Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  Hands balled at his sides, he swung back to face her. Torment shone in his eyes, an agony not forged in this conflict. Her own anguish recognized that such misery drove much deeper, and had gnawed at his soul for long, painful months.

  “I am sorry, Faye,” he said. “Torr spoke true. I deceived you.”

  Brant’s voice sounded like another man’s. A stranger’s.

  Tears scalded her eyes. “Do not speak such wretchedness.”

  A despairing smile, devoid of all hope, touched Brant’s mouth—the same skilled mouth that had kissed her. Pleasured her. Murmured Faye, my treasure.

  “I am not worthy—”

  “Brant!” she sobbed. “Cease!”

  “—because I am a murderer. I killed my own brother.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Brant watched, his palms coated with sickly sweat, as Faye’s pleading gaze widened with horrified disbelief. She drew a sharp breath before she stumbled backward. Against her ashen skin, her eyes looked huge. Dazed.

  “You what?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the ugly silence. Yet, those two words echoed in his soul, stabbing like verbal daggers, cutting deeper with each repetition. You what? You what?!

  “Aye,” Torr muttered behind Brant. “What did you say?”

  Brant raised his chin another notch. His mind reeled with the chaos converging inside him, the knowledge that his world, as he knew it, had disintegrated around him.

  His life would never be the same again.

  Most of all, his relationship with Faye.

  His throat burned as if he’d swallowed a fiery torch yanked from the depths of hell. To repeat his words would gouge out another bleeding chunk of his soul.

  God help him, but there was relief in his confession as well. Tremendous, strength-draining relief that at last, his secret was a secret no longer.

  Never again must he bear the merciless weight of his burden.

  Or the chafing constraints of his blood oath.

  “I am a murderer. I killed my own brother.”

  As he spoke, he looked at Faye. She appeared as shattered as he felt. He blinked away the moisture stinging his eyes. How he wished he could have spared her the truth. How he longed to take her in his arms, bury his face in her hair, and weep how sorry he was for the repugnant sin he’d committed. For not being able to stop the knife sliding into Royce’s flesh.

  Faye, my treasure.

  Brant had vowed he would never lie to her. Of all the wrongs he’d committed in his life, he would be proud, until his last dying breath, that he’d never kept the truth from her.

  For the fleeting magic they had shared, he would be forever grateful. Because of her, he’d found the courage to admit what he had done. To break from Torr’s controlling grasp and accept the light of responsibility.

  “When did you kill your brother?” Painfully thin, Faye’s voice cut him in a way no physical weapon could.

  “Months ago, on crusade.”

  “How?”

  Bile flooded Brant’s throat. The remembered shouts, cries, and cacophony of that terrible day overran his thoughts. The metallic smell of blood once more tinged his nostrils, turning his stomach. “I . . . stabbed him.”

  Faye covered her mouth with her shaking hands.

  “I still cannot explain how it happened,” he blurted, her anguish so painful to him, he could scarcely breathe. “I did not want to fight him. I loved Royce. I . . . never meant to kill him.”

  Her face crumpled. She whirled around, turning her rigid back to him. Her tangled hair, rippling down to her hips, shone like molten fire, tempting him to reach out and smooth it with his hand. An offer of comfort she would most certainly reject.

  Silence filled the chamber like a foul smoke. Brant sensed Torr’s livid gaze raking over him. Brant shoved his shoulders back. He wouldn’t recant his confession. Nor would he cower when he faced whatever punishment he deserved.

  Faye trembled. She was crying, but trying hard to muffle the sound. He blinked harder, fighting the gut-wrenching urge to cross to her, drop to his knees at her feet, and beg her not to look upon him with loathing.

  An almost unbearable yearning to feel her body pressed against him, to hear her whisper his name with passion and trust, consumed him.

  Mayhap never again.

  Grief roared inside him. ’Twould be a punishment harsher than death.

  “A murderer,” Torr said. “God’s blood.”

  Brant forced down a harsh laugh. Bastard! How cunning to pretend you did not know.

  Behind Brant, the door creaked open. A draft wafted over him. Despite his resolve to stand firm, he tensed. Torr might be lord of Caldstowe, sworn to obey the civilized laws of England’s king, but Torr had fought in the east, where rules of battle were far less important than victory. There were many ways to punish a man without killing him, some too vile to contemplate now.

  “Guards!” Torr bellowed.

  Footfalls rang in the corridor. When the sentries approached, a brutal shiver crawled down Brant’s spine. Tightening his jaw, he shut out the memories swarming into his mind.

  Armed guards strode through the doorway.

  With an arrogant flick of his hand, Torr said, “Brant Meslarches just confessed to murdering his brother while on crusade. Is that not true, Lady Rivellaux?”

  Faye’s head turned. A strand of hair brushed her pale, damp cheek as she nodded. “He did.”

  Brant silently begged her to look at him one last time.

  She turned away.

  “Guards, arrest Meslarches. If he resists, subdue him with all necessary force.”

  As the sound of footfalls faded in the corridor, Faye released an unsteady breath and shut her chamber door. She hugged herself tight, tying to defray the iciness numbing her like a lethal winter freeze.

  Cold. So very cold.

  Anguish nagged, impossible to ignore, like a sliver of ice poking her heart’s bleeding wound.

  The memory of Brant’s face when Torr and the guards led him away would be forever etched into her mind. She’d dared to look, at the last moment, as, holding his arms at his sides, they had escorted him out into the corridor. She’d seen proud resolve in his expression. Not the slightest trace of cowardice.

  She squeezed her arms tighter, fighting the urge to channel the emotions inside her into a scream. One moment, Brant was the enchanting lover who had shown her passion. The next, he’d confessed to taking his brother’s life. A revelation she’d never expected.

  To insist Brant wasn’t a murderer would be senseless. He had admitted his guilt. He’d confessed, before herself and Torr.

  Yet, his hands sweeping over her hadn’t been rough, but exquisitely tender. His murmured voice had held not a trace of brutality, but silken gentleness.

  She pressed a hand to her aching breast. His compassion had been no more than a captivating illusion cast by a rogue skilled in seducing women. He’d murdered his own brother. Not in some unavoidable accident, but by stabbing him with a dagger. An act of will.

  A vile secret he’d managed to keep from her—and even Torr—until now.

  Chills skittered over her skin that had once glowed from his lovemaking. She’d lain with a murderer. With shaking fingers, she threw the bolt on her door, then hurried to the table to pour a bowl of water. She stripped off her gown and chemise and washed with a linen cloth and soap. She scrubbed her mouth until no trace of Brant remained.

  At least, not on her skin. The pleasure he’d shown her still tormented her thoughts.

  Shivering as the numbness inside her deepened, Faye stumbled over to the linen chest and drew out her last, plain blue gown Hubert had bought her. After donning a fresh chemise and the gown, she returned to the table to draw her brush through her hair. She forced the unruly strands into order, obliterating all trace of Brant’s hands burying into her tresses.

  Finished, she set the brush down. When she turned from the table, her gaze fell to her rumpled coverlet. There she’d foun
d pleasure, ensorcelled by a murderer.

  A low moan broke from her, just as a knock rattled her door. “Faye.”

  Torr’s concerned tone urged her to let him in.

  She didn’t want Torr’s companionship. However, she must heed him, for he’d already proven he wouldn’t be denied entry to her chamber.

  Moreover, she must still rescue Angeline. Whatever Torr knew about the little girl’s disappearance, she would find out.

  She drew the bolt and opened the door. Torr stepped inside, his expression as grim as when he’d ordered Brant arrested. When his gaze traveled over her clean garments, she turned away, but his hands pressed down upon her shoulders. His fingers gently kneaded through her gown.

  “’Tis over,” he said.

  She nodded. The consuming numbness slipped down into her belly, transforming the pit of her stomach into a frozen knot. Even tears refused to dampen her eyes. Strange, how her body felt as though it belonged to someone else.

  Torr’s fingers kept kneading, a touch no doubt intended to soothe her, yet it did the opposite. “The news has shocked both of us,” he murmured. “Especially you, I imagine.”

  She stepped out of his hold and faced him. “You were with Brant on crusade, were you not?”

  Torr’s gaze shadowed. “Aye. Brant, Royce, and I went together.”

  “Did you”—she swallowed, barely able to speak the terrible words—“know about the murder?”

  “I knew Royce was killed, but I believed . . .” His face contorted with disgust. “I was told a Saracen prisoner escaped in our camp. He fled into the tent Brant and Royce shared, a fight ensued, and Royce died. For the crime, the Saracen was executed.”

  “But Brant killed Royce,” she whispered.

  Torr dragged his hand through his hair. “To think I trusted him as a friend, welcomed him into my keep, let him dine at my table . . .”

  Torn by the agony in his voice, she pressed her hand to his arm. “He deceived us all.”

  “He did.” Fatigue lined Torr’s handsome face. He smiled at her. “After all that has happened, I vow I need a goblet of wine. Care to join me?”

  The familiar invitation, extended again.

  A refusal flew to her lips. Yet, to find Angeline, she must accept. If luck was with her, Torr would reveal a vital detail during their conversation. Mayhap he’d even inadvertently confirm Angeline was at Waverbury. Or, Faye might discover other evidence in his solar.

  Above all, drinking wine with Torr would be far simpler than staying in her chamber and being constantly reminded of Brant. “I would enjoy a drink,” she said.

  His smile broadened, and she smiled back, despite the disquiet weaving through her. “Come, then.” Torr’s arm slid around her waist. Drawing her against him, he guided her out into the passage.

  Torches along the walls flickered as they walked. Head held high, she strode alongside Torr, blinking as the hazy smoke stung her eyes. Memories of Brant taunted from the fire-kissed shadows, but she blocked them out.

  She would feel naught. Only numbness.

  Moments later, they reached the massive wooden doors to Torr’s solar, flanked by two guards. Sliding his arm from around her, he stepped ahead and spoke quietly to the men. They bowed and moved aside. Glancing back at Faye, he pushed open his chamber doors and gestured for her to enter.

  When she walked past him into the dimly lit chamber, a woolen rug softened her footfalls. A fire crackled in the hearth at the room’s opposite end, warming the high-backed chairs turned toward the blaze, the rug in front of the fire, and the massive bed. The same bed he’d shared with Elayne until her illness had progressed to nightmarish fits separated by periods where she lay staring at the wall, her eyes vacant, her face devoid of all expression. With a gracious nod, he’d given permission for the servants to move Elayne to a chamber near Faye, where she could care for his wife on a constant basis. There, she had died.

  In the solar’s shadows, though, Elayne’s presence still lingered.

  Clasping her damp fingers together, Faye turned to look at Torr. His back to the doors, his hands behind him, he pressed the two panels closed. A charming smile touched his face before he eased away, motioning to the hearth. “A drink, then.”

  Nodding, she headed toward the fire. Before she even sensed him beside her, he linked his arm through hers and escorted her to the fireside, where a jug of wine and silver goblets rested on a small table.

  He poured a goblet of the crimson colored vintage. His gaze slid to hers before softening in the flickering light. “You look exhausted.”

  “I am.” She fought the confusion and heartache threatening to batter through her numbness, hating that even now, she yearned for Brant.

  Torr handed her the filled vessel, then poured wine into the empty one. His hand, she noted, was shaking. As he moved to return the jug to the tabletop, wine splashed onto the wood. The liquid glistened like blood. “Sometimes events happen for the best, aye?” he said.

  Sipping the piquant wine in her goblet, she frowned. “How so?”

  “If we had not discovered Brant’s deceptions tonight,”—his mouth flattened—“he would have made an even greater fool of you. Better to find out now that he is a wretched murder and liar than . . . later.”

  Anger tingled through Faye, coalescing in her fingertips pressed to the cool goblet. He would have made an even greater fool of you. Torr made it sound so pragmatic. As if her heart weren’t involved.

  She began to tremble. A sudden urge to lash out at Torr welled inside her. Nay. ’Twould be foolish. Arguing with him would hinder her goal of learning Angeline’s whereabouts. Forcing down her resentment, she sipped more wine.

  A rasp caught her attention. With shaking fingers, Torr unfastened the top of a flask. With an almost greedy smile, he raised the container to his lips and took a long swig. Closing his eyes, he swallowed, then sighed—a sound of immense relief.

  His chronic pain must be bothering him.

  Noticing her stare, he smiled. “This tonic is very calming to the nerves. Would you care to try some?”

  “Nay, thank you.” Lifting her wine goblet again to her lips, Faye drank that instead. Still, she couldn’t keep from trembling.

  “Tsk, tsk,” Torr murmured, sounding sympathetic.

  Faye forced a laugh. “I am fine. Merely tired.” Courage, Faye. Now, more than ever, you must not yield to resentment or despair.

  The fire popped and spat up a cloud of sparks, a welcome distraction. As the bright flare dissipated, she sank into one of the chairs.

  Torr knelt beside her, again offering the flask. “’Twill not harm you. ’Tis soothing.”

  His shaking hand had steadied. Whatever the tonic contained, ’twas certainly potent.

  “What is it made of?”

  “Herbs.”

  Something about his one word reply—a half breath of hesitation, mayhap—brought her gaze up from his fingers curled around the flask. “What kind of herbs?”

  He smiled. Clearly, he found her reluctance amusing. “Wormwood. Poppy. I cannot say all of the ingredients, for I do not really know. My healer is quite secretive about his concoctions.”

  Torr paused, as if to gauge how much—or little—she accepted of his explanation. Her fingers tightened around her wine goblet, and she struggled not to let him see her unsteady grip.

  His wry chuckle teased her. “’Tis not as though I offer you poison.”

  “I know, but—”

  “’Twill not hurt you. Why would I wish to cause you harm?” In the light cast by the fire, his expression softened with adoration. “You must realize how important you are to me.”

  She coughed away a nervous tickle. “Torr, you mean a great deal to me, as well. After Hubert’s death, I do not know how I would have fared without Elayne and you. You are a dear, generous friend.”

  “Friend,” he repeated before smiling. Yet, she sensed stiffness in the tilt of his mouth. “Indeed, a friend who is concerned about you.” He held o
ut the flask again. “Drink. You will be astonished how much better you feel. I promise.”

  His voice held an edge. If she refused to drink, he might take offense, and she hadn’t had the opportunity to ask about Angeline. “Very well.”

  Their fingers brushed when she took the flask. For one, excruciating moment, she remembered Brant’s skin brushing hers. His touch had held the power to charm her, to seduce away all reason, while Torr’s sent disquiet shivering through her.

  Guilt drove as deep as an arrow. Her relationship with Brant was over. Never again would they share the special magic between them. She struggled to remain numb, to keep her emotions suppressed, even as the fire before her became an orange-yellow blur. With her emotions strained to near breaking, the wine had affected her with unusual potency.

  Mayhap the herbal drink would help.

  She set her goblet on the table and raised the flask to her lips. Torr watched, his gaze keen. A sharp odor accosted her, eliciting an instinctive urge to recoil, but she resisted, pushed the flask to her lips, and sipped.

  Bitterness flooded her tongue. She tasted the hurt festering inside her, pent-up rage, as well as the misery of Brant’s betrayal. Her body rebelled, denying her the privilege of swallowing.

  Torr smoothed his hand over her back. “’Tis bitter at first, but that fades.”

  Merciless tears stung her eyes. The drink’s sinister odor wafted again. In the potent herbal aroma, she caught something familiar: an element in the tonics made and given to Elayne in the days before she had perished. Faye smelled . . . death.

  She lurched out of the chair, barely aware of Torr’s muttered oath, his grab for the flask keeling toward the floor, the thud and splash as the vessel hit the floorboards. The awful smell surrounded her, rising from the puddle near her feet.

  Clutching the stone fireplace, she bent forward and retched into the fire. The flames spat and sputtered, releasing a shroud of smoke.

  She scrubbed her mouth with her fist. “Fie!” she rasped.

  Torr reached her side. He massaged between her shoulder blades as he handed over her goblet of wine. Taking a sip, she rinsed out her mouth, then swallowed.