Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  Faye’s eyes burned. No maidservant would refuse a handsome man like Brant. To some women, lying with him would be an opportunity to win his affection. If he cared for them, he might help improve their lives.

  Adjusting her hold on the bread basket, the girl turned. She saw him and froze. Her nervous gaze fell to the floor. Reaching her side, he smiled and murmured close to her ear.

  Faye’s cheek tingled as if he whispered to her, the warmth of his breath feathering across her skin. When he reached out to run his palm over the maidservant’s slender shoulder, Faye felt his hand, gentle and coaxing, upon her own flesh.

  She could not sit here and watch.

  Pushing aside her wine, she lurched to her feet. She snatched up her mantle.

  Disappointment clouded Torr’s expression. He raised his hand, as though to halt her.

  “I must leave,” she insisted, hating her wobbly voice. “My headache grows worse with each passing moment.”

  “Shall I escort you to your chamber?” He pushed his chair back, as if to rise.

  “Please, stay and finish your meal. I can make my own way.” Holding her head high, Faye stepped down from the dais. Her spine rigid, she crossed the hall, skirting the dogs fighting over fallen scraps as well as the servants hurrying between the tables.

  She sensed Brant’s sharpened stare, but refused to glance his way. Never would she let him see her turmoil. He must never know how much his empty, cruel declaration of desire had corrupted her senses until she could think of naught but him.

  Her head truly did hurt now.

  Faye headed to the kitchens. Standing beside a boiling pot, her reddened face damp with perspiration, the cook beamed. “Lady Rivellaux.”

  Faye managed a weak smile. “May I have a soothing infusion? I have a headache.”

  The cook’s graying head bobbed while she wiped her face with the corner of her apron. “Of course, milady. One of the maidservants will bring it up ta yer chamber as soon as ’tis ready.” Waving her hand, she yelled, “You, girl, come ’ere and stir this stew. Where is that Blythe when I need ’er?”

  Faye shuddered. Blythe was no doubt otherwise occupied. With Brant.

  After making her way back to her chamber, Faye shut the door, then leaned back against the rough-hewn wood. A sigh rushed between her lips. Fisting her hands against the door, she shoved forward. She wouldn’t succumb to regrets. Regardless of what Brant had said, or what he was now doing, Angeline was more important than selfish desire.

  Torr would soon be finished eating. Before he left the keep to attend other duties was the ideal time to request a private meeting with him.

  Faye set aside her mantle and headed to the trestle table at the opposite side of the chamber to pick up her ivory comb, a gift from Elayne. Faye drew it through her tresses. The ivory whispered against her hair, the sound akin to ghostly secrets.

  The tines snagged on a knot. She carefully worked out the tangle so her hair fell in a smooth, shiny mass to her waist. The way Torr preferred it.

  Unease rippled through her.

  Courage, Faye.

  A knock sounded on her chamber door. She set down the comb and opened the panel to find a maidservant holding a mug of fragrant tea. The girl dropped into a careful curtsey. “From the cook, milady.”

  With a grateful nod, Faye took the infusion and closed the door. She returned to the table, took a long drink and set down the mug. The fortifying brew tasted of the ginger used to flavor the fowl served at the midday meal.

  What if Torr tried to touch her when they were alone? Or kiss her, even?

  If he desired her, she must use it to her advantage.

  Aye, she must.

  Fighting a rush of panic, Faye picked up her round, polished steel mirror—one of Elayne’s cast-offs—and studied her reflection. Her skin looked pale, her eyes huge. She pinched her cheeks with her fingers to elicit a pink flush. Better. A glint of renewed determination shone in her gaze, and she smiled.

  When she returned the mirror to the table, sudden, sharp realization charged through her.

  She was no longer alone.

  Her chamber door closed with a muted click. She faced the doorway.

  His hand still grasping the iron handle, Brant stared at her. How imposing he looked, blocking her escape to the rest of the keep. A physical barrier standing between her and Torr. Between illusion and enlightenment.

  Dropping his fingers from the handle, he leaned back against the wooden panel, his cloak draped over one arm. His pose indicated he had no intention of letting her past.

  “You did not knock,” she said, her words brittle with indignation. “You have no right to enter my chamber.”

  He smiled—a bold, brazen tilt of his mouth that caused heat to pool between her thighs. “If I had knocked, Faye, you would have refused to let me in. Bolted the door, even. A risk I could not take, for there is a great deal I must say to you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brant’s gaze skimmed over Faye. Standing beside the trestle table, her hair cascading in ripples of copper fire about her slender body, he barely resisted the urge to stride to her, sweep her into his arms, and kiss her.

  How beautiful she looked. How fiercely proud. Indignation hardened her eyes to a bright, icy green, while her lips formed a stubborn line that forewarned him what he had to reveal to her wouldn’t be readily accepted.

  Yet, she must accept the truth.

  “Brant, get out.”

  “You may be angry with me, but you will hear what I have to say.”

  “Will I?” In Faye’s passionate refusal, he heard many facets to her fury—grief, loyalty, uncertainty, and resolve as strong as tempered steel.

  Very different from meek Blythe, who had almost collapsed in terror when, in the quiet yard outside the kitchens, he’d asked her to recount the night she’d witnessed Angeline’s abduction. Even the silver, pressed into her palm, had done little to alter her fear.

  “I told no one,” the girl had whispered, her expression wild. “Only . . .” Her mouth had crumpled on a frightened moan.

  “You need not fear me. I swear, upon my dead brother’s soul, I will not betray you. But you must tell me all you remember. I mean to rescue Angeline, if you will help me.”

  Blythe had trembled as though the ground would open beneath her feet like a demon’s fanged mouth and gobble her for speaking ill of her lord.

  “You are the only one who can help,” Brant had pressed. “The child’s life may depend on it.”

  The girl had hesitated a long moment. Then, in a hushed voice, she’d told what she had seen. Brant had handed her more coins, told her to leave as arranged for her mother’s, and to never return to Caldstowe.

  Faye’s angry sigh slashed into Brant’s thoughts. “I asked you to leave.”

  “So you did.”

  “Other women would be far more interested in what you have to say.”

  Despite his determination to thwart her anger, the barest grin tilted his mouth. “Is that jealousy I hear?”

  Her breath expelled on a choked gasp. She looked angry enough to spit flames.

  “If you mean the woman in the bailey this afternoon—”

  Faye threw up her hands. “Aye, as well as the maidservant in the great hall. Did you think I would not notice? Did you think I would not . . . care? After what you said this afternoon?” Her voice became a pained whisper.

  Brant shoved away from the door. He yearned to embrace her, to smooth his hands down her hair’s shimmering fall, to reassure her, through the most intimate joining between man and woman, that she was the only woman he desired. “Those wenches mean naught to me.”

  Tears sparkled in her eyes. “Do not think me a fool.”

  “Faye!”

  “Those wenches were a quick romp behind the haystacks.”

  Her wounded fury sapped his mirth, transforming it to self-reproach. “I did not couple with either of them.”

  She rubbed her quivering lips together, d
oubt still lingering in her gaze.

  “I would never lie to you, Faye.”

  A shaky breath escaped her. “Then why—?”

  “I have the proof you demanded.”

  “Proof?”

  “Torr arranged Angeline’s kidnapping. The maidservant Blythe witnessed it.”

  Faye’s mouth fell open. The angry flush drained from her face, leaving her skin ashen. Her arms folded over her belly in a protective gesture. “Oh, God.”

  The urge to console her roared in Brant’s blood. Five steps, and he could draw her against him in a comforting embrace. Yet, her anger was still too raw. She would only shove him away.

  Hands fisted at his sides, he said, “A few nights ago, when the maidservant returned to the keep by the postern gate, she saw Torr hand Angeline over to two cloaked men on horseback.”

  Revulsion shivered across Faye’s features. “Is the maidservant certain ’twas Torr?”

  “She is.”

  “’Twas dark. She could be mistaken, could she not?”

  Shaking his head, he said, “The girl was terrified. She did not doubt what she had seen.”

  Fear sharpened Faye’s gaze, followed by fierce resolve. “Where is this maidservant? I will speak with her myself.”

  “After serving the midday meal, she planned to go visit her mother. I gave her some silver, told her to leave, and never return.”

  Faye gasped. “How could you?”

  “’Tis too dangerous for her to stay at Caldstowe.”

  A shrill, frantic laugh broke from Faye. “You believe Torr might kidnap her, too?”

  “I cannot say what Torr might do.” That was the truth. The Torr that could abduct his own child was no one Brant knew—and certainly no man Brant wanted to call friend.

  “Where were the men going with Angeline? Did they intend to harm her?”

  “Blythe does not know. She hid in the nearby brush and did not hear all of their conversation. However, they did mention Waverbury.”

  “A village two leagues away.” Faye squeezed her arms tighter across her abdomen. “Torr owns a manor home there. When he and Elayne first married, they spent several days there.”

  “The riders might have passed through the town, on their way to another village,” Brant said. “However, ’tis possible Angeline is being held at this home.”

  “We must know for certain!”

  “We will.”

  Leveling him a puzzled stare, Faye said, “What of the woman from the bailey?”

  “Blythe befriended her. In truth, she is a strumpet from The Spitting Hen Tavern. I paid her to find work at Caldstowe and see what she could learn about Angeline’s disappearance. Distraught over what she had seen, Blythe confided in her.”

  “Your spy,” Faye murmured.

  He nodded.

  Faye wiped her eyes. Brant sensed her anger wavering, an opportunity he mustn’t let slip away. He crossed to her. When he drew near, he tossed his cloak onto the trestle table.

  Right as he turned to draw Faye into his arms, an object fell from the cloak’s folds and hit the floor: the ointment Greya had given him.

  What wretched timing. Muttering an oath, he stooped to snatch up the pot.

  Squinting through her tears, Faye said, “Ointment?”

  “From Greya. For my scar.”

  He set the pot on the table. As he turned to face Faye again, she reached out. Her fingertips touched his scarred cheek.

  He recoiled, almost stumbling over his own feet.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. “It still pains you?”

  “Nay.” Heat stung his cheekbones.

  Her gaze softened, before her head dipped in a nod. She looked about to lower her hand. Then, fingers trembling, she again reached out and touched him. Her fingers feathered over his rough, puckered skin with such tenderness his soul wept.

  A tremor lanced through him. Step away, a voice inside him screamed. Ugly, repulsive, murderous bastard, you are unworthy of her touch.

  He swallowed, fighting the urge to jerk back. Yet, magic shimmered in her caress. Where her fingers moved, warmth tingled across his skin. An answering heat flared inside him, akin to a long dead torch flaring to life.

  With a ragged sigh, he tilted his face into her caress.

  “Oh, Brant.” Her voice shook. “Why did Torr take Angeline? Why?”

  He caught her hand and gently kissed her knuckles. “That, I do not know.”

  A sob wrenched from her. Brant slid his arms around her waist and drew her close. As their bodies pressed together, a pleasured groan, born in his soul, burst through him. How perfect Faye felt, nestled against him. How right it seemed for her to drop her head against his shoulder. Her floral scent flooded his senses, delicate yet, in its own way, intoxicating.

  Her breath faltered. As though a powerful spell had been unleashed, he felt her torment like a sword rammed into his own heart. How well he understood the agony ripping through her. The uncertainty. The brutal self-condemnation vowing that, somehow, the whole incident could have been prevented.

  She didn’t deserve to be caught up in such anguish.

  “Shh.” He drew her even closer. Her soft, warm breasts pressed against his chest. Lowering his head, he kissed her hair. “’Twill be all right, Faye.”

  “Brant,” she whispered. One word. A spell all its own.

  A tiny, wary part of him fought her enchantment. Step away. Fight her bewitchment. She is pure light, whereas you are darkness so wretched, you could well destroy her.

  Remorse shivered through Brant, even as his hands curled into her gown to prevent himself from walking away and abandoning her when she needed his strength. Even more powerful than his conscience grew his knowledge that the elemental sorcery between them could never be denied.

  He sensed the moment her breathing quickened. The moment her anguish metamorphosed into desire.

  Step away! Now! Before you can no longer fight her allure.

  Her chin tilted up. Her lips, slightly parted, hovered tantalizingly close.

  “Brant,” she whispered again.

  His mind flooded with the scent of her. With the promise of her dewy mouth.

  Stretching up, she kissed him full on the lips.

  Lost, his soul wept. You are lost!

  Hunger exploded inside him, shattering all reason. Beguiling him beyond rational thought with the lure of sexual fulfillment.

  He groaned against her mouth, plunging his tongue deeper. She shuddered and squeezed even closer to him. In her kiss, he tasted the salt of her tears, along with the desperate yearning to find comfort, to share a moment of mindless oblivion, with someone who understood.

  His arms moved from around her waist. Flattened to her body, his hands skimmed down over her gown to the swell of her bottom. She moaned against his lips as his fingers pressed into her flesh, drawing her hips flush against his hardened desire.

  “How you enchant me,” he rasped, pressing tiny kisses along her flushed cheek.

  “Brant,” she murmured. An invitation for him to enchant her.

  With a little growl, he kissed her again. His deft fingers moved, drawing up the fabric of her gown and chemise, fold by fold, until they bunched at her waist.

  She quivered against him.

  He drew back to look down into her tear-streaked face. “Do you know what you ask of me?” he whispered hoarsely. “Once we begin . . .”

  Her shimmering, green eyes stared back at him as her hands swept over his lower back. Then, with only the slightest hesitation, her fingers brushed his arousal.

  Fire leapt through his groin. He gasped.

  “I know what I ask,” she whispered, and touched him again.

  Heat licked through every part of his body. Of course she knew. She wasn’t a virgin, but a widow, experienced in the sensual alchemy between men and women. Ah, God, how he burned to experience the splendor of her magic.

  Kissing her, he swept his fingertips up under her bunched garments to her naked back
. He nudged her backward, steering her with his body toward her bed. How smooth her skin felt against his, akin to the finest silk. The salty taste of her kiss became sweet, as ambrosial as a powerful potion. He couldn’t kiss her fast enough, deep enough.

  With equal fervor, she kissed him in return, each brush of her lips more impassioned than the last. Slipping her hands under his tunic, she fumbled with the fastenings of his hose. When her greedy fingers touched his stomach, so close to his swollen need, heat shot through his loins. “Easy,” he choked out.

  “I cannot help it,” she breathed against his lips. “I cannot stop touching you.”

  The back of her legs hit the bed. An impatient cry broke from her before she pulled free of his embrace, sat, and then slowly stretched back on the coverlet. Fisting one hand into the front of his tunic, she urged him down beside her.

  The bed ropes creaked at his weight, reminding him of the first time they’d lain together. She had fought him then. Now she seemed to want to explore all of him. Again, her wandering hand slid under his tunic. Her fingers skimmed lightly over his belly, up to his ribcage.

  He eased up on one elbow. As he looked down at her beautiful, flushed features, he shifted his weight to gently nudge his leg between hers, easing her bare thighs apart.

  Her slumberous gaze widened. Uncertainty flickered in her eyes.

  The sensual enchantment between them wavered, as though threatened.

  “Faye?”

  Her throat moved with an awkward swallow. “I . . .” Sucking her bottom lip between her teeth, she turned her head away. Along her lashes, he glimpsed fresh tears.

  He leaned over, caught her chin, and turned her face back to look at him. He pressed a tender kiss to her lips. “What is it?”

  She swallowed again. “Are you . . . ready?”

  Her words pierced him with the agony of a barbed arrow. For a cold, cruel moment, he wondered if she mocked his rampant desire. As the misery in her expression deepened, the true meaning of her words became clear.

  “Your husband never pleasured you,” he whispered, aghast.

  A mortified stain spread across her cheeks.

  “You coupled with him, as he expected of his wife, yet he satisfied only his own needs. He never once tried to please you.”