Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  And likely worth a king’s ransom.

  “Goad,” Angeline said with a big smile. “Pwetty.”

  Lifting the toy lamb from her lap, Faye rose. “Let us wash the mud off, so we can have a good look.”

  The little girl toddled at Faye’s side as they walked to the water. Gently dipping the vessel into the shallows, Faye sluiced water over its gleaming surface.

  “What have you found?” Elayne called.

  “Goad!” Angeline shrilled.

  “Shh!” Faye quickly tempered her command with a smile. She didn’t want to upset the child, but if passing travelers learned they had found gold, the situation could turn dangerous. Especially when Elayne had refused to allow men-at-arms to accompany them on their picnic.

  “’Tis best if we keep our treasure a secret for now. Promise you will not tell?”

  Angeline glanced over at Elayne. “Tell Mama?”

  Faye nodded. “We will tell your mother.” The treasure rightfully belonged to Angeline, since she had found it. ’Twas Elayne’s responsibility to look after it.

  “Come show me, my lamb,” Elayne said from the grassy bank.

  Rising to her feet from the river’s edge, tucking the vessel beneath her arm, Faye caught Angeline’s hand and headed toward the blanket—

  A horse’s shrill whinny broke into Faye’s thoughts. She blinked. The memories dissipated like morning mist, although the ache inside her remained.

  Another whinny. “Easy.” Brant’s voice came from behind her, followed by the ring of hooves on the stony bank. He’d watered the horses. Soon, he would be striding over to her, bent on learning what she knew.

  She glanced over at the willow, then scanned the distance between it and the water. The broken wooden plank was no longer there. With the recent, bitter cold, a peasant had probably taken it to cut into firewood. Her physical point of reference was gone, leaving only memories.

  Squeezing her arms tighter to her bosom, she walked to where she and Angeline had found the plank. Or where she thought it had been. The endless repetition of rocks and debris all looked the same.

  A brown blur darted past her. Val scampered over the rocks, his tail wagging. He raced down to the water, sniffed the mud, trotted a few more paces along and sniffed again. The ducks huddled on the bank’s opposite side quacked and eyed him warily.

  Forcing her gaze back to the nearby rocks, Faye lowered to a crouch. Mayhap from this angle, she could better remember.

  At the water’s edge, Val yapped. Dipping his fuzzy head, he lunged for the river, then darted back again. Ignoring him, Faye pushed aside rocks with her hands.

  Another excited yip. With sharp tugs, Val dragged an object out of the water. He snatched it up before glancing about, as if to locate Brant to take the prize to him.

  Water dripped from the small, whitish object in the dog’s mouth.

  A frayed ribbon jutted between Val’s teeth.

  Blue ribbon!

  Lunging to her feet, Faye stumbled toward Val. Ears flattening to his head, he darted away. “Come here,” she screamed. “Come here!”

  “What is the matter?” Brant yelled, his footfalls loud on the stones behind her.

  Tears filled her eyes. Tremors shook her, wrenching up from the soles of her feet, through her legs, through to her very core. Her vision a blurry haze, she struggled after Val. Her breaths became sobs.

  “Faye!” Brant shouted.

  His forceful tone brought her to a teetering stop. She turned, wavering as though drunk. She tried to tell him what was wrong, but words failed her. Moaning, she pointed at Val.

  Dropping to one knee, Brant whistled softly to the little dog. Casting Faye a wary look, the mongrel loped over to Brant. She held her breath, hoping desperately her gaze had deceived her, that the dog hadn’t found what she thought.

  Gently scratching the dog’s head, Brant drew the object from Val’s mouth.

  A soggy, dirty toy lamb.

  Chapter Eight

  Faye’s face crumpled on another despairing moan. The sound bore such anguish, the hairs at Brant’s nape tingled, a sensation akin to ants crawling from the base of his skull into his hairline.

  What in God’s holy name was wrong?

  Rising to his feet, he held out his hand, palm up, displaying the filthy little lamb. Water ran between his fingers to spatter on the rocks. Ignoring Val’s disgruntled barks, he said, “You weep for a child’s toy?”

  She was shaking so hard, she looked about to collapse. She nodded, then immediately shook her head. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Apprehension warred with his impatience to begin the treasure hunt. “What is it, Faye? Aye, you are weeping for this lamb? Or nay?”

  “Aa—” Her hands pressed to her belly. She shuddered, as though racked by terrible pain. Her face looked ashen.

  As she wobbled on her feet, Brant caught her elbow. “Sit,” he said between clenched teeth. He didn’t mean to speak so harshly, but he couldn’t quell his growing concern.

  Brant expected a scathing refusal, a tart reply that he had no right to order her about like his dog. Yet, she didn’t scorn him, or try to escape from his authoritative grip. When he tipped his head toward a large stone beside her, she sniffled, then wilted down onto it.

  Cradling the lamb in his hands, Brant sat opposite her. His gaze slid from the pathetic looking toy back to her, acute helplessness sharpening his worry. What should he say? How did he comfort her? He had little experience comforting the fairer sex. He could slay an opponent with two slashes of his sword, but confronted by a lady’s tears . . .

  Brant cleared his throat, a sound rife with awkwardness. Part of him longed to sit beside her, slide his arm around her shoulders, and draw her against him . . . but he couldn’t. Touching her would add another volatile element to this already unexpected twist of events.

  Faye’s ladylike indignation had kept a welcome emotional distance between them. But raw, honest tears . . .

  Sniffling again, she wiped her face with her mantle’s sleeve. Her gaze didn’t leave the bedraggled toy, and she made no attempt to explain her desolation.

  “Faye?” he coaxed.

  When the silence between them dragged, his concern tinged with misgiving. She wouldn’t weep so, and refuse to explain, unless she wanted to withhold the reason from him.

  The lady had a secret. One that was devouring her.

  Like his own secret devoured him, it seemed.

  He might have smiled at the irony of such a common bond between them, except at that moment, she reached out and took the lamb from his hands. Her slender fingers were pale against the grubby, wet cloth.

  A sob broke from her. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks.

  Enough.

  “Faye, what is wrong?”

  She bit her bottom lip, then shook her head.

  “’Tis only a toy.” His voice sounded rough, as though spoken by another man.

  So gently, as though ’twere a precious object, she stroked the little lamb. “’Tis Angeline’s,” she whispered at last. “She would not part with it, unless . . .” She swallowed hard. “Unless . . .”

  “How can you be certain this lamb is Angeline’s?”

  “’Tis hers. I know.”

  “How?”

  “The blue ribbon, and . . . stitched eyes.”

  From her horrified expression, she thought Angeline was dead. Faye’s anguish stabbed Brant like a dagger, the steel-edged pain driven deeper by guilt. While he’d had no part in Angeline’s abduction apart from negotiating the ransom, he couldn’t let Faye believe such a grim fate had befallen the child.

  Leaning forward, bracing his arms on his knees, he struggled to reassure her. “’Tis the lamb which matches the ewe, the one I discovered in your linen chest.”

  Faye nodded. “They were made especially for her, by a craftsman in the village.”

  “The village close by?” Brant asked, gesturing toward the distant church spire.

  “Aye. He
has a stall at the market every week. He loves to . . . to make toys for the children.”

  “Which means he has made more than one ewe and lamb.”

  Faye paused in her tender stroking of the toy. Her moist gaze lifted and locked with his. How desperately, it seemed, she wanted to believe him.

  “This could be any child’s lamb, Faye.”

  With her finger, she wiped tears from the corner of her mouth. Hope shimmered in her eyes, warming them to the color of sun-warmed emeralds.

  At last, he was reaching her, slaying her ghastly assumptions. “He has likely made many such as this. Hundreds.”

  “True,” she said slowly.

  “Angeline’s lamb is probably with her,” Brant went on, relieved that at last, Faye’s tears might end. “’Tis doubtful harm has befallen her. Why would the kidnappers want to hurt her?”

  His confident words carried in the morning air. Yet, even as he spoke, he saw disquiet creeping back into her gaze. “I cannot imagine. You, of all people, might know.”

  Brant dragged a hand over his jaw. “I do not. As I told you before, I was hired only to collect the ransom. I was not involved in her abduction.”

  Torr, however, was familiar with the kidnappers.

  The words burned for release. Brant forced them down, for he couldn’t tell her. To betray Torr in such a manner would take Brant dangerously close to breaking his blood oath—a code of honor between knights he couldn’t forsake, especially after all Torr had done to protect Brant months ago.

  Even more daunting, if Faye realized he had no significant role in the kidnapping, she might decide he was of no use to her in her quest to rescue Angeline. The arrangement forged between them would be as solid as a bridge made from twigs. Flimsy. Insubstantial.

  She might resolve not to help him find the treasure, and Royce’s lost dream—within Brant’s grasp for mayhap the last time—would forever remain unfulfilled.

  He mustn’t relinquish Royce’s goal. Not now. Brant must perpetuate the falsehoods, embellish them with the luster of Celtic gold itself, if he had any hopes of succeeding. To tell Faye the truth doomed him to failure.

  Exhaling a long breath, he dragged his hands through his hair. She was studying him so intently, he shrugged to relieve his discomfort. “As far as I know, you have no reason to worry. Angeline is fine.”

  Her stare didn’t waver. She clearly expected more of an answer.

  He looked across the river. The less he said, the better. There was power in withholding all but the smallest details.

  “Brant—”

  “As far as I know,” he repeated, “she is well.”

  Faye’s breath hissed between her teeth. She shoved to her feet. Val gave a startled yap before scampering several yards away.

  Brant scowled down at his linked hands. He sensed his control of the situation slipping from his grasp.

  “I want to see Angeline.”

  He forced a brittle laugh. “’Tis not possible.”

  “Why not?”

  He tilted his head to look up at Faye. Her hands were pressed to the front of her mantle, between her breasts, the frayed end of the lamb’s ribbon just visible at her fingertips. “I must see her,” she said. “You know the abductors, as well as how to contact them. All I want is to know for myself that she is all right.”

  “’Twas was not part of our agreement, milady.”

  She huffed a breath. “I see.”

  Brant pushed up to standing. He looked down at her tense, upturned face. Tears still glimmered on her lashes. Her lips flattened, but she didn’t break his gaze. Nor did she make further demands he couldn’t carry out. “Now,” he said in a curt tone, “to ensure we will both benefit from our agreement, I hope we can resume—”

  “—the search for the gold.” She spoke as though he’d asked her to drop to her knees and kiss his grubby boots.

  Refusing to give ground, he quirked an eyebrow. “That is why we are here.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Her hands, still cupped protectively around the lamb, curled tighter against her ribcage. “How vile, to care more about the treasure than a child.”

  Brant thrust up his hand. “Do not corrupt the truth. I did not say—”

  “You did not have to.”

  She was trembling again. Despair didn’t shimmer in her eyes now, but iron resolve. Before he could say one word in his defense, she bit out, “The gold was found here.” She gestured to the nearby mound of stones. “’Twas underneath a wooden board, lodged amongst dirt and stones.”

  He crossed to the area she had indicated and stooped to examine the rocks. When he braced one hand on a nearby stone, the rock’s chill seeped into his palm, numbing his hand. But he didn’t care. “How deep in the dirt? How far amongst the stones?”

  “Close to the surface,” she snapped. “If you look, you might discover more gold.”

  The note of finality in her voice made him pause. Still at a crouch, he turned to face her.

  Turning her back to him, she started to walk away.

  “Where are you going?”

  Her strides slowed before she swung back to face him. The rosy hue had returned to her cheeks. “I have told you what you wanted to know. I have kept my part of our arrangement.”

  Disquiet rippled through him, akin to the aftereffects of a stone hurled into the river. The chill in his palm spread. “You have shown me rocks and earth. We have yet to find the treasure.”

  She tucked hair behind her ear. Then, holding the lamb against her chest with both hands, she whirled and strode toward the horses.

  “God’s blood!” He stared at the proud line of her back. He didn’t mistake the purpose in her strides. “Faye, come back.”

  Her posture stiffened, but she didn’t stop walking. A few more strides and she would reach her mount.

  With an angry shove, he rose to standing. “Where are you going? We are not done.”

  She abruptly halted. Spinning around, she glared at him. “Aye, knave, we are.”

  “What?” He struggled to control his rising fury. “We had an agreement.”

  “Had,” she agreed.

  “Faye!” Brant growled.

  “Keep the goblet. Take whatever riches you find. I never want to see you again. Angeline is worth more than any wretched treasure, and I will rescue her on my own.”

  Faye sensed Brant’s outrage, heard his foul curse. She caught her mare’s reins and swung up into the saddle. After tucking the lamb against her thigh, she spurred her mount toward the road.

  Her heart thumped like a wild creature against her breastbone. She half-expected to hear Brant’s running footfalls, to feel his hands grabbing for her.

  With a nudge of her heels, she urged her horse to a canter. When she rode over the bridge, the mare’s mane whipping into her eyes, she dared a glance back.

  Brant stood where she’d left him, watching her, his arms folded across his chest. A silent figure all in black, frightening, but also beautiful—in the same way lightning split apart the heavens, yet also illuminated them with awe-inspiring brilliance. The scar on his cheek was brutally stark in the morning light. He didn’t gesture, didn’t call to her, but his rage crackled across the yards between them.

  Tearing her attention away, she stared ahead down the road. “Ha!” she cried, urging her horse to a gallop. Bending closer to the animal’s warm neck, inhaling the comforting scents of leather and horse, she rode from the river.

  From him.

  She surrendered to her mare’s rhythmic gait, grateful for the strength beneath her when her body shook with emotional exhaustion. She struggled to subdue a wave of guilt. How rash of her—and foolish—to have given the knave the goblet. She prayed Elayne would forgive her. However, from the moment Angeline had unearthed the gold cup, it had become a tremendous responsibility, a burden that had fallen upon Faye when Elayne died.

  Faye trembled. No longer was she responsible for keeping the vessel, and the location of the find, a secret. Yet, she
also didn’t have it to barter for Angeline’s freedom. Celtic gold would be far more tempting to the abductors than aught else she could offer them.

  Steeling herself against rising worry, she reminded herself the kidnappers had demanded a ransom of silver, not gold. While she didn’t know for certain, she suspected Brant hadn’t told them of the cup; he likely aimed to keep it and any more riches he discovered for himself.

  Greed had vanquished Brant’s loyalties to his fellow criminals. If he had informed them of such a treasure, ’twould not still be in his possession. The abductors would have seized it—or killed him to possess it.

  Unless he’d told them of the goblet, as well as more gold to be found, and they were in on his scheme to find it. Through his arrangement with her, Brant might be working on behalf of them all to locate the riches.

  Which meant his only motive for his bold, passionate, magical kisses was to seduce his way into her confidence, to make her trust him with the secrets of the gold. That way, she’d willingly lead him to the treasure.

  Would he . . . could he . . . be so ruthless?

  ’Twas entirely possible. The man was a rogue.

  Why, of all idiocy, did the notion of him manipulating her hurt so much?

  Tamping down her resentment, Faye struggled to refocus her thoughts. The plot she imagined could well be true, but she had no evidence Brant was a fortune seeker for anyone but himself.

  Moreover, she didn’t know his exact relationship to the kidnappers. He’d seemed shocked to learn Angeline was a child. Such a vital misunderstanding implied that he wasn’t involved in organizing the kidnapping—as he’d told her—and that he hadn’t seen the little girl with her abductors. Would he not have done, if he were part of the scheme? At the very least, he would have known Angeline was a child.

  Also, his efforts to convince her that Angeline was well, and unharmed, showed concern for the little girl’s welfare.

  Only the most foolish, smitten fool would be swayed by a knave’s compassion, a voice inside her cautioned. His attentiveness could be merely a ploy to furrow his way deeper into your trust, because he sensed your reluctance to share what you knew about the gold.