Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  As he sat back, wiping the sweat from his brow, a curious sense of apprehension lashed through him. Was the treasure not here because the gold cup was all that the earth had chosen to spit out? Or, had Faye deceived him? Had she decided, at the last, that she didn’t wish to tell him all, and used the finding of the lamb as her means of escape?

  He pushed to his feet, tossing the flat stone aside. She wouldn’t deceive him so.

  Would she?

  His gaze again flew to the stretch of road. Like an adder stirring to wary alertness in the sun, anger roused in his gut.

  She might have decided he wasn’t the man to help her rescue Angeline, after all.

  Faye might have decided to turn to Torr.

  You are to frighten her. Scare her. Bring her to screaming tears, if need be. Then you will ride away, Torr had said the day they’d met in the woods, when he’d commanded Brant to ride to the lake and demand the ransom from Faye.

  Why had Torr wanted him to terrify her? To put her through such torment was not only cruel, but corrupt.

  Did Torr want her to seek help from him, even though the ransom demand had told her not to? If so, what reasons did Torr have for manipulating Faye in such a manner?

  Moreover, what role did Torr play in the abduction of his own child? Surely he hadn’t arranged to have his own child kidnapped.

  Had he?

  Brant scowled. How he loathed deception. It reeked like an onion rotting from the inside out.

  He strode to the water to rinse the dirt from his hands, wondering what would happen if Faye went to Torr, told him of the ransom note, and asked for his help. What next set of machinations would slip into place like wooden pieces of a child’s game?

  If she told him of the goblet . . .

  A chill, icier even than the winter river, sluiced through Brant. If she spoke of the gold, the danger to her—as well as to him—increased hundredfold. As lord of these lands, Torr would demand to know why she’d kept the find a secret. Torr would be furious.

  Furthermore, if Faye told him Brant knew of the gold days ago, Torr would demand to know why Brant hadn’t told him, either.

  Both of their lives, as well as Angeline’s, would be in terrible danger. Months ago, on crusade, and years before that while they grew up together, Royce had shared his journal with notes of the lost treasure with Torr as well as Brant. The riches and old stories had fascinated Torr.

  A painful tightness spread through Brant’s chest. Without him, Faye faced whatever happened next on her own.

  His gaze shifted to his saddlebag tied to his horse. Inside, the gold goblet lay protected in a length of cloth. That morn, in the grimy tavern room, when he’d carefully unwrapped the vessel to examine it once again, it had glimmered with an austere beauty. Unable to resist, he’d traced his thumb over it, a tactile reminder of his promise to Royce. Again, his hands tingled with the brush of his skin against the ancient metal.

  He hadn’t been able to save Royce. Yet, if he chose, he could help Faye. And with her, Angeline.

  To protect them, though, he must abandon his search for the treasure. And, he must walk the steepest, most dangerous precipice between preserving his oath to Torr and forsaking it.

  His mind whirled with the enormity of his decision. To do what he had vowed to honor Royce’s memory, or do what he knew was right . . .

  Brant whistled between his teeth—a single, sharp note—and strode to the boulder. He leapt up onto its pitted, flat surface. Narrowing his eyes, he scanned the road heading toward the village.

  There, no more than a speck in the distance.

  Val came to the side of the rock, tail wagging. Brant stepped down and bent to scratch Val’s head. “Find her,” he said.

  The little dog barked.

  Gesturing toward the road, Brant yelled, “Go.”

  Val raced toward the road. As Brant swung up into the saddle and spurred his destrier, he muttered, “Royce, forgive me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Faye sipped her infusion, even as a sound nudged its way into the comfortable cocoon inside Greya’s cottage. Holding the mug between her palms, nodding with interest as the old woman chatted on about King Arthur’s Camelot, Faye strained to hear.

  Outside, a dog barked.

  Val.

  Panic kicked her pulse. Brant had followed her, after all. With his dog’s help, he’d tracked her down. The chalice wasn’t enough to satisfy his desire for gold, so he’d come to convince her to resume their search, armed with fresh verbal weapons to force her to concede.

  Her gaze dropped to the lamb on the table. She wouldn’t yield, no matter what means of persuasion Brant used.

  The memory of him standing at the lakeshore, dark and forbidding, stormed into her thoughts. Before she choked on her mouthful of herbal brew, she made herself swallow. The liquid stung her throat. Her hand shook as she set the mug down with a clumsy thud.

  In mid sentence, Greya paused. She frowned. “Faye?”

  “I . . . heard a dog outside.”

  Waving a dismissive hand, the healer laughed. “’Tis the farmer’s who lives two cottages away. His mongrel always barks in the morn. The dog is probably telling off the travelers who are heading into town to buy the baker’s fresh meat pies.”

  Faye tried to respond, but the sound refused to emerge. Her gaze flew to the shuttered windows on the opposite wall of the cottage. They were too small for her to climb through if she had to flee in a hurry.

  “Whose dog did you think it might be?”

  With a jolt, Faye’s gaze returned to Greya. Curiosity brightened the old woman’s eyes.

  “I . . . ah . . .”

  “What have you not told me, milady?”

  “Please.” Faye rose from the bench. “There is a man—”

  Greya stood as well, startling strength in her regal poise. “Man? A lord?”

  Words jumbled together in Faye’s mind like a tangle of chain mail links, interlocking and twisting around each other. Explanations. Denials. Inner cries for caution, lest she say more than was wise. Shaking her head, she said, “I cannot tell you right now. If he comes here . . .”

  Greya’s head dipped in a brisk nod. “Do not worry. I will not let him in.” She paused. “Or, would you prefer that I do?”

  “Nay!” Faye sighed. “To be honest, I doubt he will be deterred. He is most determined.”

  The old woman’s brows rose. An intrigued smile curved her mouth. “Is he, now?”

  Heat flooded Faye’s face. Greya clearly assumed the matter was a lover’s spat. “’Tis not . . . He is not . . . I mean—”

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Mercy!” Faye whispered. She started toward the windows, before stumbling to a halt and glancing back at Greya. “Is there another way out of the cottage?”

  The healer shook her head.

  Faye looked at the door. “Well, then, I will have to face him. I will send him on his way.”

  “Allow me, milady.” Greya pointed to the wooden bathing screen positioned to shield her bed from the rest of the room. “Wait behind there.”

  Faye’s hands curled into her gown while she started toward the door. “Thank you, but ’tis not your battle.”

  Greya caught her arm. “For a man to have upset you so, I feel obliged to do what I can to help. Now, shoo.” With a gentle nudge, she coaxed Faye toward the screen.

  Another knock, accompanied by Val’s excited yip.

  Faye shuddered, for she felt the weight of that rap all through her body. Brant must be furious, to knock with such boldness. She’d never thought one simple sound could elicit such a deluge of anxiety.

  Hugging her arms over her breasts, hardly daring to breathe, she hurried behind the screen. Greya unhinged the front door. It creaked open.

  “Good morn,” Brant said, his voice a low, firm rumble.

  “Good day to you,” Greya answered.

  Faye pressed her fisted hand to her mouth, grazing her knuckles with her teeth. He
r legs quaked.

  He couldn’t possibly see her through the screen. Still, she felt exposed, a sensation akin to standing naked in a pool of sunlight. Waiting for him to find her.

  “I must speak with Lady Rivellaux.”

  “I am sorry, milord, but she is not—”

  An impatient growl came from the doorway. The sound seemed to prowl its way across the room, as though searching her out. Faye bit down on her knuckles.

  “Her mare is tethered in your shelter. I know she is here.”

  “Are you certain ’tis her horse?” Greya said. “I oft have animals here while I tend their wounds.”

  “’Tis hers.”

  Brant snapped his fingers.

  Dread shot through Faye, for she knew the command in that simple gesture.

  An instant later, she heard the pad-pad of an animal crossing the dirt floor.

  “Wait!” Greya cried. “Your dog is not allowed in my home.”

  “I apologize, good woman, but Val has a mind of his own, it seems.” Mocking warmth curled around each husky word, and Faye shivered. Brant was warning her, in his own way, that she wouldn’t escape him.

  “Call him back,” Greya said, her tone anxious.

  “I can try,” Brant answered, again with humor. “He does not always heed me. If I may come in, I will catch him.”

  Deny him, Greya! Faye screamed in her mind. Do not let him inside!

  Faye fought the burning need to bolt. There was nowhere to run. Mayhap Val wouldn’t find her, after all. The cottage’s herbal scent might mask her presence. She would pray that it did.

  Merlin hissed, then yowled. Val barked.

  “Stop him! Wicked mongrel. He must not chase my cat.”

  Another yowl, accompanied by the scrabble of claws.

  “My apologies, good woman. Val,” Brant called—a half-hearted summons—over the sound of animals tearing around the cottage. The door creaked again, before booted footfalls thudded on the cottage floor.

  Brant had stepped inside.

  Faye smothered a moan. She felt his presence, seeking her.

  She knew the moment his gaze settled on the screen. Tingles shot from her scalp to her toes, with the impact of sunshine capturing an icicle in its light, its warmth toying with the frozen beauty. Droplet by droplet the icicle began to melt, each winking tear marking the inevitable bending of the ice to the sun’s will.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, Faye stood as motionless as a sculpture carved from ice. She fought the power of Brant’s stare.

  Oh, please. Leave me be.

  In the main room beyond, the cacophony of racing animals continued, and then a small body scooted past her legs. Faye gasped. Her eyes flew open, to see Merlin hunched on Greya’s bed, back arched, hissing. Val stood by the edge of the screen. His gaze darted from Merlin to Faye. Then, he yapped.

  “Wretched animal,” she whispered, glaring at the little mongrel. His tail moved in a hesitant wag.

  Any moment now, Brant would approach the screen.

  She looked about the enclosed sleeping area for something—anything—to use to defend herself, for she wouldn’t willingly leave the cottage with him. Her gaze skimmed the narrow, raised pallet covered with a patchwork coverlet, then the bedside table that bore a candle holder, three earthenware ointment pots, and a round, glazed bowl of the kind fashioned by local potters. Folded cloths lay beside the washbowl.

  Stepping forward, Faye snatched up two of the lidded pots. They likely contained facial cream and hand salve, for these were Greya’s specialties. As Faye’s palms curled around the cool pots, and she caught the lingering scent of lavender, she fought a shiver of dismay. The pots were hardly good weapons to deter a warrior like Brant. When she wielded them at him, he would most likely collapse in a fit of laughter.

  “Hand salve? Facial cream?” he might gloat. “How terrifying, milady.”

  Ha! Let him chuckle as though she were a witless simpleton. She would show him what marvelous, inventive weapons she had in her possession. One well-aimed toss, and she could send him reeling backward, clutching his brow, while she ran past him.

  Throwing the pots would mean hurting him, of course. A rather unsettling thought.

  Yet, Greya knew all means of treating wounds. She would no doubt ensure that despite his bruised pride and a nasty bump, Brant was fine, while Faye galloped off.

  Delicious anticipation rippled through Faye.

  Then she realized the room beyond the screen was astonishingly quiet.

  She listened. Apart from the snapping fire, she heard naught.

  The wretched knave must have sensed her thoughts, for his low chuckle echoed in the cottage. “Whenever you are ready, milady, you may come out from behind that screen.”

  She recoiled as if he’d reached an arm around the screen to grab her. Heat scorched her face. Her fingers curled tighter around the pots. What arrogance. She may come out from behind the screen? Did he infer he granted her permission?

  How wretchedly cunning.

  He obviously wanted her to capitulate, rather than him having to haul her out from behind the barricade. He didn’t want Greya to see him force her out kicking and screaming. He wanted to preserve the illusion of a lover’s spat between them.

  Wicked, wicked man.

  Struggling to control her irritation, she wondered if he knew for certain she hid behind the screen. He couldn’t know. The wood reached almost to the floor, so ’twas unlikely he saw her shoes. She hadn’t called out and betrayed herself. Nor had Greya told him.

  Squaring her shoulders, she glared at Val. The little dog’s ears flattened to his head. His tail stopped wagging, but he didn’t budge.

  Keeping watch on her, was he? Well, for all his thick skulled oaf of a master knew, Val was guarding Merlin.

  If Brant hoped his annoying words would goad her into revealing herself, he wouldn’t succeed.

  She would come out from the screen when she felt like it.

  If she felt like it.

  A giddy laugh bubbled inside her. She would wait him out. Stay here, silent and defiant, until he yawned with boredom and decided to see if, in fact, she hid behind the screen—in which case she’d have ample warning to aim her pots.

  “Good man,” Greya said, sounding nervous. “Mayhap if you wait outside—”

  “I will wait here.”

  The old woman huffed.

  When the silence dragged, guilt nagged at Faye. Her willfulness made the situation very difficult for Greya. ’Twas not fair to impose upon her friendship, or her home, in such a manner.

  “Milady,” Brant called, an ominous note in his voice. “I shall count to three. If, by that time, you have not appeared—”

  Another command! What an arrogant, insufferable—

  “One.”

  Her chin tilted up a notch, even as a tremor rippled through her. She raised one of the pots, preparing her aim. She would wait him out. Aye. Excellent plan.

  “Two.”

  Her hands grew damp, threatening her secure grip. Soon, he would storm over to fetch her, and then—thwack!

  What if she missed? She had a difficult enough time swatting flies.

  What if she hit him? Would blood spatter?

  What if his injury left a scar?

  What if she accidentally killed him?

  “Three.”

  Oh, God! She lurched to the edge of the screen. Val scooted backward, spun around, and scurried over to Brant.

  Arms crossed, he stood with one hip braced against the trestle table. His glittering gaze locked with hers, and a roguish smile tilted up the corner of his mouth. “There you are. I thought I was going to have to fetch you myself.”

  An angry flush warmed her face. “Disappointed, are you?”

  He grinned.

  Gliding over, Greya touched Faye’s arm. “I am sorry, milady. When his dog went after Merlin, I was concerned. Before I could stop him, he walked in.”

  Faye managed a smile. “’Tis all right.” Switc
hing the pots to one sweaty palm, she dried her other hand on her gown.

  Greya’s gaze dropped to the pots. With a puzzled frown, she said, “Do you need more hand salve? Or facial cream?”

  Faye swallowed. “Actually—”

  “I vow those could cause a rather nasty bump,” Brant murmured, “if they were thrown at someone.”

  Raising her eyebrows, Faye said, “Mmm.”

  Before she could even think to draw back her arm—not that she intended to—Brant had crossed the space between them. She stepped back, anxious to avoid him, but he caught her hands, pried out the pots, and handed them to Greya.

  Faye gasped. “You have no right—”

  His possessive hands locked around her wrists. Looking at Greya, he said, “Leave us.”

  “You cannot order Greya out of her own home!”

  “Good woman, you have my solemn vow I will do her no harm,” he said, while Faye struggled to free herself from his grip. “What I intend to say must be said to her alone.”

  Uncertainty shadowed Greya’s gaze.

  “I do not have the slightest wish to speak with you,” Faye bit out. When his gaze, sparkling with dangerous amusement, slid back to her, she glared at him. “None.”

  “My clever, fetching, stubborn love,” he said with a sensual huskiness that made her belly swoop, “I regret you saw the need to run from me, but I am certain we can overcome this unfortunate disagreement.”

  She refused to heed the wanton vision flitting through her mind of him lying naked on his side in bed, smiling in that bawdy, lop-sided way, while patting the coverlet. “Do not call me your love. You know as well as I ’tis untrue.”

  “Faye.” Clucking his tongue, sounding like a man already gloating over his victory, he tugged her hands forward until they touched his tunic, warmed by his broad body. So easily he maneuvered her, despite her struggles.

  The softness of his tunic brushed her fingers. It felt like supple, tanned skin. His skin, gliding against hers. A sinful awareness coursed through her.

  Brant leaned in closer, his breath stirring the fine hairs at her temple. “Faye, my love, what I have to say is of vast importance to us both.”

  “I will not listen!”

  He chuckled. “Come, now, there is no reason to be ashamed of us.”