Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  Brant gritted his teeth. If only he could change his past. If only he could be the honorable man Faye deserved.

  But he couldn’t.

  Turning away, he reached for the destrier’s reins. The horse had finished drinking. Before the storm unleashed its fury he must find them all shelter. At least the rain would wash away all trace of their journey, as well as their scent, making it harder for Torr to find them.

  Striding past Faye, Brant led their mount into the trees. “This way.”

  He didn’t hear the clatter of stones behind him to indicate she followed. Halting the horse, he looked back to see her standing where he’d left her.

  At the river’s edge, Val raised his head. He glanced toward the road and growled.

  A faint sound carried on the wind: the baying of dogs.

  Faye’s eyes flared with panic.

  Brant grabbed for her arm. “Get on the horse.”

  She jerked to one side, evading his grasp.

  “Faye!” He glared at her edging away from him, clearly preparing to run. “I will not leave you here. Torr and his men will find you.”

  “Ride away, while you still can! I am not going with you.”

  “We must try to outrun them. ’Tis too dangerous for you—”

  “The danger is greatest if we stay together.” She held his gaze for a last, poignant moment, then whirled and raced across the rocks.

  Spinning to look at her, Val barked again.

  Brant cursed into the wind. The fierce gust snatched his words, slammed them against the rocks, as Faye scrambled along the shore.

  Damnation!

  Dropping the destrier’s reins, he started after her, stumbling when stones shifted under his boots.

  Val raced past him, headed toward Faye.

  Brant half fell, wincing when a rock scraped his hand. Fury raced through his veins, chased by concern. If she escaped him, how could he protect her? Why did she not understand the risks if Torr captured her?

  “Faye, come back!”

  She didn’t even glance over her shoulder.

  The dogs’ baying grew more distinct. He must ride away, now, if he hoped to outrun Torr’s men. They would slaughter him here by the lakeshore. He would never know the truth about Royce’s journal.

  Yet, how could he ride off and abandon Faye? How could he vanish like a coward, only to wonder what had happened to her?

  He couldn’t. To choose his own desires over Faye’s well-being was . . . criminal. If he was to die by this stormy lake, he would perish knowing he’d sacrificed every last drop of bloody strength to protect her. An honorable ambition worth dying for.

  Faye, my treasure.

  He stumbled to a halt, turned, and loped back to the destrier. Several paces away, a huge boulder supported fallen trees cast down by the recent floods. He drew the destrier in behind the massive rock, tied him to a branch, and hoped he stayed hidden from view.

  Shouts carried on the wind, along with excited barking.

  Brant ran out from behind the boulder. Halted in her frantic flight, Faye struggled to loosen her gown caught on a log. Crouched by her feet, Val yapped, as though telling her to hurry.

  Skidding on loose stones, Brant hurried to her.

  Val glanced at him. His little tail wagged.

  Faye yanked on her gown. With a ripping sound, it pulled free. Flicking aside snarled hair, she looked at him. Dismay tightened her features.

  “I could not leave you,” he said. At the same moment, thunder crashed overhead.

  As he wondered whether she’d heard him, she glanced at the water. Before he could stop her, she plunged into the river where it appeared shallow around submerged rocks. The water reached to her hips. Her skirts dragging in the water, she forged toward the other side.

  Muttering an oath, Brant splashed in after her.

  She glanced over her shoulder, her expression frantic. “Leave me be!”

  He scowled, sucking in a harsh breath, as the frigid water soaked his hose all the way up to his groin. Another splash, and Val landed in the water. Nose lifted to the threatening sky, the little dog paddled with awkward strokes toward the opposite shore.

  Brant scooped up the mongrel, holding Val’s dripping body against his chest while he waded heavily through the water. He strode up onto the rock-strewn bank, water streaming down his hose. The soaked cloth stuck to his legs. His boots squelched.

  Brant set Val down. Clenching his jaw, he ignored the blast of wind that chilled his flesh and made his toes curl inside his boots. He must protect Faye. He would die to save her.

  Only a few yards ahead, her urgent gasps echoed. He ran after her. A triumphant smile tugged at his lips, for her sodden skirts slowed her down. She scrambled over the uneven ground, the wet ends of her hair leaving damp marks on her lower back. With a desperate oath, she veered closer to the soaring rock wall to avoid a jumble of rotting branches and debris.

  He was gaining on her.

  A branch, sharp as an accusing finger, snagged in his hose. Cursing, he kicked the branch. Pulled free.

  Raising his head, he looked ahead for Faye.

  Gone.

  Sudden, acute fear unlike anything he’d ever known slammed through him. Had she fallen? He didn’t see her floundering, trying to get to her feet, so she might be unconscious. He scrambled to where he had last seen her.

  “Faye?” he yelled, not caring if the approaching riders or dogs heard.

  His hoarse cry carried down the narrow canyon. The sound repeated back to him, over and over, mocking his urgency.

  “Faye!” he shouted, his gaze skimming the surrounding rocks. A fallen willow lay near the rock wall, its roots and trunk trapped between boulders while its branches dangled in the river. Could she be crouched down behind the tree?

  He scrambled toward the willow.

  “Val,” he shouted. If she were hiding, the little dog could draw her out.

  To his left, a stone rattled. Val, no doubt, heeding Brant’s command.

  No furry mongrel scrambled into view.

  Brant glanced about. “Val?”

  Now his dog was missing, too.

  Wind screamed past the rock wall beside him. Rain spat. A terrible sense of loneliness taunted Brant, a torment even deeper than the day he’d killed Royce.

  The baying dogs were near.

  Very near.

  He raised his hand to push windblown hair out of his eyes. And then he saw it.

  In the rock wall by the fallen willow, partly hidden by intertwining vines, he spied an opening.

  A cave?

  He lurched forward. Pushing aside the curtain of dirt-encrusted vines, he stepped inside.

  A breath of cold, damp air enveloped him. Squinting, he walked on into the grayed shadows.

  Three steps in, and something brushed his leg. Val.

  “There you are.” He glowered down at the bright-eyed little mongrel. As he spoke, he sensed they weren’t alone.

  Relief flooded through him. Faye was pressed back against the cavern’s wall, her hands splayed on the stone. She stood on the verge of the darker shadows, as though unwilling to go further.

  Teeth chattering, she met his gaze. She looked away. From outside, came voices and the distant ring of hooves. Riders had reached the riverbank.

  “We need a better place to hide,” Brant said. “Torr’s men may have brought torches. They will search the cave if they find it.”

  “’Tis nigh impossible to see”—she shuddered—“what lies further on.”

  Too near for Brant’s liking, rocks skittered. A splash. Excited yelps. Torr’s dogs were tracking their scent and coming closer. If he and Faye had any hope of remaining undetected—

  Val stared at the cave opening, where dim light broached the shadows. Ears flattening, he growled.

  “Val,” Brant snapped. “Quiet.” Stretching out his hand to Faye, he said, “Come with me. We will go deeper into the cavern.”

  She shook her head.

  Me
n’s voices drifted from the river. Among them, Brant recognized Torr’s. “—search every part of the shore,” he was saying. “They are here. I can sense it.”

  “Oh, mercy,” Faye whispered. She was staring down at the hole in her gown. “What if they find the torn cloth?”

  “They may not. Even if they do, we have a better chance of eluding Torr together.” Brant kept his hand outstretched, palm up. “Please. I demand naught of you, only that you come to a safer hiding place.” So I can protect you, my treasure, until I die.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she slid her hand into his. He drew her into the murkier shadows. Val followed.

  Blackness loomed, an inky veil concealing the path ahead. Brant moved on, half step by half step, feeling his way in near darkness. His palm scraped against the slick wall. Somewhere ahead, water dripped: a strong, steady sound, like a heartbeat deep in the earth.

  He shrugged tension from between his shoulders. ’Twas not a good moment to imagine a glowing-eyed dragon crouched behind the next boulder.

  Faye shuddered in his grasp.

  Aye, he knew exactly how she felt. He squeezed her fingers, and pressed on.

  “Meslarches!” Torr’s shout carried from close by. “Reveal yourself. You cannot escape my men.”

  Brant exhaled through his teeth. Give away his hiding place? Endanger Faye?

  Never, whoreson.

  “Surrender, Meslarches.” Smugness tinged Torr’s voice. “Put down your knife, raise your hands, and I may be merciful.”

  Brant scowled.

  “I trust you have not harmed Lady Rivellaux. She is, after all, a lady of exceptional . . . value to me.”

  A strangled noise came from Faye. Brant pressed her fingers.

  “Faye,” Torr went on, closer now. “I know you can hear me. I have come to rescue you—”

  Lying bastard.

  “—to take you safely back to Caldstowe. Your home. Cry out. Tell us where you are. We will save you from that murderer.”

  The inky passage veered downward. Brant’s heel slipped. He gasped, twisted, smacked his side against a jutting stone. He grimaced at the pain.

  From outside, a shout rang out, followed by the rattle of stones.

  “Where did you find it?” Torr’s gleeful words were followed by shrill laughter. “Faye,” he called. “What a shame. You tore your gown.”

  She inhaled sharply.

  “Keep moving,” Brant whispered, drawing her onward.

  “You!” Torr bellowed. “Bring the dogs. Search this part of the riverbank.”

  The tromp of footfalls came from nearby. Dogs whined and barked.

  A branch snapped. Vines rustled.

  Light flared, faint at first, then stronger.

  “Milord!” a man called, his voice rebounding off the cave walls.

  Brant smothered an oath. One of Torr’s guards had discovered the entrance.

  “Search it,” Torr said. “The rest of you, keep looking along the riverbank. They might even be hiding in the woods.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Brant met Faye’s frightened gaze.

  A scraping sound warned that Torr’s lackey had stepped into the cave. Orange-yellow light flickered over the walls and ceiling, revealing the jagged shapes of rock as well as the widening expanse of tunnel ahead.

  Tugging her hand, Brant urged her behind a boulder and motioned for her to crouch. She gathered her wet skirts and squatted with her back pressed to the cave wall.

  Hunkered down behind the boulder, Brant motioned to Val. The little dog looked toward the flickering light, bared his teeth, and growled. The menacing sound carried. So did the guard’s startled grunt.

  Scowling, Brant lunged out, grabbed Val, and yanked him behind the big rock, pressing his hand to the dog’s muzzle to keep him silent.

  With cautious steps, the guard continued further into the cave.

  Faye’s icy hand bumped Brant’s. She linked her shaking fingers through his. His throat tightened at the gesture, but he dared not turn around to look at her. Even the slightest noise might betray them.

  The man walked closer. Any moment, he would come into view.

  Brant gently freed his fingers from Faye’s. His hand closed around a rock.

  A tall guard, garbed in chain mail armor and an iron helm, stepped past their hiding place. Light from his burning reed torch gleamed off his drawn sword.

  Drawing back his arm, Brant threw the rock. It hit the man’s helm with a loud clang.

  The guard’s body jerked. He staggered, his sword wavering. Brant lunged, sending the man crashing into the cavern wall.

  With a harsh cry, the guard slashed out with the blade. Brant jumped back, gasping as the weapon narrowly missed his chest.

  Another stone flew, originating from behind the boulder. It smacked into the guard’s leg. He winced, the slightest lapse of focus. One kick, two, and he lay slumped on the ground.

  Wiping his brow, Brant grinned at Faye emerging from behind the big stone. “Well done.”

  She wiped her hand on her gown and smiled.

  Brant snatched up the sword as well as the torch that had fallen among the rocks. “Come on.” He thrust the burning reed at Faye. “We might find another way out of the cave.”

  Her gaze clouded with doubt, but she nodded and raised the torch in front of her. Head held high, she made her way around the rocks. Brant followed, Val at his heels.

  The passage curved to the right, as though following a path carved by rushing water. The ceiling rose higher. Faye skirted a boulder, went on ahead and—

  “Brant,” she whispered.

  He hurried to her side. A vast cavern opened out before them. To the right, a still, dark pool of water reflected the torchlight. Moisture glistened on the cave walls. Water dripped into a smaller pool in the distance: the sound he’d compared to a pulse.

  Brant inhaled a slow, awed breath. Never in his life had he seen such a place.

  One steeped in its own kind of magic.

  Faye headed down into the cavern. In the flickering torch light, her hair glowed like copper flame, leading him onward.

  A smile tugging at his lips, he started to follow her.

  A few yards ahead, Faye paused, then bent to inspect something on the cavern floor. With a hissed, indrawn breath, she lurched to her feet.

  She screamed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Faye stared at the stretch of ground before her. What had appeared to be a length of moldering cloth, caught between protruding rocks, now seemed shockingly obvious. Her hand pressed over her racing heart, she waited as Brant pounded up behind her.

  Raising the sword to attack, he demanded, “What is it?”

  She pointed to the tattered fabric. “A . . . body.”

  Darting past them, Val approached the mounded cloth. He sniffed, flattened his ears, and backed away.

  With wary strides, Brant crossed to the cadaver and knelt. His face darkened with a puzzled frown. “God’s teeth.” He motioned to her. “Come closer with the light.”

  Moving nearer to the corpse—the source, no doubt, of the strange odor that had caught her attention in the first place—was the last thing she wished to do. Yet, even as the thought screamed through her mind, guilt gnawed at her conscience. Someone had died in this cave. Killed by natural causes, or . . . murdered. Her limbs stiff, she edged closer.

  A sudden, urgent realization slammed through her. “Torr’s men outside. They will have heard my scream.”

  His expression grim, Brant nodded. “I expect so.”

  “We—”

  “Raise the torch. More to the right.”

  His words weren’t a request, but an order, sharpened by intense excitement. She obeyed, unable to quell a shudder of revulsion.

  The flickering torchlight illuminated the body turned on its side, as though the deceased had fallen asleep among the rocks. The skull gaped, black eye and nose sockets framed by yellow-white bones, rendered even more stark by the tufts of da
rk hair clinging to the skull. A rotting cloak covered the body from shoulder to thigh. Bones protruded from what must once have been leather boots.

  She watched, hardly daring to breathe, while with the sword tip, Brant lifted the edge of the cloak. Draped over splayed bone fingers, disintegrating fabric—a tunic, mayhap—still bore the remnants of an embroidered border of interlocking knots.

  By the holy saints! In her quick skim through Royce’s journal, Faye had glimpsed similar knot designs.

  “These garments are not of our time. This man died years ago.” Shock softened Brant’s voice.

  “How long ago?” Faye whispered, needing him to voice her own, incredible suspicions.

  “Centuries ago, I vow.”

  With stunning clarity, Greya’s word came back to her. Some folk do not believe King Arthur died. There are legends he and his most trusted knights lie asleep somewhere in England’s hills. When they are needed, they will awaken to battle the enemies who threaten our lands. Once again, they will lead us to victory.

  Faye glanced further along the rocks. Her gaze fell upon another mound of fabric. And another.

  “There are more bodies. Do you think—?”

  “—these people died here? Mayhap.” After gently withdrawing his sword to let the cloth fall back into place, Brant stood. “’Tis more likely the flood water unearthed the bodies and washed them from their burial place.”

  She shook her head, for she hadn’t wondered if they had died here. Somehow, she sensed that they had. “Brant,” she said softly, “do you think this man . . . Could he be—?”

  A rock clattered in the passage leading to the cave. Val barked. Faye spun to glance at the cavern opening, then whirled back to look at Brant. His gaze locked with hers.

  Without a word, he brushed past her, both hands tight on the sword’s grip. He halted between her and the cavern entrance, his posture tense.

  “Stay back,” he said.

  Val stood by his side, ears pricked. Footfalls carried from the outer passage, and the little dog yapped again.

  “Not far ahead,” a man’s voice shouted in the passage.