The answer to his dilemma was within his grasp.
Specifically, she was confined to the solar.
Rexana, of all people, could lure Villeaux out of hiding. She, of all people, could lead her brother into a well-laid trap, or lead Fane to him.
Yet, she would not do so of her own will. If she learned of the plot, she would fight it with every ounce of her willpower.
For that reason, she must not know. She must believe she acted of her own initiative.
Regret tempered Fane’s excitement. He would have to deceive her. Betray her trust.
Bitter frustration cut through him. Had she not betrayed his trust by freeing her brother? Had she not chosen loyalty to her brother over loyalty to her faithful, wedded husband?
His anguish sharpened with an edge of fear, for his plan entailed danger, most of all for her. Yet, despite the rift between them, he would never let her come to harm. He would plan well, protect her life from a distance, and with his own life, if need be.
A hard smile curled Fane’s mouth. When she realized he had used her to bring about her brother’s capture, she would hate him. Yet, he had no choice. He had few options left, and he would not fail his king.
Fane shoved to his feet. He looked at Kester. “How soon can you arrange a meeting of the men-at-arms?”
Kester’s eyes widened. “Reasonably soon, milord.”
“Do it. Now.”
Rexana drew the wrinkled parchment from her sleeve and unrolled the tattered edges. As she reread the bold words, which she had long ago committed to memory, her vision blurred.
I am the randy bee. I cannot wait to suck your nectar.
She swiped at her damp lashes. How ridiculous to torment herself with Fane’s poem. Yet, each day she found it harder to fight her misery. In her enforced solitude, longing taunted her. Yearning for what she and Fane had shared, his wondrous touch, and the pleasure he had shown her.
Irritation rubbed her raw nerves. She would accomplish naught by yielding to tears.
Footfalls and voices sounded beyond the solar door. If Fane found her weepy eyed over his poem . . .
Her face burned. Rising from the stool set near the window to catch the afternoon sunlight, she hurried to the bed and shoved the parchment under her pillow.
As she smoothed her sleeve, the door opened. Fane strode in, his face a mask of cool politeness. She saw no trace of the heat that had smoldered in his eyes before he left that morn.
The door slammed. “You are hale, wife?” His tone held an odd hint of foreboding and resolve.
“I am, husband.”
“You looked flushed.” He scanned the room, as though searching for what had consumed her attention before he entered. “What were you up to?”
She would not tell him a moment ago she had sniffled over his words of love. Pointing to the wooden stool, drowned in a pool of light, she said, “I am warm from sitting in the sun.”
His lips twisted into a smile. “You watched the bailey?”
“I have few ways to pass my day.” Resentment tightened her voice, yet she held his gaze. “Do you bring word of Rudd?”
When Fane’s eyes flashed, relief rushed through her. He had not captured her brother. There was still a chance for Rudd to prove his innocence.
Fane spun on his heel and strode to the wooden chest. He bent down, flipped the lid, then rummaged through the contents. A leather belt slapped against the side. Coins jangled.
The clatter of horses’ hooves rose from the bailey. Many riders were leaving the keep. Before she could hurry to the window to look down, a rolled parchment flew out of the chest and rolled across the floor toward her.
The list of traitors?
Rexana lunged forward, snatched it up, and whisked off the strip of leather binding it. She glimpsed scrawled handwriting before Fane grabbed her wrist and yanked the parchment away.
Her skin burned beneath his fingers. She jerked back. With a mirthless grin, he released her.
“Sorry, love. ’Tis not the document you seek.”
The bitter taste of disappointment flooded her tongue. “I know.”
His gaze sharpened. “You do? How?”
Tremors shook her. Crossing her arms, she tried to warm the ice cold fist that had curled fingers around her ribs. She would not lie. “I saw it when I searched this chamber for the missive. ’Tis a letter from your mother.”
His dark eyes flashed with fury and disapproval. “Another betrayal, Rexana. Did you mean to tell me you had read my private letter, or keep that trespass to yourself?”
Rage blazed in his eyes, yet she stood firm, refusing to avert her gaze. She had good reason for looking through his belongings, and would not apologize for trying to save Rudd.
Fane crumpled the parchment. He pivoted toward the fire, swung his arm back, and looked about to hurl the document into the leaping flames.
“Do not!” Rexana darted forward.
He turned part way to face her, his profile framed by tangled hair. His teeth gleamed in a warning snarl. “I should have burned it long ago.”
His unsteady voice quelled her anger. She could not bear to hear his torment. “Your mother loved you. From her words, she regretted what happened. She cared enough to write to you, despite her failing health.”
Spitting a foul curse, Fane faced her. He stared down at the crushed letter. “This reminds me that everyone I have ever loved shunned me. Except Leila.”
His words stuck like a physical blow. Rexana pressed her hands to her stomach and stifled a moan. “I did not shun you.”
“Nay, you betrayed me.” Shaking his head, he tossed the wadded missive into the chest.
His anguish wounded her like an invisible battleaxe. How she yearned to cross to him and soothe his hurt, yet he seemed unapproachable. He had erected a high emotional wall, one she could not scramble over, no matter how hard she tried.
Desperation welled inside her, along with an awful fear they would never again enjoy the precious intimacy they had built together. She had to broach the awful barricade, to bond with him again in friendship and love. To show him that despite all, she still cared.
He knelt before the chest. As he searched the objects inside, she said, “Tell me about your parents. Tell me why your father banished you.”
Fane’s head jerked up. “Why?”
“I am your wife. I would like to know. Please.”
“So you have another means to betray me? So you can feed the rumors with details of my wretched past?”
His callous words stung, but she held his gaze. “The gossips have already voiced their thoughts on what happened between you and your sire. If you do not wish me to reveal what you tell me, I will not.”
He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. “Most of the rumors are true. My father never liked me. He saw me as more of a nuisance than a son. When I played pranks on the servants or pointed out ways to improve running the keep, he beat me.”
“Oh, Fane,” Rexana whispered.
“He was always shouting and ordering me to be obedient. I tried, for a while, but I still made him furious. The day I killed his favorite destrier, he sent me away for good.”
Rexana could not imagine Fane injuring an animal out of spite or carelessness. “What happened?”
He brushed aside a rumpled garment, and resentment tightened his features. “In front of a hall filled with important guests, my father insulted me. He said I would never be man enough to ride his new, high strung stallion.”
“How could he?” Rexana choked out.
A terse chuckle broke from Fane. “I was angry. I stormed off to the stables, saddled and bridled the destrier, then climbed onto its back. It tried to throw me, but I hung on. It bolted out of the keep’s gates and I rode it for leagues. When it began to tire, we started home. I was proud to have proven my sire wrong.” Fane paused, as though he could not bear to remember. “The destrier jumped a broken wall. I did not know peasant children were playing behind it. As the sta
llion soared over, it sensed the children and startled. It landed at an awkward angle, and its right front leg snapped.”
A sob burned Rexana’s throat.
“My sire and a contingent of men-at-arms found us by the wall. The horse lay with its head in my lap, shivering. It could not walk, thus it had to be killed.” He exhaled a shuddered sigh. “My father dragged me back to the keep, whipped me, then told me never to come back.”
“’Twas not your fault!”
“It does not matter.” He snatched a bag of coins and a dagger out of the chest, slammed the lid, and stood.
Shaking her head, Rexana said, “It does matter. You did not deserve to be treated so.” How she yearned to hug him and murmur comforting words for the injustice he had suffered.
Yet, Fane’s flinty gaze warned he would not accept her succor.
The emotional wall between them remained intact.
He seemed to believe she had rejected him just like his father. Oh, if Fane only knew how she truly felt.
His gaze slid down her bodice to her brooch, and the corner of his mouth turned up. “After the midday meal, I will come to fetch you. Be prepared to ride.”
Astonishment jolted through her. “Ride?”
“We will journey to Tangston market.”
Excitement sped her pulse. “Am I no longer a prisoner?”
His brittle laughter scratched down her spine. “I have not forgiven your misdeed, love. I wish to question the goldsmith about your brooch, and I want you with me. I do not trust you here alone while I am gone.”
A disbelieving sigh burst from her. “You have ridden from Tangston several times in the past days. You left me alone then. Why, now, is the situation different?”
His gaze shadowed. “I hoped the journey might encourage you to reassess your loyalties. If you heard of your brother’s treachery from someone other than me, you might reconsider your foolish faith in him.” His shoulders rose in a stiff shrug. “I regret I was mistaken.”
He turned and strode toward the door.
Oh, what she would give to be able to leave this chamber. She craved freedom. Sweet, fresh air. The cacophony and smells of market day.
And the chance, no matter how slim, to make contact with her brother.
Schooling all eagerness from her voice, she said, “I do need soap, milord. If I may, I would like to choose some of a pleasing fragrance. I have my own coin to pay for it.”
His hand on the iron door handle, he glanced back at her. He seemed about to declare that since she was his wife, he would buy the soap for her, but then nodded. “You may.”
As soon as the door closed behind Fane, she ran to her wooden chests of belongings. She tossed aside the folded gowns, shoes, and hose, until she found the small leather coin pouch. It held less silver than she had hoped, but ’twould be enough. Dropped into the right hands, she could easily persuade a vendor or street urchin to whisper what he had heard of her brother.
She could even pay for a message to be delivered to him.
Rexana fought a tremor of unease. How she hated to deceive Fane again.
Yet, she must. Oh, God, she must.
As Fane strode out into the sunlit bailey, Kester left the men-at-arms by the stable and crossed to him. “’Tis set, milord?”
“Aye.” Fane glanced up at the solar window. Rexana stood with her arms folded, staring down at him. Their gazes locked before she turned away and disappeared from view.
His voice lowered to a fierce murmur. “She must not come to any harm. No matter what she has done, she deserves—”
“The men know what to do, milord. They are already spreading the word that you and your lady will visit the market this afternoon. Your plan is sound.”
A bitter smile touched Fane’s mouth. “’Tis not the least bit barbaric?”
Kester grinned. “Nay, milord. I vow ’tis very clever.”
Her coin purse clutched in her hands, Rexana halted in the crowded market square.
Fane stopped beside her and tipped his head. “The soap maker is that way.”
She strained to see past crates of hissing geese, a wagon filled with vegetables and flanked by shouting peasants, and the blacksmith forging a horseshoe near his blazing fire. As the smoke dissipated, she spied the table of small, wrapped parcels. Would the soap seller know of her brother’s whereabouts?
She had not yet had the opportunity to ask questions, for Fane had escorted her from her horse into the market. He walked close at her side, followed by armed guards—though fewer guards, it seemed, than had ridden with them. The others must have dispersed through the market. Mayhap they ensured no unsavory villains tried to harm or rob them. Mayhap they kept an eye upon her from a distance.
Fane might have ensured she was closely watched, but she would find a way to get the answers she sought.
Tightening her hold on her purse, she nodded to him. “I will fetch the soap.”
“When you are done, come back here. Then, we will see the goldsmith.”
Surprise rippled through her. “You are not coming with me?”
His eyes clouded with a strange, almost bleak expression. “I must speak with the spice merchant about recent thefts from his stall. Do not worry. These guards”—he gestured to four men-at-arms—“will ensure your safety, and that of your coin purse. They will also make certain you do not escape.” He strode away, stirring up dust beneath his boots.
Rexana drew in a nervous breath, sharpened with the smells of horse and wood smoke. She wove her way through the milling throng, aware of the guards’ gaze upon her and their strides several paces behind. What luck, that Fane had decided not to escort her. She would not have been able to complete her deception with him nearby.
Ahead, two boys scampered through the crowd. One followed a puppy at the end of a rope. Young though they were, such urchins often knew as much gossip as the vendors. For a bit of coin, would one of them be willing to help her? With discreet glances, she tried to catch their attention, but they ran on.
She stopped at the soap maker’s stall. The mingled scents of rose, lavender and almond oil rose from the variety of soaps arranged on an old cloth. She fingered a cake sprinkled with dried rose petals, hoping to attract the attention of the hunchbacked woman behind the table.
A solid weight barreled into her.
Rexana gasped and grabbed the table’s edge.
“Sorry, milady.”
She righted herself. The boy with the puppy stood in front of her, his dirty face red and his eyes round. His gaze darted behind her, as though he saw her guards storming toward him.
“Sorry,” he blurted again, as though he expected a beating.
“’Tis all right.” She waved her guards away. They hesitated, obeyed, then spoke to one another in muttered tones.
As she looked back at the boy, her mind raced. She must ask him. Now.
Before she could speak, he brushed past her.
Something rough scratched against her fingers. A note. She curled her hand around the slip of parchment.
Her pulse thundered. Who knew she would be in the market? Who tried to contact her? She quickly chose two rose-scented cakes, paid the merchant, and waited as the woman wrapped them in a swath of fabric.
As Rexana strolled to the end of the table, she pretended to examine vials of scented water. With careful fingers, she unrolled the tiny parchment.
I know where your brother is.
Shock tore through her like a sprinting hound. Who had penned the note? The scruffy peasant boy certainly had not. The lettering looked too precise to be a child’s.
She glanced at the next stall, the first in a line of cloth merchants. She looked further down, and saw a familiar face.
Garmonn.
He met her gaze, then resumed speaking with a merchant.
A shiver raked through her, cold and then hot. Bile burned her throat. She would sooner trust a rat than Garmonn.
Yet, if he could take her to Rudd . . .
; She mentally squashed her fears. Her fingers tightened around the message. Rudd’s life was too important. She had risked much to get to market, and could not let this chance slip away.
Even if Fane found out. Even if Fane tried to stop her.
Ignoring the nagging ache inside her, she glanced at Garmonn. He fingered a length of green silk. Arching an eyebrow in silent inquiry, he met her gaze. When she gave a slight nod, a smile touched his lips. He tilted his head toward the part of the market where the horses were stabled, then stared back at the expensive cloth.
Tension whipped through her body. Her limbs stiffened, as though her flesh had turned to wood, yet she forced herself to stroll on to the next stall, then the next.
“Milady. Halt.”
The guards had realized her intent.
She quickened her pace.
Someone caught her arm and yanked her into the shadowed doorway of a crowded tavern. Struggling, she tried to pull free. She looked up into Garmonn’s flushed, triumphant face. The odors of sweat and ale surrounded him.
“Do not worry. My men will take care of your guards.”
Where his fingers pressed, her skin crawled with goose bumps. “Where is Rudd?”
“In a safe place, a short ride from here.”
“Please tell me where he is.”
Garmonn pulled her into an alley that reeked of moldering vegetables. “’Tis too dangerous. Come.”
Rexana stumbled along behind him, barely able to match his strides. Her foot skidded on a mound of rotting apple cores. As she regained her balance, the little voice inside her screamed she was a fool to go with him.
She prayed she was not making a terrible mistake.
Part way through questioning the gruff-voiced merchant about some vagrants he had seen days ago, Fane heard shouts. He spun on his heel. Rexana’s guards approached at a run.
The nearest one staggered to a halt. “She rode off with Lord Darwell’s son, Garmonn.”
“Garmonn!” A brutal chill whipped through Fane. “When did they leave?”
The guard wiped his brow. “A moment ago. We pursued Lady Linford, as you ordered, so she would not suspect your plans. Garmonn’s men confronted us, but we defeated them. We came straight here.”
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