Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  “Ashamed?” How she wanted to scream at him.

  A faint clatter—the sound of small pots being set on the trestle table—intruded into Faye’s mental haze. “I shall leave you two alone to speak,” Greya said. “I will return after tending to the animals in the stable and gathering more firewood.”

  Brant smiled at her. “Thank you. If you would be so kind, would you please tether my destrier around the back of the stable so he may graze?”

  “There he will also be hidden from sight,” Greya noted with a faint smile. “Very well, milord. If you need me, milady, I am just outside.” The old woman gave them both a brisk nod, then walked out the door. It closed with a click behind her.

  Words tumbled from Faye’s lips. “What . . . what treachery!”

  Brant’s expression hardened. “Beware, Faye. I say the same of you.”

  “Indeed? Why so? You manipulated Greya into believing we are lovers. I have done naught.”

  “Nay?” He scowled. “You manipulated me. You led me to the riverbank, and then refused to follow through with your pledge to help me find the treasure. Without any explanation, you deserted me there.”

  She sensed anguish in his words, pierced by a sense of betrayal. Truly, she hadn’t intended to deceive him. Yet, she could never explain the tangled emotions that had hounded her, forcing her to leave. “Brant, I—”

  Releasing her hands, he exhaled a tormented sigh. “What is important now is that we have a chance to talk.” He paused, as if mulling his next words. “To be honest.”

  The cottage air swept over her fingers, making her aware he no longer touched her—an abandonment of its own kind. Rubbing her palms up and down her sleeves, she frowned. “What do you mean? What more is there to say?”

  His gaze snapped up to meet hers. “A great deal.” Resolve gleamed in his eyes. There, also, she saw hints of his darkest secrets. Gesturing to the bench running alongside the table, he said, “Mayhap you should sit.”

  She almost blurted out, I would prefer to stand. However, an element in his voice—soul-deep reluctance, or the catch conveying his unease—coaxed her to cross the few steps to the bench and sit. Clasping her hands together, she looked up at him.

  Plowing his hand into his wind-snarled hair, he paced across Greya’s home. Val lay on the floor nearby, his head on his paws, his gaze following Brant’s every movement, while Merlin peered warily around the edge of the screen.

  Pivoting on his heel, Brant turned back to Faye. “Where to begin . . .” His tone roughened. “Mayhap with the journal.”

  He didn’t seem a man to write down his musings. “’Tis your journal?”

  Hands on his hips, Brant halted. “My older brother Royce’s. For years, he kept notes and made drawings regarding a vast hoard he believed was hidden somewhere near here. A treasure that, long ago, belonged to the Celtic king named Arthur.”

  “You believe the goblet is part of this treasure,” Faye said.

  Brant nodded. Head bent, his silky hair snarling down around his face, he stared at the swept dirt floor. It seemed that what he had to reveal next, he couldn’t say while holding her gaze. “When Royce and I joined the king’s crusade, he brought the journal with him. He studied it every free moment, between battles or at night, when we retreated to our camp. Finding the treasure was his dream.” Remorse softened Brant’s tone. “I can still see him sitting cross legged next to the fire, cradling the book in his hands, mulling over what he had written.”

  “Does he still have the journal?”

  “Royce perished in the east. The journal was lost.”

  “I see.” Awkward tension whispered through the room. “I am sorry,” Faye added, “that he died.”

  “As am I.” Brant’s voice, barely a rasp of sound, was more poignant than if he’d collapsed to his knees and sobbed.

  His grief reached out to her, intangible, yet as potent as smoke wafting from a bubbling cauldron of elixir. Her heart understood the agony of loss, of loving and losing without any way of changing what had happened. Of believing oneself responsible for a death.

  If she hadn’t gone to have her chatelaine repaired, if she’d stayed at Hubert’s castle that day, she might have been able to stop her miscarriage. Her beautiful little girl might be alive now—if she had done differently.

  Brant’s head raised a fraction, as though he questioned the direction of her thoughts.

  “You are not alone in your grief,” Faye whispered. “Many have lost loved ones.”

  He stared at her then, his face a mask of tightly-leashed emotion. Only the overly-bright glint of his eyes betrayed him. “True. Yet, I did not come here for your sympathy, but to warn you.”

  His crisp tone—in such contrast to his anguished gaze—caused her to press back against the table. The hard oak dug into her upper back, a biting echo of the self-condemnation coursing through her. How foolish to have felt a moment of empathy for this man, who was still so very much a stranger. For being tempted to tell him of her own loss.

  To a man who lived by his fighting instinct, emotion was a weakness. Torr, she remembered, had once told her such sentiment.

  “Faye, you must heed me,” Brant said. “Others knew of the journal.”

  Val raised his head. Ears pricked, he stared at the cottage doorway, as though hearing Greya outside.

  Brant frowned down at Val.

  “Others?” Faye asked.

  “We were not the only men from this area to join the crusade. A close friend of Royce’s and mine—”

  Val growled, then padded toward the door.

  A horse whinnied outside.

  Wariness shadowed Brant’s face. His body immediately tensed with the same warrior alertness she’d witnessed at the tavern. Head tilted, he seemed to be listening hard.

  Val yapped.

  “What is wrong?” Faye threw up her hands. “’Tis only Greya.”

  Footfalls sounded on the threshold before the door swung inward. The healer rushed in, her arms laden with firewood. On the road beyond the cottage fence, Faye caught a glimpse of a group of riders before the door slammed shut.

  “Milady,” Greya said, sounding breathless. “Lord Lorvais has arrived.”

  “Torr!” Faye said, at the same moment as Brant.

  His face contorted with anger. “Why is he here?”

  “I do not know!” Dismay and dread knotted Faye’s stomach.

  “We made a promise, Faye, to keep our dealings a secret.” Accusation glittered in his gaze. “You seem to have broken that vow. You told Torr to meet you here this morn. When did you arrange that? Before you left Caldstowe?”

  She lurched to her feet. Keeping her tone hushed, she said, “I did not tell Torr—I mean, I informed him I was visiting Greya today to have her look at my wound. I had to! He was suspicious. He would not have let me leave the keep otherwise.”

  “You cannot go with him.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  Brant dragged his hand over his mouth. “Torr is not to be trusted. He—”

  A shout carried from outside. Dropping her wood near the fire, Greya hurried back to the door. “I have invited him and his men-at-arms in. ’Tis my duty, since he is my lord.”

  “Wait,” Brant said, as Greya’s hand closed on the door handle. “One more moment. Please.”

  Rage boiled within Faye. “Is that why you followed me here? To try to convince me not to trust Torr? How vile of you! He has been kind to me. He allowed me to live at Caldstowe after my husband died and I had naught. Not even enough coin to buy a loaf of bread.”

  Brant shook his head. “Faye.”

  Furious tears scalded her eyes. Struggling to keep her voice lowered, she said, “’Tis clear to me now. You rode here to turn me against Torr, to undermine our relationship which has given me a new life,”—she sucked in a tight breath—“to make me believe you are the only man to whom I can turn in order to find Angeline—”

  “Faye!”

  “—another manipulation,
so I will continue to help you find that wretched treasure.”

  She’d never seen such an expression on Brant’s face: a mixture of outrage, dismay, and hopelessness. “You must believe me—”

  “You are more ruthless than I ever imagined! How I despise you.”

  A brittle laugh broke from him. “You do not hate me. You need me, as much as I need you.”

  “I do not need you.”

  “Now, more than ever, you need a knight’s protection.” He stepped toward her. “Think, Faye. If I were interested only in becoming wealthy, I would not have come here. Why would I? I have the gold cup. ’Tis a treasure in itself, worth enough coin to make me a very rich man.”

  “Cease!” she hissed, throwing her hands out at him. “I will hear no more.”

  “You must.” Brant seized her by the shoulders, holding her immobile while he stared down into her face. Where his palms touched, her skin burned. “I came here because I vow you are in danger. I had to warn you.”

  Tossing her head, she fought to wrench free.

  “Faye, Torr is responsible for Angeline’s disappearance.”

  Chapter Ten

  As Brant spoke the dreaded words, a sense of doom crushed down upon him. The sensation reminded him of being sucked into swirling mud and dragged along in a dangerous current of events over which he had little control.

  Faye’s eyes flared with shock. She quit struggling. “What did you say?”

  “Torr is involved in Angeline’s disappearance. I am certain of it.”

  His blood oath to Torr loomed like a cracked boulder, at risk of being split asunder by the deluge. Yet, breaking his oath required a very deliberate action: confessing to Royce’s murder. The oath—although fissured—remained intact.

  Shifting in his grasp, Faye gaped up at him, her lips slightly parted. Tears sparkled on the ends of her lashes. “You are very bold to make such an accusation.”

  “’Tis the truth.”

  Muttering under her breath, Greya shook her head. “Never!”

  “How ridiculous!” Faye snapped. “Torr is Angeline’s father. Why would he abduct his own child?”

  “I do not know.”

  “What proof do you have? Tell me.”

  Ah, the damning crux of the matter.

  The sense of doom intensified, pulling him down, down. Gently squeezing her, Brant said, “I can give you no proof. Still, you must trust me.”

  With a muttered curse, she tore out of his grasp. Hands clenched into fists, she glared at him, her face taut with fury. How magnificent she looked in her willfulness.

  “If what you say is true, I shall call Torr in here and ask him.”

  “Do not!”

  She paused halfway to the door, her mantle swirling about her. Brows arched in brittle inquiry, she said, “You fear he will prove you a liar?”

  “I fear no one. My concern is for you.”

  She laughed. “Me?”

  Aye, for you, beautiful, naïve Faye. If aught happened to you, something I could not prevent, as with Royce’s death . . .

  Torr mustn’t discover them here in Greya’s cottage. If he did, he would suspect Brant’s loyalty. That circumstance could lead to dire consequences not only for himself, but for Faye.

  Fighting a rising sense of urgency, Brant said, “He must not see us together. If he realized we knew one another, he would demand to know how we met, and the full nature of our relationship.”

  With a pointed stare, he tried to alert her of the true meaning of his words, without revealing it to Greya: Torr would find out about the gold cup.

  Male voices carried from outside. They drew nearer.

  Staring at the door, Val growled.

  Unease glimmered in Faye’s eyes before her gaze slanted to Val.

  Smoothing her gown, Greya crossed to the door. “I will delay them as long as I can.” Shooing Val out of the way, she opened the door and slipped out. The wooden panel creaked closed behind her.

  Silence settled inside the cottage. Arms crossed, Faye hugged herself, as though struggling to comprehend what he’d told her.

  She appeared to be deciding whether to believe him—or reject him.

  How he wanted to fall to his knees and plead with her, to make her swear she wouldn’t reveal to Torr their dealings together. Yet, pride refused to let him yield. Pride, along with deep-rooted disgust that Torr had chosen to manipulate the life of a woman who held him in such high esteem.

  With immense effort, Brant steeled all emotion from his voice. “I cannot give you all the pieces of the puzzle, Faye. I do not know them myself. Yet, I promised to help you find Angeline, and I will.”

  She rubbed her hands down her arms.

  “If you betray me to Torr, I will not be able to help you.”

  Her lips flattened into a line, the only indication she’d heard him. Outside, he caught Torr’s laughter above a swell of conversation.

  Clenching his jaw, Brant snapped his fingers. Val scampered to his side. Brant darted behind the wooden screen and ordered the little mongrel to sit. Val’s wagging tail swept the floor as he stared up at Brant.

  He drew in a slow, steadying breath. Faye’s fragrance lingered in the shadowed air. It teased the fraying edges of his patience, tantalized him with memories of her kiss. As he rolled tension from his shoulder blades, his gaze fell to Greya’s bed, rumpled as though by lovers. The way Faye’s bed had looked after he’d pressed her down upon it.

  What he regretted most was that he might never kiss her again.

  The cottage door creaked open. A frigid draft stole into the room. Brant resisted a shudder, forced himself to remain stone still, for whatever transpired in the next few moments was entirely beyond his control.

  He hoped Faye didn’t drown in the consequences.

  When the door swung inward, Faye turned. Hugging herself tighter, she forced a welcoming smile.

  Torr blocked the doorway’s light while he stepped inside. His rust-colored mantle, cut from the finest wool, fell to his calves, which were encased in brown leather boots. As he swept blond hair from his brow, his gaze lit upon her. He grinned. “Faye.”

  “Hello, Torr.”

  His boots sounded on the dirt floor as, slipping his gloves from his hands, he crossed to her. “Your journey went well?”

  “Of course.” Unable to hold back a nervous little laugh, she added, “You did not need to follow me. I told you I would be fine.”

  His four men-at-arms tromped into the cottage, their voices echoing to the wooden trusses overhead. Several crossed to the fire, crouched, and extended their hands to the flames to warm them.

  “You did indeed promise me you were well enough to ride,” Torr said in a mildly irritated tone. He threw his gloves down on the table beside her. “My men were traveling to the village today to question some of the cotters about Angeline’s disappearance, so I accompanied them. I was concerned about you.” Reaching out, he caught a lock of her hair. “I am glad I worried for naught.”

  A possessive note wove into his last words. Twisting his hand, he slowly began to wind her hair around his fingers.

  Months ago in the great hall he’d done the same with a skein of Elayne’s flaxen tresses. A sly expression stealing across her features, she’d smiled before arching her slender body against him for a passionate kiss.

  Faye swallowed. Surely Torr did not expect such a reaction from her. Her uneasy gaze darted to his mouth, pursed as he studied her coppery tresses threaded about his hand. Odd, that she hadn’t noticed the hard, thin quality to his lips—far different than the sensual fullness of Brant’s mouth—until now.

  The thought of kissing Torr, of sharing such intimacy with her dead friend’s husband . . . She could never do so.

  She longed to yank her tresses free of his hold. However, if she did, she risked offending him. Unwise, when he still seemed to be possessed by the odd mood from earlier that morn.

  The men’s rowdy conversation continued, accented by the clank of
Greya’s metal cauldron being returned to the fire to heat. The rituals of greeting went on, even as Torr told her, in his own way, that her life was bound to his.

  While Brant stood behind the screen.

  Hearing every sound.

  Listening to every word.

  Wondering if she would reveal him.

  What strange, heady power she held, to determine what happened to him.

  Unable to suppress a shiver, Faye glanced up at Torr. Her thoughts whirled together in a confused snarl. Brant’s claim that Torr had arranged Angeline’s disappearance seemed ludicrous. However, a lord of his authority could likely make anyone disappear if he so wished.

  Even Brant.

  If you betray me to Torr, I will not be able to help you.

  A dull ache ran through her, settling close to her heart. Could Torr, who had so generously provided a home for her, have coordinated his little girl’s disappearance? If so, what reason did he have for such a despicable act?

  An anxious tickle at the back of her throat made her cough. Torr’s gaze turned wry, and he released her hair. Before she could turn away, his fingers trailed down her cheek. “You look uneasy.”

  Faye turned slightly to avoid his touch, while she searched for a way to divert his suspicion. “I cannot help but think about Angeline. I hope that today your men will find some hint as to her whereabouts. Until she is home, I will always be unsettled.”

  “Mmm,” Torr said, flexing his fingers as though to warm them.

  Greya walked past the men crouched by the fire. After dropping into an elegant curtsey, she handed Torr an earthenware mug. “Mead, milord, as you asked.”

  “Thank you.” Raising the drink to his lips, Torr sipped.

  Moving next to Faye, the healer asked, “Would you care for some, milady?”

  “Nay, thank you.” Mead would only dull her wits, and her thoughts were already far too muddled.

  Torr slowly lowered his mug. He wrinkled his nose. “Greya, do you have a dog?”

  Faye caught a gasp. Oh, God!

  The old woman hesitated the barest moment. “Nay, milord.”

  “I smell a wet mongrel.”