The sharp bite of betrayal tightened her jaw. She would tell him about the journal, and then she would leave, never to see him again.
Brant seemed to be aware of her silent condemnation, for as his fingers gently plowed through Val’s fur, his mouth tightened.
Still, he didn’t look at her.
“Brant.”
“You should not be here.”
How thin his voice sounded, a ghostly echo of the mesmerizing, arrogant man she’d known—and taken to her bed.
“I had to see you.”
“To be sure I am properly imprisoned?” His bitter laugh rebounded off the cold walls. “Torr made certain of that.”
She shifted her hold on the journal. Anticipation quickened her pulse, as well as wariness. How would Brant react when she told him of the journal? Would he become enraged?
If he could kill his own brother, might he harm her?
Nay. He wouldn’t hurt her.
Brant’s gaze met hers. Red rimmed, his eyes glittered with anguish. For a moment, as he looked at her, his expression softened. Then he glanced away. “I know I have no right to ask. Yet, since he cannot ask himself, I must do so for him. Please . . . see that Val finds a home, milady.”
Milady, he had called her. Not Faye. His way of enforcing emotional distance between them. Steeling the foolish disappointment from her tone, she said, “Do not worry. I will care for Val.”
“Thank you.”
Val whimpered. With a last pat, Brant lifted his hand away. “Go, Faye.”
“Not yet.”
“Go. Now!”
His roared command stung like a slap. She didn’t whirl around and stride to the door, however, for she knew why he spoke with such force. He was turning her away—to protect her. To prevent her from being hurt any further by his actions.
An odd act of conscience for a man guilty of cold-blooded murder.
With a low groan, Brant dragged his fingers through his hair. Her throat ached as she stared down at his tousled head, bent once more, hopelessness undermining the proud set of his shoulders. What she would give to know what had happened between him and Royce on crusade that led to the killing.
Despite the caution and anguish warring inside her, she walked closer. Iron links rattled. He lurched to standing, faster than she thought possible for a chained man. Turned to her in profile, he strode the few yards his bonds permitted.
She halted, close enough to touch his rigid back.
He was trembling.
“Brant, look at me,” she said, hating the plea in her voice.
His chained hands balled into fists. “I should never have let myself care for you. I should not have lain with you. For that I am sorry.”
She forced down the impulse to say how wondrous her time with him had been.
Faye, my treasure.
The sense of moments slipping away, the knowledge that Torr would soon return to his solar and find her gone, spurred to her to forge ahead. “There is something I must show you.”
“God’s blood, Faye.” Brant swung around, his dark hair tangling over his wet eyes. “Go. Please!”
He shook like a man struggling to hold back a tremendous emotional wave—one that could very well swamp him and demolish his last shreds of reason. Seeing the journal might shatter his self-control.
Yet, she could not—must not—let her risk be in vain.
Faye freed the journal from her tunic sleeve. She held the book out to him.
Beneath the tangled shadow of his hair, his gaze narrowed. “What is it?”
“Open it and see.”
He stood motionless. She sensed him studying the journal. Knew the precise moment shock jolted through him.
The chains clanked. Reaching out, he took the tome.
Cradling it in his left palm, he ran his hand over the soiled cover. His disbelieving touch lingered over the dark stain. He blinked hard, then drew the journal open.
“Mother of God.” His head snapped up. Fury and confusion gleamed in his eyes. “How did you get Royce’s journal? Where—?”
“I found it in Torr’s solar.”
“Torr’s solar?” Brant whispered hoarsely. “How did you come to be in his chamber?”
She struggled not to shudder at his furious tone. Deciding not to answer his last question, she said, “Torr keeps his flasks of tonic in a secret hiding place under some floorboards. I found the journal there.”
“How long have you known about the journal?”
Brant’s accusatory tone slashed deep, but she refused to avert her gaze. “I only found it moments ago. I brought it straight to you.”
He swallowed before his gaze returned to the book. “The lying whoreson! He kept it all these months, when I thought it lost. God’s teeth! How long had Royce been dead before Torr took the journal? Or, did he steal it before my brother died?”
“I wish I could tell you,” Faye said. “Why did Torr keep the journal secret? Why did he not give it to you?”
Brant’s fierce gaze fixed on her. “What else did you find?”
Such fury radiated from him. A tremor wove through her, prompting her to take a step back. “A knife.”
“Show me.”
She bent and slipped the dagger from her shoe. “’Twas Elayne’s. She kept it with her always.”
“It, too, used to be my brother’s.”
“Your brother’s? How did Elayne come to have it?”
Brant’s mouth flattened. “I do not know, but I mean to find out.”
“The journal, the knife, Angeline’s disappearance. All are connected somehow.”
He nodded, and his expression hardened. “Now, more than ever, you are in grave danger, milady.”
“From you?” she blurted, before she could catch herself.
Surprise lit Brant’s gaze. He scowled. “From Torr. He will know, when he finds the journal and dagger missing, that you betrayed him. He will be very angry.”
Fear shivered through her. Brant spoke true. Still, she mustn’t be blinded by panic. Not now, when she needed her wits about her. “The journal and knife were at the back of the recess. He may have forgotten about them. He may not even notice them missing.”
Brant’s scowl deepened, as though she babbled like a fool. “Faye.”
“I am not witless. By this eve, I plan to be long gone from Caldstowe.”
In the midst of crossing his arms, he froze. “What do you mean?”
She rubbed her lips together, determined not to lose her resolve. “I am riding to Waverbury to see if Angeline is being held captive there. I promised Elayne I would protect her little girl, and the days are passing. Right now, ’tis my only clue to her whereabouts.”
Brant’s arms dropped to his sides. “You cannot travel alone. ’Tis too dangerous.”
”No more dangerous, I vow, than my staying at Caldstowe.”
“Give me the knife, Faye.”
Shock convinced her to take a step back. “Never! You are a murderer.” If he lunged for her now, he might catch her before she reached safety.
Faye sucked in a breath to scream for the guards.
Brant made no move to pursue her. He shook his head and appeared disappointed that she distrusted him. “I will not harm you. I will use the dagger to break the locks on the chains.”
She released her held breath. “If you try to run from here, the guards will kill you.”
“I will wait for the right moment to escape. My life is already forfeit. I would rather die finding out the truth about the journal than rotting in the king’s dungeon.” A roguish smile curved his lips. “Surely you understand that?”
How she wished he wasn’t so handsome when he smiled. “I do, but—”
“My escape will also provide a distraction. I will keep Torr occupied, so he and his men will not pursue you on your journey to Waverbury.”
Voices carried from beyond the door. The guards were growing impatient. Any moment, they might step inside and tell her to leave. If they
found her with the knife—
She thrust the dagger into Brant’s hand. Relief and gratitude shadowed his gaze, as well as something else she couldn’t define. “I hope you get your answers,” she whispered, unable to voice all of the emotions welling up inside her. This was likely the last time she saw him.
He nodded. Unsheathing the knife, he dropped to his knees and shoved the dagger tip into the lock at his ankle.
Disquiet tingled at the base of her skull. She’d assumed Brant would hide the knife in his garments. Why didn’t he wait until she had left before he unfastened his chains?
The voices outside rose. One sounded concerned, as if they wondered what might be happening to her.
Drawing in a calming breath, she crossed to the door. Shutting out the muffled clink of chains behind her, she smoothed her damp hands over her gown. She’d accomplished what she had come to do. Now, she must focus on her ride to Waverbury.
Goodbye, Brant.
She raised her hand to knock. “Come, Val.”
The barest whisper—no more—alerted her of movement behind her. Before she could spin around, a muscled arm locked about her waist. Brant jerked her back against him.
The dagger’s cold blade pressed to her throat.
Brant’s voice rasped against her ear, “Tell the guards to open the door.”
Chapter Sixteen
Faye froze as the knife pressed against her skin—not hard enough to pierce her flesh, but to ensure that she obeyed him. Her pulse pounded so fiercely, she imagined Brant could hear it, too, hammering like a fist upon a tabor.
Her bottom touched his thighs, while her shoulders pressed against his broad torso. A damp chill raced over her skin, moistening her brow, hands, and the soles of her feet. How stupid to have let her emotions overrule her common sense. Now, she was Brant’s hostage.
Fie! She had returned his brother’s journal, given Brant a knife to free him from his chains, and he showed his gratitude by taking her captive?
His arm around her waist tightened. “Knock,” he growled against her hair. His tone warned he wouldn’t tolerate refusal.
Do not heed him, her conscience shouted. Scream! Warn the guards that he is free.
If she disobeyed him, he might harm her. She couldn’t rescue Angeline if she were dead.
Raising her fist, Faye rapped twice on the wooden panel. The guards had instructed her to knock three times. Mayhap they would realize something was wrong. Or, would they believe she’d forgotten what they’d told her?
“Milady?” a guard outside said, his voice muffled through the wood.
“I wish to leave now,” Faye called back, praying he understood her signal.
“You did not knock three times.”
Oh, God!
“Faye,” Brant snarled in her ear. He sounded so ferocious, she moaned.
“I forgot!” she yelled through the door. “I-I am sorry.”
Silence. Muttered conversation. The key rasped in the lock.
“Well done,” Brant murmured, his breath stirring her hair.
The door swung inward.
Before she could cry out, Brant kicked the panel fully open. It crashed against the chamber’s stone wall. From outside came the ominous squeal of swords being drawn.
Brant dragged her through the doorway. Val scampered beside him.
The younger guard faced them. “Halt! Milady, you helped him escape. You tricked us.”
“I forced her to help me,” Brant said.
Faye barely held back an astonished cry. Brant had lied to protect her—a curious moment of chivalry. Yet, her surprise fled on a growing sense of trepidation, for a lethal tension suffused the smoky air.
There was little space between the doorway and the stairwell. As, judging by the guards’ smirks, they well knew. Fighting in such a confined area meant someone would be gravely injured—or would die.
“Let her go, Meslarches,” the older guard said, raising his weapon. Torch light flashed down the steel blade.
“Stand down.” Brant’s fingers flexed on the knife handle. “Do as I say, and Lady Rivellaux will not be harmed.”
Val growled.
The knife eased away from her throat a fraction. Run, Faye! Now, her mind screamed. She stomped on Brant’s foot and wrenched sideways to break free of his hold. Brant grunted, a sound of surprise. Faster than she imagined possible, his arm slammed her back against him.
“Foolish, milady,” he snarled.
The guards exchanged glances. As the younger man edged forward, Val growled again. Teeth bared, the little dog lunged. He bit the man’s calf.
“Ow!” the sentry bellowed. Raising his sword with both hands, he pointed the tip downward to plunge into the little dog.
Faye gasped as Brant lurched her sideways. Struggling, she glanced over her shoulder, to see Brant’s booted foot smash into the young man’s chest. He cried out as he flew backward into the wall. His head lolled.
The man slid to the floor. His sword clanged down beside him.
“You killed him!” Faye choked out.
“He is still breathing,” Brant said. “He will feel rotten, though, when he wakes.”
A challenging roar echoed. Brant spun her again. Her body shielding his, they faced the second guard. Digging her nails into his tunic sleeve, she clawed at Brant’s hold. He didn’t seem to notice.
Down at the sentry’s feet, Val growled, hunkered down, and prepared to leap at him.
Scowling, the guard kicked out. The dog darted to the side, but not fast enough. The man’s boot connected with Val’s ribs. Yelping, the little mongrel landed on his side. His eyes rolled. His legs flailed, as though he could no longer stand.
“Val!” Faye cried.
Brant cursed. Rage flowed from him, so fearsome, she couldn’t suppress a panicked moan.
Panting, Val struggled to his feet. Baring his teeth, he trotted behind the sentry.
The guard edged between Brant and the stairwell, blocking the route of escape. Sweat beaded on his forehead. “Release the lady,” he said, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder at Val. “’Twill not bode well for you if she is wounded.”
“Or you,” Brant growled. His arm tightened possessively around Faye’s waist.
The man adjusted his grip on his sword, clearly preparing to attack. “I will not ask you again, Meslarches. Let her go.”
“I cannot.”
Faye sensed the barest flick of Brant’s hand at her waist. A signal. When the sentry lunged forward, Val leapt up. His teeth sank into the guard’s buttock.
The man howled. Staggered back. “God forsaken little—”
Val jumped away. In that same instant, Brant spun Faye to one side and kicked the man’s sword arm. The weapon keeled sideways. With a pained grunt, the guard recovered his hold on the weapon, but Brant delivered another swift kick.
Groaning, one arm clutching his stomach, the man staggered. He stumbled over his fallen comrade and sprawled on the floor. Spitting a foul oath, he drew himself up to his hands and knees. He grabbed for his sword that had skidded a hand’s span away.
“No one kicks my dog,” Brant said. Another kick, and the guard crumpled to the floor.
Eyes bright, Val scampered over to Brant.
“Good work,” Brant murmured, and the little dog’s tail swayed.
Blinking hard, Faye stared at the stone wall. She wouldn’t regret that Brant had once spoken to her with affection. That he had treasured her.
Behind her, he drew in a breath and slowly released it, a sound of both relief and anticipation. When he exhaled, hair tickled her cheek. She reached up to smooth her tresses back into place.
Brant’s wry laughter rumbled against her back. “Now, now, milady.”
She stiffened, telling him with her defiant posture how much she despised being held hostage. “I will not go with you.”
“You will.” The knife again pressed against her throat. She hardly dared to breathe.
“Walk.” He half
shoved, half hauled her toward the stairwell. “Careful. Do not trip over that guard’s legs.”
“Knave,” she muttered under her breath.
“Do as I ask, Faye,” Brant said, regret in his voice.
She resisted the answering tug of her heart. “I will never forgive you for using me in such a loathsome fashion.”
He jerked her to a halt. “Use!” From his lips, the word sounded like the coarsest oath. His hand at her waist curled into the fabric of her gown, as though he struggled to restrain something more—something crucial—he wished to say.
As though it cost him great effort, his fingers relaxed. His strides brisk, he pushed her toward the stairs. “Move.”
Step by uneven step, Brant maneuvered himself and Faye down the stairwell. With each movement, her body brushed against his. Her tresses tickled his jaw. Her delicate fragrance teased him every time he inhaled. He could lose himself in the bewitching sway and scent of her. That is, if he wasn’t concentrating on keeping her under control with the dagger, while making sure he didn’t cut her.
The thought of piercing her skin, even accidentally, made him shudder. He would die before he hurt her, although she mustn’t perceive his true feelings. She must believe him to be the desperate criminal she imagined him to be, until he had her away from Caldstowe.
Genuine fear couldn’t be feigned. If she didn’t fear Brant—totally and completely—Torr would suspect that she’d helped him escape.
“Where are you taking me?” Faye demanded, her voice sounding strained.
“Wherever I wish.”
“Let me go. Please.”
Never, a voice inside Brant answered. You will always be mine, my treasure.
“I will not tell anyone you are free. I swear it, upon my soul.”
She might keep his secret. As long as she could. However, once the guards at the top of the stairs regained consciousness, they would pursue her for the full details of his escape. Furious, wanting Brant recaptured as soon as possible, Torr might permit his men to wrest information from her through any means.
A frightening thought.
Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection Page 115