Anticipation hummed inside Brant. “What happened?”
“They was speakin’ ta another man in quiet voices. Like they did not want ta be overheard.” Deane’s mouth tightened before she whispered, “Blythe saw that little girl bein’ lifted onto one o’ them ’orses.”
Brant froze. “Is she certain she saw Angeline?”
Deane nodded. “There was just enough moonlight that Blythe saw the child. Would never mistake that li’l angel’s face. She was all wrapped up in a blanket, mind, and sleepy.”
The question Brant wanted—nay, needed—to ask, hovered on his lips. He looked at Deane. “Lord Lorvais?”
The strumpet’s eyes widened before concern glinted in their depths. “’Is lordship ’anded the child over to those men.”
Anger and elation surged like a heady brew in Brant’s veins. “She definitely saw Torr?”
“Aye. She saw ’is lordship’s face. No mistakin’.”
Brant pushed away from the wall. At last, he had proof for Faye. “Who else has Blythe told?”
“No one. She feared Lord Lorvais would find out and she would lose ’er job.” Deane’s voice became a whisper. “Or worse.”
“I must speak with this girl.”
Indignation sharpened Deane’s gaze. “Why? Do ye not trust what I ’ave told ye?”
Trying very hard to control his impatience, Brant bestowed upon her his most charming smile. “Of course I do. There may be other details, though—important ones—that she remembers.”
“If I tell ’er ye wish ta speak with ’er, she will know I broke me promise.”
Brant touched Deane’s cheek, so different from the silken softness of Faye’s skin. “Since you have provided such excellent information, I will pay you another five pieces of silver.”
Deane looked away. She shrugged before her gaze slid back to his. “This eve, Blythe goes ta spend a few days with ’er mother, who is plagued by achin’ joints. I could, mayhap, see if she will speak with ye—”
“Good. As soon as possible.”
“—fer the silver and a kiss, me lusty lord.”
Brant scowled, challenging her coy grin. He’d paid her well to gather information for him. He didn’t owe her a kiss. Still, he leaned in to drop a quick kiss on her cheek.
Rolling her eyes, she grumbled, “’Twas not a kiss.”
Brant spun away from her, resolve glowing as hot as coals in his gut. The only woman he intended to kiss full on the mouth had disappeared into the keep, escorted by the man responsible for causing her anguish. A merciless bastard who had participated in his own daughter’s kidnapping, and pretended not to know her whereabouts.
Why? Ah, God, why?
Brant’s gaze fixed on the forebuilding. He started toward the keep, his boots crunching on the dirt. Over his shoulder, he said, “I will be in the great hall, dining with Lord Lorvais. Tell the girl I wish to speak to her. Hurry.”
Chapter Twelve
“Are you certain you are all right, Faye?” Torr asked, his voice carrying in the dank forebuilding along with their footfalls. His arm tightened around her waist, so that her hip brushed against his.
All right? a voice in her head screeched. How, by the blessed saints, could she be all right?
Forcing down the denial, concentrating on the narrow, uneven stone steps ascending to the hall, Faye nodded to Torr, even as she struggled to temper the storm of emotion inside her.
How foolish of her to let him keep his arm at her waist. How weak of her not to have found some way to thwart the unwanted body contact, to put discreet distance between them. ’Twas unfair to encourage his attentions. At the moment, however, his possessive hold was an anchor securing her to the cold sea of reality.
Shadows, cast by reed torches lighting the passage, licked over the forebuilding’s walls. Her mind shot back to the tavern room, to the agonizing moments when she’d lain awake watching the firelight and trying to ignore Brant’s sensual presence, before a vision of him sauntering toward the busty servant consumed Faye with tormenting vividness.
How could he look at that . . . that wench in such a manner?
Faye’s jaw clenched. Only a few moments earlier, he’d expressed his desire for her in a tone frayed by such hunger, her whole body had trembled.
The forebuilding’s smoky shadows opened into the keep’s great hall, crossed overhead by blackened beams. His arm still at her waist, Torr guided her across the rush-strewn floor.
“Milord,” maidservants murmured, dropping into curtseys before hurrying past with platters of grain bread as well as jugs of wine. Wolfhounds scampered under the rows of trestle tables, awaiting the bits of food dropped during the meal. The mingled smells of warm fare, moldering rushes, and dog made Faye’s stomach whine in protest.
Sensing Torr’s gaze upon her, Faye managed a half-smile. She willed her nausea to dissipate. This was not the time to be ill. She would never escape from Torr’s cloying attentions under those circumstances.
The tightness inside her eased a notch. Good. Soon, her light-headedness would be gone—as, too, would her emotional tempest.
After all, she didn’t care what Brant was saying to the servant. She didn’t care if he found the wench fetching, or what sweaty tryst he might be arranging with her.
From the moment they met, she knew Brant was a rogue. He’d never tried to convince her otherwise. An irrelevant, disappointed part of her had come to believe that despite his tough, scarred visage, a knight’s honor burned within him. Especially when it came to protecting Angeline. And herself.
Of all indignities, how could Brant vow he desired her, then pursue the first well-endowed wench to smile at him? Such behavior was unforgivable.
She would tell him so when she next saw him.
When. Ha! Sennights from now, if she had her way. With luck, she could avoid him until she chose to speak with him. She didn’t need any man’s help to find Angeline. She wasn’t without choices, no matter how difficult those choices might be.
If Brant still imagined himself as her protector, he was an addled idiot.
Knave. Liar. Lustful, arrogant—
“Faye.”
She blinked, to find herself standing at the opposite end of the hall, before the raised dais. Chewing on a bone, a wolfhound gaped at her from under the table.
Torr, it seemed, awaited her response.
“I am sorry . . . Pardon?”
A puzzled frown creased his brow. He motioned to the dais, urging her to step up to her usual place at the table.
“Thank you.” Raising the hem of her mantle so she didn’t trip, she stepped onto the dais. Careful not to catch the wolfhound’s shaggy tail, she drew out the vacant chair. She’d often sat in this place and cared for Angeline when Elayne was unable to attend meals.
As she removed her mantle, Torr came up beside her. He shook his head. “You will sit next to me.”
Faye’s gaze traveled down the pristine, white linen cloth to the vacant spot next to the grand, carved chair at the table’s center. Elayne’s place.
Nay.
“’Tis very kind of you,” Faye said, “but I would prefer to sit here. You see, I have a bit of a headache, and may need to quit the meal early.”
Torr’s frown deepened. “Would you like me to ask the cook to make an infusion?”
“Thank you, but the ache is not unbearable. I will see how I feel after I have eaten.”
“Very well. Still, I vow ’twould be best if you sat by my side. For today,” he added with a coaxing smile. “What harm is there?”
She smothered a groan. Somehow, she must decline without upsetting him.
A maidservant hurried to the dais with a jug of wine. She filled Torr’s goblet, then reached for Faye’s. At that very moment, the wolfhound yelped—a sound of intense pain—and flew out from under the table.
With a startled squeak, the girl lurched backward. The jug flew from her hand. It landed sideways on the table. Red wine flowed in a crimson streak t
oward Faye.
Gasping, Faye stepped away from the table. Wine dripped onto her chair.
“Oh!” The maidservant’s face paled.
“God’s blood,” Torr snapped.
“I am sorry, milord,” the girl stammered, “but the dog—”
“Clumsy fool! Lady Rivellaux’s garments might have been ruined.”
”But they were not,” Faye added with a reassuring smile. Whatever had occurred, ’twas certainly not the poor girl’s fault. Surely Torr realized that.
Tears welled in the maidservant’s eyes. “I do not know what happened. The dog seemed content. Milord, all of a sudden—”
Torr scowled. “Go fetch cloths to clean up this mess. Go!”
The girl curtsied, then bolted through the throng of curious onlookers.
Shaking his head, Torr muttered, “I am sorry, Faye. It seems you must sit next to me, after all.”
How convenient. “Torr, do you know why the dog yelped and ran at the very moment she poured my wine?”
“Why would I?” He sidestepped the crimson puddle on the dais. “Worry no more about the matter. Come.”
With a frustrated sigh, Faye brushed past the spilled wine. She could walk right past Torr to the vacant chairs at the table’s other end, but after the incident moments ago, she guessed he would find another way to thwart her. Regardless of how she felt about sitting in Elayne’s place, the servants didn’t deserve to suffer from Torr’s whims.
Faye draped her mantle over Elayne’s chair back. Then, her posture stiff, she sat.
Torr smiled.
As she smoothed her gown across her legs, a sharp tingle danced down her spine.
Brant had entered the hall.
She tried to deny the immediate quickening of her pulse. She couldn’t. Oh, God, she couldn’t!
Faye raised her gaze, unable to deny a glance. The power of his spell drew her, compelled her, to meet his gaze. Across the crowded hall, he stared at her. His eyes glittered with unwavering determination.
A flush suffused her face. She broke his gaze. Yet, she felt his potent stare as he strode through the crowd of castle folk toward the dais. Each one of his footsteps seemed to match the thump of her heart: the echo of the very life force within her.
He said he desires you, yet he flirted with the servant.
Anger bolstered her resolve. He wouldn’t treat her like a fool.
“Ah, there he is,” Torr said beside her.
“Who?” she asked, even though she knew he meant Brant.
“The knave who cannot refuse a wench’s charms,” Torr said in an overloud voice, as Brant approached the dais. Torr chuckled.
Faye reached for her wine. Realizing the goblet hadn’t been filled, she withdrew her hand. Her mouth craved a sip of the piquant liquid. A welcome distraction from Brant.
She tried not to look at him again, but somehow, couldn’t resist. Brant was smiling, a curious, almost smug expression on his face. His head dipped in a curt nod before he stepped onto the dais. After removing his cloak, he slouched into the chair beside Torr.
“A satisfactory meeting?” Torr murmured, yet Faye heard every word. Her fingers curled into the tablecloth.
“Very.” Knave! Brant didn’t even try to keep his voice down.
Her face scorched. Next, he and Torr would be discussing the best places to take wenches for a lusty romp.
Her chair squealed on the dais as she stood. “If you will excuse me . . .”
Brant rose. “Lady Rivellaux. You cannot leave.”
She glared at him, a look that she hoped delivered the full extent of her indignation. When Torr rose, she remembered she must pretend she hadn’t met Brant until today at Elayne’s grave. “I regret I must. You see—”
Brant clapped Torr’s shoulder. “You will let this lovely lady slip away? I have only just met her.” He grinned in a most charming way. “You must stay, Lady Rivellaux. At least for a short while.”
“I agree,” Torr said. “Here comes the maidservant with your wine.”
Her gaze downcast, the girl rushed to the table, set down the wine jug she carried, then mopped up the crimson-colored spill with a rag. Reaching over, Torr picked up the jug and filled Faye’s goblet. With an encouraging smile, he handed it to her. “Stay.”
“Aye, stay,” Brant echoed. A note in his voice—a hint of anticipation—made her pause.
More servants approached and set a platter of roasted fowl on the table before Torr. “At least have a few bites to eat before you leave,” he said, gesturing to the fare.
“Very well.” Faye set down her wine and retook her seat.
Torr set morsels of roasted quail on a bread trencher and pushed it in front of her. “Try some of this. Cook’s best.”
As she slipped a dripping morsel between her lips, Brant glanced at her. His keen gaze fixed to her mouth, as though fascinated by it. The way a ravenous man stared at a decadent treat. A shiver wove through her as she dried her fingertips.
Had he looked at the wench that way? After dining and refortifying his strength, was he planning to go to her, ready to slake his desire?
Movement at the tables below snagged Faye’s gaze. There, by the nearest one, stood the busty servant. With a brazen giggle, she swatted one of the men-at-arms on the shoulder before strolling on to another table.
The lump of quail jammed at the back of Faye’s mouth. Her hand flew to her throat before she choked.
“Is the quail tasty, milady?” Brant asked.
She forced herself to swallow, then washed down the mouthful with wine. She smiled at Brant. “Delicious.” Dabbing at her lips, she said, “Since we do not know much about one another, pray tell, how long have you known Torr?”
Brant’s gaze slid to Torr. “Many years.”
Nodding, he said, “We have been friends since our youth. Brant, his brother Royce, and I were squires at the same earl’s keep.” He laughed. “We shared meals, beds, wenches . . .”
Brant scowled. “We never shared wenches.”
Wiping wine from his lips, Torr grinned. “You do not remember? Ah. You were too besotted from the earl’s vile ale.”
“I may have been drunk, but we never shared women.”
Fury underscored Brant’s words. Faye glanced at him while she picked another morsel from the trencher.
Torr gave a dismissive wave. “As you say. In truth, it does not really matter now, does it?”
Brant shoved a mouthful of gravy-soaked bread into his mouth and chewed hard.
“Brant, Royce, and I even joined the king’s crusade together,” Torr went on, oblivious it seemed to Brant’s irritation. “Side by side, we fought the Saracens. We saved each other’s lives more than once. However, only two of us returned home.”
“Royce was killed,” Faye said.
Torr nodded. “Murdered.”
Brant’s head turned. His gaze as hard as stone, he said, “That, too, is a matter that belongs in the past.”
“For some,” Torr replied.
A strange note lightened his tone, as though he conveyed some hidden message. Brant shifted in his chair, a movement fraught with annoyance. The delicately spiced quail in Faye’s mouth suddenly tasted bitter.
What had happened between Brant, Torr, and Royce for Torr to make such a remark? The deliberate statement verged on cruel.
She reached for the wine jug. Smiling at Brant and Torr, she said, “More wine?”
Brant shook his head.
With a pleased smile, Torr slid his goblet to her.
As Faye poured, the well-endowed servant walked into her range of vision. The woman lingered near the dais, toying with her cap’s ties, until Brant glanced at her.
With a tilt of her head, the wench indicated the girl delivering more bread to one of the tables: the slender, pretty maidservant who had earlier spilled the wine.
The jug’s metal handle turned slick in Faye’s hand. Brant hadn’t arranged to lie with the wench from the bailey, but with one of the y
ounger women.
Did the girl have any idea what had been planned? How much had he paid for the pleasure of her body?
“Careful,” Torr said.
Snapping her gaze back to his goblet, Faye saw it was on the verge of brimming over. With an apologetic laugh, she tilted up the jug, before setting it down with a thud.
“How clumsy of me. We would not want more wine spilled today, would we?”
Torr’s strong fingers slid around his goblet’s stem. He drew the vessel across the linen, his hand shaking slightly. The ruby liquid, as dark as blood, quivered in the goblet. A drop welled over the rim. Before it landed on the tablecloth, he wiped it away with his fingertip, as though it had never existed.
Gone, just like little Angeline.
“You are interested in that serving wench?” Torr said, dragging Faye’s attention back to the conversation at the table. Brant was staring at the girl.
“She is the one who has been spoiling Val with the best scraps. I must take the opportunity to thank her.”
Torr grinned before sipping more wine. “Knave.”
Concern and frustration warred within Faye. How galling that when Angeline’s life was in grave danger, Brant thought only of satisfying his own base, carnal urges.
Do not go to her, wept a voice inside Faye. If you desire me, as you claimed at Elayne’s tomb, you will not.
His chair grated. He stood. “Torr, if you will excuse me.” Nodding to her, Brant said, “Lady Rivellaux.”
“Lord Meslarches,” she bit out. She smothered the foul taste of betrayal with a large gulp of wine.
His roguish smile faltered a fraction. He must have noticed her discomfiture. Still, he straightened, smoothed a hand over his tunic, and headed for the maidservant. When he stepped off the dais, light from the keep’s high overhead windows slanted over him, accentuating the broad swell of his shoulders, the sway of his narrow hips, the ripple of well-honed muscles as he strode toward the girl.
Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection Page 110