Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  “You probably think I am foolish not to use her clothes,” the lady said, her tone barely above a whisper. “Elayne was taller than I am, so the gowns would need some adjusting. Torr said he would pay for the alterations as part of his gift to me. A most generous offer. Yet, I simply cannot bring myself to wear what was hers.”

  As Brant took one last armload, he wondered if there was something more to her story. In his travels, he’d seen enough facets of humanity to know few women would resist such luxuries—unless they had a very good reason.

  She made no attempt to elaborate. Nor did she try to stop him searching through her belongings. Mayhap she’d accepted, at long last, that he wouldn’t be deterred. That he would only leave when he had the gold cup. She must be eager to see him go.

  An odd regret slashed through him, for after he had the goblet, he would likely never see her again. A ridiculous remorse. ’Twas best for both of them.

  Brant dug through the remaining items in the chest. His fingers brushed a cloth bag. Something solid was inside. When he picked up the bag, objects inside clinked together. Frowning, he parted the drawstring at the top.

  “Nay!” the lady cried, lurching forward. “’Tis only stones and—”

  Brant emptied the contents onto the pile of gowns—an assortment of river rocks, two bits of gnarled wood, as well as a grubby toy sheep. Stitched from woolen fabric, its round eyes were embroidered with blue thread. A blue ribbon encircled its neck.

  He shook his head at the odd collection. “You did not want me to find these?”

  “They are Angeline’s,” the lady said, as if that explained all. Her eyes blazed with anguish and outrage.

  With two fingers, he dangled the well-worn sheep in the air, its head pointing toward the floorboards.

  “A ewe,” she said, “which came with a little lamb. ’Twas made for Angeline by one of the local villagers.”

  “I see.” Gesturing to the stones and wood, Brant said, “These, too, were gifts?”

  Her chin thrust up. “Treasures of their own kind.”

  Brant blew out a disbelieving breath. Only a complete simpleton—or a child—would cherish stones and a toy sheep. He tossed the ewe onto the mounded gowns. “Your friend has peculiar taste, milady.”

  When he turned back to the chest, his foot nudged the garments. One of the stones tumbled off the pile. The lady darted after it.

  “’Tis only a rock,” he muttered.

  She snatched the stone from the floorboards and whirled to face him. With near reverence, she cupped the brown-gray stone in her palm. “Angeline was very proud of these. She collected them herself, and I promised to keep them safe for her. And so I shall.”

  “Mmm,” he said, half listening. Dragging his hand one more time through the chest, he choked down bitter disappointment. He turned to face her. “The goblet is not here.”

  She quirked a slender eyebrow. “Imagine that. Now that your curiosity is satisfied, mayhap you will put the garments back in the chest and leave.”

  He set his hands on his hips and glared at her. “Where is it?”

  Pointing to the lavish gowns, she said, “Take them. Have them all, in place of the goblet.”

  “I want the gold.”

  Desperation gleamed in her eyes. “The clothes will fetch a good price at a town market. Take them and be gone from here. I beg you.”

  “Nay.”

  A sound like a sob broke from her. “Take them, now, before I—”

  The rest of her words became a blur of sound. As he glanced back at the linen chest, his gaze traveled over the whitewashed wall.

  The mortar was missing from around one of the stones, which jutted out slightly further than the others.

  The perfect hiding place for all kinds of secrets.

  His mouth twisting into a smile, he approached the wall.

  “Nay,” Faye shrieked. “Nay!”

  Dropping to a crouch, he pressed his fingers to the stone.

  The gold cup is not there. There is naught behind that block but darkness, Faye wanted to cry as Brant began to nudge it from the wall. But she knew he wouldn’t listen. By sheer willpower, she stopped herself from falling to her knees and pleading like a woman whose soul was about to be ripped from her.

  The expression on his face . . . she’d seen naught like it. His jaw was a taut line of intense concentration. His determined gaze locked to that section of wall as if it concealed all the riches of the Holy Roman Empire.

  With a gritty scrape, the stone edged toward him.

  Her restraint shattered. “Stop!” She lunged, careening into him.

  Brant grunted and fell sideways against the linen chest. Faster than she thought possible, he pushed her away, then leapt back to a crouch.

  She clawed at his hands. Cursing under his breath, he blocked her with his shoulder.

  The stone slid free.

  She stumbled back. “Oh, mercy!”

  He peered into the hiding place. A sigh rushed from him, a sound not only of elation, but of profound relief. He reached in and drew out the goblet.

  Settling the vessel in his palm, Brant slowly turned it. The gold gleamed, as though illuminated from within. His expression softened with awe.

  Awe indeed. If he sold it, he could live off the proceeds for the rest of his living days.

  Unless she could convince him to let her keep it.

  Somehow, she must.

  “’Tis very beautiful,” she began, desperation in her voice, “but I cannot let you take it.”

  He rose to standing. “If I may say so, milady, ’tis already mine.”

  She swallowed down a vehement denial. “Whatever your reasons, they cannot be more important than Angeline’s life.”

  His lips flattened into a stubborn line. “If you are worried about paying the ransom demand, why do you not sell a few of Elayne’s gowns yourself?”

  “A grand idea, from a man without a conscience,” Faye said coolly. “I have no wish to offend Torr, who has allowed me to live here since my husband died.”

  Brant’s eyes narrowed. He looked about to challenge her words, but merely shrugged. “Surely he would understand your selling a few garments to rescue a friend.”

  “Friend?” She gasped. He spoke so casually. How could he consider the relationship between a widow and another woman’s eighteen-month-old daughter—the little girl she’d sworn to protect—a simple friendship?

  With his thumb, Brant traced the dent in the cup. “Angeline is your friend, aye?”

  Her frustration broke free in sharp, biting words. “She is more than a friend. She is an innocent child.”

  On the word ‘child,’ his thumb stilled. His gaze, dark with warning, collided with hers. “Do not try to manipulate me with dangerous lies.”

  She struggled to keep from shouting. “What lies?”

  “With your protests and pleas, you failed to stop me from taking the cup. Now, you will deceive me with tales of a child?”

  Anger shook her. “I do not speak false. Angeline is but eighteen months old.”

  Brant looked close to throttling her now. “Milady!”

  Refusing to retreat from his fearsome glower, Faye glared at him. “She is not any child—”

  “Well, milady, she is not your child. You do not have any children,” he told her with irritating triumph. “That, I know for certain.”

  How, exactly, did he know such a private detail about her? Refusing to let herself be distracted by the thought, she said, “Angeline is the daughter of Torr and Elayne.”

  “Damnation!”

  Faye crossed her arms over her bosom. “Why act surprised? You are one of her kidnappers. You know she is a child.”

  He shook his head, disbelief, then guarded wariness in his gaze. “I assure you, milady, I had no part in her abduction. I was hired only to collect the ransom from you.”

  She frowned.

  “I do not understand,” he went on, shaking his head. “What reason . . . Why abduct
—”

  “A helpless child? One who recently lost her mother? ’Tis heartless, indeed.”

  Brant looked about to nod in agreement. Then, bowing his head, he studied the cup, slowly turning it in his fingers. The metal glowed with the luster of an unfinished dream.

  From his thoughtful expression, Faye guessed he struggled with a difficult dilemma. Was he changing his mind about taking the goblet? Could she still persuade him to relinquish it?

  “You see, now, why I must have it,” she said.

  A muscle ticked in his jaw, but he didn’t look at her. “Your reasons are clear,” he said quietly, “but I have my reasons, too.”

  She hissed a frustrated oath. “Greed? Fie!”

  “Although I swear to you,” he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken and it took effort for him to say the words, “I never realized Angeline was a child. That changes a great deal.”

  Faye blew out a trembled sigh. She crossed to him. Pressing her hands over his cradling the gold cup, she said, “You know what the right decision is.”

  As their skin touched, warmth rippled across her palm. Acute, shocking awareness. She started. He must have felt the sensation too, for he flinched.

  Raising his head, he met her stare, no trace of emotion in his cool blue eyes. “It seems we would be wise to forge a bargain, if we are to both get what we desire.”

  His tone’s husky sensuality made her belly flutter. Heat from his strong, tanned hand flowed up her arm to spread like an intoxicating potion.

  Faye withdrew her hands from his, discreetly wiping her palms on her gown. “What bargain . . . do you propose?” She tried to sound dispassionate, but her words emerged a breathless squeak.

  He smiled. “An arrangement to satisfy us both.”

  How shameful, that the innuendo in his statement sent excitement pulsing through her.

  “This vessel is likely part of a much larger hoard of treasure,” he said, his voice gliding over and through her in a purely mesmerizing manner. “If my guess is correct, it belonged to a great Celtic warrior. A king named Arthur.”

  Faye had heard of such a man. His name was revered in legend and song. Greya, too, had told her some of the old stories, passed down through her family. Some of the tales mentioned sites close to Caldstowe. “Why do you believe ’tis King Arthur’s treasure?”

  Anguish clouded his features. Somehow, she’d touched on a forbidden subject. “I have heard the legends,” he said with a shrug. “As, no doubt, have you.”

  She nodded. However, she sensed he hadn’t told her all. She wondered what he wished to keep secret, even as she said, “You intend to find the treasure.”

  “Aye.”

  “Yet, I need the gold to save Angeline.”

  Steel-cold resolve fired his gaze. “Help me find the riches, milady, and I will help you rescue Angeline.”

  Faye’s breath whispered between her lips, the sound akin to a breeze whistling past stone. “A proposal to suit us both.” An odd sense of intimacy, of their lives being bound together by their agreement, coursed through her. “When will our search begin?”

  “First, you must vow secrecy.”

  “Of course I will not tell.”

  “Promise you will tell no one of our quest. I must have your solemn vow, Faye.”

  She shivered when he spoke her given name. How bold of him, to take such a privilege. Somehow, though, it enforced the solemnity of the vow. “I promise I will tell no one,” she said quietly. “But why—?”

  “If word gets out of a Celtic treasure, it could become very dangerous for both of us.”

  “As well as Angeline,” Faye murmured.

  Brant nodded. “I fear so.”

  Fear, as insidious as black magic, ran through Faye. From this moment on, she began a quest from which she couldn’t turn back. A journey with no certain ending.

  She squared her shoulders. “Tell me what I must do.”

  Chapter Six

  Dawn’s first light had barely pierced the winter sky when Faye drew back her blankets, stumbled across the cold floorboards to the table, and splashed water over her face. The fire in her chamber had burned out during the night, and she shivered as the icy liquid hit her skin. Yet, she must wake quickly. She’d vowed to meet Brant at daybreak to start their search for the treasure. She wouldn’t be late.

  With shaking hands, Faye donned her chemise and gray gown. For a moment, her gaze slid to the linen chest. She wondered at the expression on Brant’s face if she chose to wear Elayne’s embroidered cloak. Would he notice? Would he think her . . . beautiful?

  A ludicrous thought.

  Faye snatched up her forest green mantle and pinned it closed. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she pulled on sturdy leather shoes. The bed ropes squeaked, rousing the memory of Brant’s face stark with desire, his hard body covering hers, his earthy, masculine scent—all conspiring to conquer her senses.

  She shouldn’t dwell upon him in such a fashion. He had no interest in her apart from her help in locating the treasure. He already possessed the gold cup; he’d secured it under his tunic before leaving her chamber yesterday. Once they found the riches and rescued Angeline, he would ride off in search of other adventures.

  That is, if such a man honored his agreements.

  A shiver wove through Faye as she crossed to the door. She’d trusted Brant’s word. She had no other option, when she couldn’t turn to anyone else. Yet, ’twas entirely possible Brant wouldn’t follow through with his part of their arrangement. Something she mustn’t forget.

  Drawing a steadying breath, Faye opened her door, shut it behind her, and headed down to the great hall. Most of the castle folk were still asleep, stretched out on pallets on the floor. By the light of a few lit torches, she skirted slumbering servants and dogs and quietly made her way to the entrance to the forebuilding.

  The faint scrape of a chair alerted her she wasn’t the only one awake.

  “Faye?”

  Torr!

  Her footsteps faltered. She glanced across the dark hall, to see him swing his booted legs off the table on the raised dais—the lord’s table. With his thumb, he wiped his lips. He stood, pushing a leather flask into his belt.

  A pang of sympathy lanced through her, for she knew the flask contained a draft made for him by a local herbalist. It eased his chronic pain caused by a fall from a horse during a tournament years ago.

  Torr stepped off the dais and started toward her. Sweat dampened her palms. What if he didn’t believe her when she said she was going to visit Greya? Faye didn’t have time to linger. Nor could she simply wave, then dash down the stairwell to the bailey. As lord of Caldstowe, he could prevent her from leaving the keep.

  Telling herself to remain calm, Faye smiled at him. Drawing near, he smiled back. Despite the dim lighting, she noticed shadows under his eyes. She guessed he hadn’t slept much that night, if at all.

  “You are awake early, Faye.”

  “I could not sleep.” She managed a wry chuckle. “I thought I would enjoy some fresh morning air. I did not mean to disturb you.”

  “I was already awake.” Compassion softened Torr’s gaze. “How is your wound? Does it pain you?”

  “Only a little. ’Tis healing well.” Glancing toward the forebuilding, she said, “Well, if you do not mind, I—”

  “I, too, cannot sleep.” He sighed, as if a peaceful night’s rest was an impossible dream.

  “You miss Angeline,” Faye murmured, guilt squeezing her conscience. How thoughtless that she considered only herself, when he must be very worried about his little girl.

  He hesitated, then nodded. “Aye, Angeline.”

  Faye swallowed hard. She could only imagine his torment. He must long to know if his daughter was safe, or cold, or hungry, or terrified. He must fear not seeing her alive again. Tears stung Faye’s eyes, for after losing her babe, she understood such grief.

  “Torr,” she whispered, touching his arm. For all his generosity over the past months,
as well as the vow she’d made to Elayne, she would do whatever was necessary to bring Angeline safely home.

  Torr’s gaze held hers. Such intense emotion churned in his eyes. How could he not be distraught, with Elayne’s illness and recent death, followed by Angeline’s disappearance?

  “Your daughter will be back with us soon,” Faye said.

  His lips tightened. He clearly tried to suppress difficult emotions. With a shaking hand, he reached for his flask, took a long sip and returned it to his belt. When he glanced at her again, she saw his façade of the calm, composed lord of Caldstowe Keep. “So far, my men have discovered naught. I hope you are right, Faye, about her being found.”

  “I am.” She smiled.

  Torr’s mouth curved into a faint grin. “Come. I will walk with you.”

  “’Tis a very kind offer, but this morn, I prefer to walk alo—”

  He had already clasped her hand. When his fingers twined through hers, she fought a shudder. His touch brought no comfort, only a sense of entrapment, as he ushered her into the stairwell.

  She needed to be on her way! Before the sun lit the distant trees, she must be on the road to the meeting site.

  If she didn’t meet Brant as arranged, he had no obligation to help her. He would simply vanish with the gold. Gone, like the morning mist.

  Torr pushed open the door at the bottom of the forebuilding, admitting a waft of wintry air that stirred her gown’s hem. The faintest hints of pink and gold swept the horizon. Dawn would soon wake the rest of the keep.

  Frosty gravel crunched beneath her shoes as she walked a few paces with him, then slowed her stride. “Thank you, Torr, but I wish to go my own way now.”

  Torr faced her. “I see,” he said, sounding indignant. His breath formed a white cloud, akin to smoke exhaled by an angry dragon. “Why do you not want my company, Faye?”

  Because I am meeting another man this morn, in order to save Angeline, her conscience whispered.

  “I assure you, I intend no insult,” she said quickly, squeezing his hand still linked through hers. “I did not realize daybreak was so close upon us. You see, I promised to visit Greya this morn. I hoped to be there by dawn.”