Pressing her hand to her forehead, she said, “It has been a long night, and I am weary. Please, Torr, may we speak of this later? I am eager to bathe and be rid of my damp garments.”

  “Of course.” Torr spun on his heel. He motioned to a young girl walking toward the keep’s forebuilding. “You, there. Fetch a bath for Lady Rivellaux.”

  The startled girl dropped into a curtsey. “Aye, mil—”

  “Do not dally! Go!”

  She lurched to standing, then bolted for the kitchens.

  A stable hand strode over from the stables, carrying a wooden mounting block. He set it on the ground by Faye.

  The guard behind her shifted. “I will help you down, milady.”

  “Nay, I will,” Torr answered, before she could respond to the man’s kind offer.

  Faye gnawed her lip. She didn’t like to encourage physical contact with Torr, but if she refused him now, she would further pique his suspicions. Moreover, with her head throbbing and her body close to exhaustion, ’twas foolish to try to dismount without assistance; she could well fall in a heap on the dirt.

  “You are most kind,” Faye murmured, as Torr’s other hand slid up to her waist. He drew her down to the mounting block. When her soaked shoes landed on the wood, her body brushed against his. She twisted free of his hold and stepped to the ground.

  A vivid memory of standing pressed against the knave’s warm, muscled body skittered through her mind. A flush heated her face, even as she fought a rush of pure dread. He would know by now that she’d stolen the goblet. What would he do?

  Torr touched her arm. “I will ask the cook to prepare you an herbal infusion and order ointment sent up for your wound. Is there aught else you need? Shall I escort you to your chamber?”

  “Nay, thank you.” She gave him a grateful smile, then walked to the forebuilding.

  After stepping into the enclosed outer stairwell that led up to the main keep, she blew out a shaky breath. The burning reed torch on the wall near her flickered. Pressing her palm against the cold stone for support, she climbed the stairs.

  Was it unseemly for a lord, whose wife had recently died, to be so attentive to a widow? Torr had been extremely kind to her by allowing her to live at Caldstowe without asking any kind of payment in return. Surely, suspecting his intentions was unfair and unwise, when fatigue and pain muddied her logic.

  Faye reached the great hall and crossed the expansive, rush-strewn chamber with a quick wave to the maidservants arranging trestle tables for the midday meal. Step by careful step, she took the wooden stairs up to the area reserved for the lord, his family and guests. She passed the guarded double doors to Torr’s solar and made her way along the torch lit passage to her room.

  She stepped inside, pushed the door closed, then melted back against the wooden panel. Her gaze traveled over the fire snapping in the hearth, her narrow bed, the trestle table against the wall, to settle on the straggly bouquet of wildflowers. She and Angeline had picked them together last summer, the little girl’s blue eyes shining with pleasure. Unable to throw the blooms away, Faye had bound their stems and hung them upside down in her chamber to dry, before tucking them into an earthenware pot.

  Tears stung Faye’s eyes. Oh, Angeline.

  A rap sounded on the door. Faye started. Had Torr decided to follow her up to her chamber, to see if she was all right?

  Smothering her misgiving, Faye depressed the door handle. A stout woman with black hair, braided in a coil around her head, stood in the co
rridor, holding a small pot and a mug.

  “Milady, Lord Lorvais said ye ’ad need o’—” She gasped. “Oh!”

  Faye instinctively touched her cheek.

  Shaking her head, the woman thrust the pot into Faye’s hands. “Ye need this fer certain. ’Tis excellent salve, made by one o’ the best ’ealers in this land. Greya’s ’er name.”

  Faye smiled. “I know Greya.”

  “Very skilled, she is. Could very near raise a man from the dead, I vow.” The woman handed over the mug. “’Ere is yer infusion. Would ye like me ta take a look at that wound for ye, milady? Apply the ointment? ’Ow about a ’ot compress ta ’elp ease the pain?”

  The woman’s kindness touched deep within Faye, stirring fragile emotions too close to brimming over. “Thank you, but I can manage.”

  “If ye need aught else, milady, de not ’esitate ta ask.” After dropping into a graceful curtsey, she walked away.

  Faye started to shut the door, but heard voices in the passage. Lads approached carrying a wooden bathing tub. Behind them, boys lugged buckets of water. After opening the door wide, she stood aside while they placed the tub near the hearth. The boys made several more trips to the kitchens for water, cloths, and soap, before Faye thanked them and ushered them out.

  Standing beside the tub, she stripped off her garments. When she glanced at her discarded clothes, her memories shot back to the tavern room and the items drying before the fire. What had the knave done when he’d found her gone? Had he shoved his partly dry clothes into his saddlebag, mounted his horse, and commanded Val to track her?

  Did he still hunt for her, as a ravenous falcon pursued a hare?

  Shivering, she stepped into the tub with an awkward splash. Speculating about the knave—whom she hoped to never see again—was not only senseless, but took her concentration from more pressing concerns. Her attempt to rescue Angeline had failed. Now, she must find another way to negotiate with the kidnappers.

  Faye snatched up a soft linen cloth and the soap. After bathing, she would go to the quiet place where she always retreated to think; by the morn’s end, she must know her next course of action.

  With brisk strokes, she scrubbed her body to remove all trace of the knave’s hands upon her. Then she gently washed her face, wincing at the sting of soap in her wound. Sliding back in the tub, she soaked her hair, scrubbed it, then twisted the slippery length to remove most of the water. In the firelight, the droplets glittered as bright as tears.

  The warm bath coaxed her to lie back, close her eyes, and doze—a temptation she refused. She left the tub, dried, and, ignoring her aching limbs and cheek, drew fresh garments from her linen chest pushed against the wall. Hubert had bought her the gray wool gown. She’d recently renewed the well-worn garment by embroidering blue flowers along the neck.

  One day, she hoped to buy new things, but for now, what she had must do. She wouldn’t ask Torr for coin to buy clothes. Nor could she bear to alter Elayne’s luxurious silks, which he’d given her after she died.

  “Please, make use of them,” he’d said, handing her an armload of exquisite gowns. “She wanted you to have them.”

  Sitting on the end of her bed, Faye pushed her feet into leather shoes. “Elayne,” she whispered to the silent chamber. “How I miss you.”

  Faye brushed out her hair, donned her spare, forest-green mantle and made her way down to the bailey. Murmuring “good morn” to the children tossing a stick for a playful wolfhound and the servants drawing well water, Faye crossed to the gardens. Herbs clustered in one stone-walled bed. Fallen leaves scattered over the paths, browned grass, and soil where spring seeds would be soon be planted.

  A hedge enclosed the garden corner closest to Caldstowe’s tower, the part of the keep built soon after the Norman Conquest. Faye pushed open the squeaky, wrought iron gate and stepped inside.

  Cut from gray stone, a reclining woman stared up at the sky overhead. Pressing her hands over the carved ones of Elayne’s tomb, Faye bent her head. “I will not fail you,” she said, looking down at the rigid portrayal of her friend’s features. “I have not forgotten my vow to you. I will bring Angeline home safely, I promise.”

  A sparrow twittered from the hedge, as if answering her. With a sad smile, Faye sat on a raised stone by the tomb. Looping her arms around her knees, tilting up her chin, she closed her eyes and let the calm of the place seep into her. The sunlight soothed her wounded cheek.

  How to best rescue Angeline . . . ?

  In the garden beyond, she caught the rumble of male voices.

  Not unusual. Yet, warning prickled through her.

  Faye opened her eyes and pushed to her feet. When the hushed conversation carried again, goose bumps rose on her arms.

  She recognized Torr’s voice.

  And the other—

  Hardly daring to breathe, she crept to the hedge. Parting the interwoven branches, she peered through. Torr stood by the fish pond, breaking a twig apart with his fingers. Beside him was a tall, dark haired man. His back faced her, but there was no mistaking his warrior physique, or his aura of barely-leashed tension.

  The knave!

  The branches slipped from her fingers. Lurching back, she dragged in several choked breaths while struggling to control her panic and confusion. Why had he come to Caldstowe? What could he possibly have to discuss with Torr?

  Had something happened to Angeline . . . something awful that had convinced the knave to confide in Torr, since he was the little girl’s father?

  Mayhap the matter didn’t concern Angeline at all. The knave could have discovered Faye lived at Caldstowe and had come for the gold.

  Her pulse pounded. She couldn’t return to the keep. As soon as she stepped from the enclosed garden, they would see her.

  Until they moved away from the pond, she must wait here.

  Trapped.

  She fought to remain calm, while trying to hear what the men were discussing. Yet, the birdsong from the garden, the breeze stirring the hedge leaves, and the day-to day activity in the bailey conspired to muffle their words.

  One thing, however, was clear: the men weren’t arguing. Their voices didn’t rise and fall in bitter accusation, but remained at a constant level . . . which implied an amicable conversation. It also suggested Torr and the knave knew each other.

  Before she could ponder that startling thought, another noise intruded. Leaves rustled by her feet. Lowering to a crouch, she peered under the hedge.

  From the other side, Val raised his little nose from the ground. He stared back at her.

  “Shoo,” she muttered between her teeth. “Go away.”

  Val barked.

  Faye sensed, rather than saw, the knave’s head turn. Before she could stop her instinctive reaction, she shot to her feet. Thank God the hedge grew tall enough to hide her.

  “Val!” he shouted.

  She flinched.

  Val yapped again. More rustling.

  Was the wretched little dog going to dig his way under the hedge and reveal her?

  A sparrow, chirping with indignant fervor, burst from the nearby branches. Val raced after it, barking excitedly. The knave and Torr laughed.

  Crunching gravel alerted her that the men were moving away from the pond. Daring to peek through the hedge again, she saw they were walking toward the stables. Not at a brisk pace, but at a leisurely jaunt. As though the men were friends.

  How could that be? She’d never seen the knave at Caldstowe before. She would remember such a scarred face.

  The thought nagged, even as she forced it to the back of her mind. She counted out ten deep breaths. Then she hurried to the gate, cringing when it squeaked open.

  The men stood chatting by the stable. Thank goodness they hadn’t heard the gate. Light glinted off the knave’s hair and played in tantalizing planes of light and shadow across his back. Her hands tingled with the memory of touching him.

  Tearing her gaze away, Faye strode toward the forebuilding. Part of her be
gged to break into a run, but she mustn’t be conspicuous.

  Had the knave seen her leave the garden? Was he watching her now? She dared not glance over her shoulder. Dared not meet the knave’s cold, cunning gaze and know that she, the hare, was cornered.

  As she reached for the forebuilding’s door, two maidservants waved to her from the open kitchen doorway. “Lady Rivellaux.”

  Faye waved back, grabbed the iron handle, and bolted inside, hoping the knave hadn’t heard the maidservants’ call. She hurried to her chamber. Each step seemed to take an eternity.

  At last, Faye reached her room. She shut the wooden panel behind her, removed her mantle, then crossed her chamber. Kneeling on the floor, she pushed aside her linen chest and pressed her fingers to the loose wall stone she had discovered long ago. Gently wiggling the stone, she pried it out. A grating rasp, and it came free. Gold glittered in the darkened cavity.

  A relieved sigh broke from her. The chalice was safe.

  Her chamber, however, was the first place the knave would search.

  She must move the gold cup elsewhere. But where?

  With careful fingers, she eased the goblet out of the hiding place. The cool, smooth metal molded to her hand. In her palm was the weight of a child’s life.

  Outside, in the corridor, came the muffled echo of voices. Her head snapped up. Sweat dampened her hand, turning the gold slick.

  Earlier, she’d asked one of the young girls to bring more wood for her chamber’s fire. The firewood hadn’t been delivered yet.

  If the servant found her with the cup . . .

  Faye nudged the vessel back into the recess, pushed the stone into place, and shoved the linen chest into its normal spot. She ran her hands over her gown, smoothing the fabric as she dried her palms.

  No reason to be anxious. No one knew where the gold was hidden.

  They would never know.

  She sucked in a deep breath, tucked hair behind her ear, and faced the doorway.

  And saw she wasn’t alone.

  The knave lounged with his back against her door, his arms folded over his chest.

  Her hand flew to her throat, a feeble defense against his bold, looming presence.