Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  “Visiting her again?”

  Faye nodded, anxious to defray the suspicion in his gaze. “I did not reach her cottage when I tried to see her the other day. The storm prevented me.”

  “Are you well enough to ride to the village? With your wound—”

  “I would not undertake the journey if I did not feel able. ’Twould be very foolish.”

  Torr’s eyebrows rose, a gesture that reminded her of Brant. Yet, while Brant’s stare had sent excitement coursing through her, Torr’s filled her with apprehension.

  “Greya is the best healer in this county. I also hoped she would examine my wound, to make sure ’tis mending properly. She may have special salves to quicken the healing.”

  Torr’s head dipped in a half-nod. He didn’t look convinced.

  The morning chill crept into the folds of her mantle. Gently extricating her fingers from his, she hugged her arms across her chest.

  His gaze slid down to where her breasts lay concealed beneath her mantle. He looked across the bailey to the stables, where a scrawny cat had emerged from the doorway. Torr’s displeasure seemed to hum in the air around them.

  “Tomorrow, will you join me for a walk?” she said, softening her tone with a plea. “I would like that very much.”

  His head swiveled. A smile touched his lips. “I would enjoy that, too.”

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  She started to turn toward the stables, but he caught her arm. “Wait. I will summon a few of my men-at-arms to accompany you.”

  Oh, God! “Nay! I mean, ’tis very considerate of you, but unnecessary.”

  He frowned. “I am worried about you, Faye. The last few days you have been acting . . . peculiar.” He looked about to say more, but at that moment, one of the stable hands, rubbing sleep from his eyes, emerged from the stables. He bowed. “Good morn, milord. Lady Rivellaux.”

  “Good morn,” Faye said. Panic pressed between her ribs. Unless she immediately began her journey, she would miss her meeting with Brant. “I promise you, I am fine. I would not ride today otherwise.”

  He studied her, each tense moment marked by her urgent heartbeat.

  At last, he shook his head and smiled. “Forgive me. After all that has happened lately, I fear I am a little . . . overprotective.” Gesturing to the stable hand, he said, “Ready Lady’s Rivellaux’s mare.”

  Picking his teeth with a dried length of grass, Brant leaned against an oak and studied the straight, narrow dirt road, as he had at least twenty times since he’d ridden to the designated meeting place. During the night, heavy frost had settled on the vegetation growing alongside the naked forest. As dawn’s light fingered through the trees, the verge glittered as if strewn with stars.

  A few paces away, Val dug furiously at a rabbit hole, then shoved his nose into the opening. His little body shook in a zealous sneeze.

  Brant chuckled before working the piece of grass between his bottom teeth. His gaze shifted to the stand of trees in the distance. Beyond lay the lake where he had first met Faye. Last night, he’d ridden past it. Cloaked in twilight, the lake had been as smooth as polished pewter. As though, beneath its still surface, something waited, poised to surface at a precise moment with splashing, gleaming splendor like a sword raised by a mystical maiden’s hand.

  Now, just like yester eve, he couldn’t stop thinking of Faye’s anguish at the lakeshore when he’d demanded the ransom, and also when he had spilled the rocks onto her chamber floor. Why did those stones, twigs, and a toy sheep—belongings of another lady’s child—mean so much to Faye? What gnawed at her conscience with the fanged ferocity of his own guilt?

  ’Twas more than worry for Angeline. Faye had scrambled after the rock as if it were more precious than gold.

  Her anxiety had bothered him so much that, upon returning to The Spitting Hen Tavern, he’d searched out the blemished-faced strumpet. Her sad eyes had lit with excitement when he’d pressed coins into her hands. “What do ye fancy, milord? Fer this much silver, ye shall ’ave it several times over.”

  With a pained sigh, he’d drawn her into a quiet corner. “Deane, I do not pay for your charms. I wish you to go to Caldstowe Keep and become a servant there. ’Twill be a better life for you.”

  She’d blinked down at the coin, then up at him. Her eyes had glistened. “Why are ye so kind? I am a stranger to ye.”

  His hands had closed over hers. “All I ask in return is that you listen for word on Lord Lorvais’s daughter, Angeline, who is missing. If you hear any news, you must tell me. Will you, Deane?”

  Tears had streamed down her rouged cheeks. “I will. Oh, thank ye, milord. Thank ye.”

  A bird flitted through the tree branches overhead, snapping Brant’s focus back to the wintry road. In the rising light, the frost glittered as brightly as Faye’s eyes.

  Her bewitching gaze hinted at a rare magic he’d experienced only once before. After meeting Elayne at a Midsummer feast, he’d been consumed by the need to see more of her, to kiss her perfect cheek, to touch the tantalizing body she’d so brazenly presented to all the men around her.

  Bitterness left a foul taste in his mouth. Even now, Faye captured his thoughts with the same persistence—even though she hadn’t come to meet him as promised.

  “Damnation,” Brant muttered. He pushed away from the tree, his cloak swirling about his calves as he strode to the road. His destrier, tethered to an oak further off the road, raised its head from the frozen grass and shook its mane, jangling its bridle, eager to be on the move.

  Planting his gloved hands on his hips, Brant walked inside the ruts caused by a wagon racing down the road when muddy. Dirt crunched beneath his boots.

  Could she have mistaken the meeting place? Were his directions not clear? Had she decided during the night that she didn’t need his help to rescue Angeline, after all?

  Resolving to wait for her a few more moments, he kicked a stone with the toe of his boot. It landed on an ice-covered puddle. The surface smashed into a hundred white pieces, its symmetry destroyed—just like his plan to meet Faye and begin the hunt for the treasure.

  Without her, he had no idea where to begin to look. Of all undesirable predicaments, he needed her, for the insight she could provide.

  A keen ache slashed through Brant. If only he’d been more determined to find the journal that Royce had taken with him on crusade. If only Brant had searched harder while knights and fellow warriors had dismantled the desert camp and prepared to move on. Royce had carefully written all of the rumors, legends, and snippets of information on the treasure’s possible locations in the pages of that leather-bound tome.

  Yet, at the time, overwhelmed by the horror of what he’d done, Brant hadn’t even been able to step into the tent he’d shared with Royce. Death had confronted him when he’d raised the tent’s flap. Vomit scalding his mouth, blood streaming from his slashed cheek, he had lurched away. His fellow crusaders, believing Royce slaughtered by the crippled Saracen prisoner who had tried to escape that night—and who, Brant later learned, was hung, drawn and quartered for the murder—offered sympathetic claps on the back. Shaking with grief, he’d retched into the sand.

  Torr had packed all of Brant and Royce’s belongings, stowed them on Brant’s horse, and burned the tent. When Brant had asked about the journal, Torr had said he hadn’t found it among Royce’s effects. Brant remembered his brother had sometimes tucked the journal into the garments he was wearing. In their eagerness to be rid of the corpse before it rotted and attracted rats, his fellow crusaders had likely burned the journal along with the body.

  Still, Torr had helped Brant search the area where the tent had stood, as well as around the campfire where Royce had lingered, his face lit by flickering flames while he’d flipped through the journal. They’d found no trace of the tome. Like his brother, its ashes had been scattered in the scorching desert sands.

  Now, Brant’s only hope of fulfilling Royce’s dream lay with a woman.

  One who had dese
rted him.

  A scratching noise came from the verge to Brant’s left, then Val sneezed again. Setting his hands on his hips, Brant tipped his head back to look through the branches at the blue sky.

  How long did he wait for Faye until he admitted she wasn’t coming?

  How long had he waited for Elayne, on the threshold of that secluded cottage, where she’d promised to lie with him and tutor his hungry, virgin body in the ways of pleasure?

  His lip curled. He had waited long enough.

  If he had to ride to Caldstowe and bully the information from Faye, so be it.

  Pivoting on his heel, he loosed a sharp whistle. Val scampered from the verge and ran at his heels while he strode toward his horse. When Brant approached, the destrier whickered, snorting a white cloud from its nostrils.

  Brant patted the destrier’s warm neck. He reached out to untie the reins.

  A sound, quiet yet growing louder, intruded: a rhythmic thud, like a pulse.

  Hoofbeats.

  Barking, Val raced into the middle of the road. Brant spun to face the oncoming rider. A lone figure hunched against the neck of a bay galloping ever closer. With each ta-ta-tap, ta-ta-tap of hooves, Brant’s mood lightened.

  Mayhap Faye hadn’t deserted him, after all.

  As the rider neared, strands of copper red hair glinted in the sunlight. Streaming out behind her, Faye’s tresses lifted and fell with the motion of her mare. The hood of her green mantle bunched about her shoulders. Whipped by the morning air, her face held a rosy flush. How beautiful she was, thundering toward him.

  Relief flooded through Brant. As he strode toward the road, however, Val snarled. Barking again, he bolted out to intercept the mare.

  Fear numbed Brant’s elation. Patches of ice dotted this part of the road. Faye’s wound was still healing, so, not feeling her best, she might not be as quick to cope with unexpected crises.

  If her mare skidded or lost her footing . . .

  “Val!” Slipping when his boot connected with ice, Brant started after the dog.

  Faye was near enough now that he saw her eyes flare with panic. She instinctively straightened, then drew back on her horse’s reins, urging the mare to slow.

  Yapping, teeth bared, Val raced closer.

  “Val!” Brant yelled. “Come.”

  At a canter now, the mare tossed her head. Brant sensed Faye’s fear, heard her curse as her wide-eyed mount veered onto the verge.

  Tree branches caught at Faye’s mantle and hair. Shielding her face from the onslaught, she shrieked. One of the reins slipped from her hands; the length of leather dangled to the ground, sliding uselessly on the frozen ground.

  Val darted between the horse’s legs.

  “Stop him,” Faye cried. “Please.”

  “Val!” he thundered. In the morning quiet, his voice boomed. “Come here. Now!”

  The little mongrel slowed, came out from under the mare, and stopped in the middle of the road, his tongue lolling. Bright eyed, tail wagging, Val trotted back to Brant.

  Brant scowled down at the little mongrel. Then, whipping off his right glove, he snapped his fingers. “Sit.”

  Val sat beside the frozen rut, the tip of his tail swishing to and fro. Excitement still danced in his eyes.

  “Stay there until I call you,” Brant bit out in a tone harsher than he had ever used when speaking to Val. His innards still quaked from the thought of what could have happened to Faye. All too easily, she could have been thrown to the ground, a limb or two broken, hurt and bleeding again because of him.

  Val whimpered. Brant gave the mongrel one last, warning glare. Then he glanced over at Faye.

  She sat astride her horse, rubbing her hand over the animal’s lathered neck. Breathing hard, the mare had stopped on the verge. Sun-touched frost glittered at her hooves. Light, slanting through the trees, streamed over Faye, as though the tree boughs had parted in reverence to her, the Fey Queen, who had graced this common stretch of road with her presence.

  Dismissing his idiotic thoughts, he crossed to her. “Are you all right?”

  Faye gave a stiff nod. She’d managed to regain hold of both reins. Her white-knuckled hands clenched around the lengths of leather. When he neared, her grip tightened. “You should have better control of Val,” she said sharply. “’Twas very dangerous. I could have fallen.”

  “I know.” He reached her side. Squinting against the brilliant sunlight, he looked up at her. “I am sorry.”

  His voice cracked on the last word. All the emotions tangled up inside him seemed to expel on “sorry.” Clearing the embarrassing huskiness from his throat, he said, “’Twill not happen again.”

  Her narrowed gaze shifted past him to where Val sat. “How can you be certain?”

  “He did not get his usual morning run after the woodpigeons. ’Twas my mistake. I will not deprive him of that morning pleasure again.”

  The hard glint of her eyes softened a little.

  “I am sorry,” Brant repeated. Reaching up, he pressed his bare hand to her mantle-covered thigh and gently squeezed. The cold wool scratched his palm. However, even through the heavy cloth, he felt the little trembles shaking her, the after-effects of her scare. Proof of the fear he’d caused her.

  Once again, her gaze locked with his. A more intense shudder rattled her. Not fear this time, but an emotion even more . . . dangerous.

  Tinged red by the morning air, her mouth tempted him for a kiss. He remembered how her lips had felt beneath his, her exceptional taste, her slender body cradled beneath him.

  His hand curled tighter into her mantle, bunching the fabric in his restless fingers. He fought the urge to draw her down from her horse, wrap his arms around her, and murmur soothing words.

  Awareness, as tangible as their breaths in the icy air, rekindled between them. In that moment, he understood how she’d felt the afternoon at the lake when he’d towered over her on horseback, master of every facet of their meeting. How ironic that their perspectives were reversed.

  Standing beside her mount, gazing up at her, he realized that his fate, from this point on, lay in her control.

  She alone could help him achieve Royce’s dream.

  Without her, he was lost.

  Her horse shifted its weight. With a mortified blink, Brant unclenched his hand from her mantle. Creases marked the cloth where he’d gripped.

  Heat stung his cheekbones, while frustration burned stronger than his desire. Never did he want to be commanded by a woman, especially an enchantress. As much as he needed Faye, he wouldn’t allow her to lead him along like a dim-witted boy. He had learned his lesson from Elayne.

  A frown creasing his brow, he stepped away. Faye’s gaze lit with surprise.

  “The morn is passing. If we wish to make use of the day, we should be on our way.” His gruff voice sounded to his own ears like grating stone.

  “Why do you look at me in that manner?”

  He yanked the glove back onto his right hand. Gliding against his skin, the leather made a soft hiss. “How so?”

  “You appear to be angry with me.”

  Impatience chafed like the rough seam against his palm. “Not angry, milady, but eager to be hunting for the treasure.”

  Her lips pursed. “Of course. The lure of gold.”

  Casting her a sidelong glance, he tipped his head.

  Her chin notched higher. “I remind you, Brant, that you promised to help me rescue Angeline. That is my purpose for being here. My only purpose. Do not forget.”

  He almost laughed at her saucy tone. She was bold, indeed, to goad him.

  Foolish lady. Mayhap, instead of a knave, she believed him to be a man of honor, who, even if tempted, would never dare to pull a lady down from her horse and satisfy the lust seething inside him. Surely his kiss yesterday had shown her he didn’t deny himself what he wanted, and that he wouldn’t hesitate to use desire, if need be, to get his way.

  “I have not forgotten my vow to you,” he said as a breeze st
irred the spindly boughs overhead. “Nor have I forgotten the pledge you made yesterday.” With delicious mischief, he lowered his voice to a sensuous rasp. “I trust you remember all that transpired between us in your chamber?”

  Faye’s face turned scarlet, making the wound on her cheek more conspicuous. Brant expected her to spit a curse at him, to scorn his crude sensual assault and tell him never to lay his worthless hands upon her again.

  With a gentle kick of her heels, she nudged her horse back onto the road. With a gritty clip-clop, clip-clop the mare walked down the center of the frozen rut, leaving him to stare at the proud line of Faye’s back. Her mantle flowed down from her shoulders and over her horse’s sides like a faerie queen’s ceremonial robe.

  “Milady,” he called after her with a touch of warning.

  She flicked her hand in the air. “Coming?”

  His legs ached to break into a walk, to stride to his destrier, mount, and start after her. However, the search for the lost treasure was his to lead, by God. Not hers.

  Her horse’s unwavering gait taunted him. Even the lazy swish of its long tail mocked him.

  “My horse is still tethered,” he groused. “Stop and wait. Only when I am ready will our search begin.”

  Her words floated back to him. “The sooner we search, the sooner you will help me rescue Angeline.”

  “Faye,” he snapped.

  She rode on, clearly ignoring him. She must have heard him, for there was not too great a distance between them yet. Nor could her horse’s hoofbeats have drowned out his voice.

  Brant glared at her, waiting for her to turn around and acknowledge his command. Yet, with carefree fingers, she pulled at the glossy strands of hair caught in her hood, then smoothed them back over her shoulder. When she rode into a pool of sunshine, light crowned her head and fired her tresses with a molten sheen.

  Scowling, Brant glanced down at Val, still sitting by the rut. The mongrel’s tail swayed against the ground. His eyes were huge and pleading. “Come on,” Brant said.

  Val scrabbled to his feet. As Brant strode at a brisk clip toward his horse, Val ran alongside him. The little dog leapt up and nipped at his glove. After scampering a few paces ahead of Brant, Val darted back and nipped again.