Medieval Rogues (41 page)

Wiggling all over, the mongrel scooted out from behind the table. Rising up on two legs, it walked over to the man.

Faye gasped. The dog only had three legs. Where one of its front ones should be was a scarred lump of fur.

Juggling the tray, trying not to step on the little dog, the stranger cursed. “Val!” He bumped into the chair by the hearth and cursed again. “Sit. Now.”

With a miffed growl, the dog sat.

An object on the chair caught the flickering firelight. A Norman-style helm. The shadows either side of the nasal guard seemed blacker than midnight, empty yet full of secrets.

Memories careened through Faye’s mind.

Angeline’s abduction.

The meeting.

Handing over the gold goblet.

His refusal to give her the child.

“Oh, God!” Faye rose on unsteady legs.

Approaching the straw bed, the man’s gaze sharpened. “Lady Rivellaux—”

“How did I come to be here with you? Where are we, you cruel, despicable thief?”

His face darkened with a scowl. “Milady, you slipped on the rocks at the lakeshore and hit your head. I carried you through the storm on my horse. We are at an inn.”

She remembered waking to see him leaning over her, his hands upon her. Revulsion ran as hot as fire in her blood, more intense even than the pain in her cheek. “Give me back the gold.”

“First, we will eat. The innkeeper is bringing heated water to bathe your wound, and there are matters to discuss—”

“
Now
.”

With careful movements, he set the tray of food on the pallet. He straightened to meet her stare, and a silent, warning cry shrilled inside her.

“You are in no position to threaten me,” he said.

“And you will not stop me.” She stiffened her spine. “I shall walk to the door and shout to the man beyond that you hold an innocent child hostage.”

The little dog whined.

The stranger shook his head. “Unwise, milady.”

Her head whirled, but she shook the dizziness away. “Try to stop me, knave, and I shall shout as if you meant to draw and quarter me.”
 

Chapter Three

Spinning on her heel, the lady took one step toward the door.

Brant sensed the moment she was about to crumple. Lunging forward, he linked his arms around her waist, right as her legs seemed to fold beneath her.

Her weight fell against him. Her back connected with his chest and belly, knocking his breath from his lungs with an awkward grunt. Her bottom brushed his loins, an entirely innocent contact caused by the circumstances, but a sluggish, irreverent interest stirred in his blood. An interest that, despite the many women he’d taken to his bed, he hadn’t felt for years.

Not since Elayne.

Long-buried hurt, a bitter sense of betrayal, taunted him like the damning memories he’d shut away long ago. Those remembrances were too humiliating to drag out and fully remember. Just the glimmer of a memory of how Elayne had betrayed his youthful trust and idealistic conceptions of love brought a sickly flush crawling over his skin.

And, yet, of all stupid follies, he’d not been able to refuse her plea when he had received her letter.

With a bleat of protest, Lady Rivellaux squirmed in his arms. Scowling, he dismissed the swell of old memories—as, gritting his teeth, he tried to ignore the enticing perfume of the woman so close to him, he could dip his head to nuzzle the creamy-pale curve of her neck, right there where a wanton lock of hair curled like a silken ribbon against her skin.

The odd sense of enchantment which drew him to this stubborn, lovely woman was no more than an illusion, evoked by the intimacy of firelight and gilded shadow, enhanced by his own carnal need. No more.

The sooner he was rid of Lady Rivellaux, the better.

Brant loosened his hold, intending to release her and cross the room to put much needed distance between them.

Her body shook. She wavered.

Cursing under his breath, he slid supporting arms around her once more, hoping she wouldn’t lose consciousness again. If so, it meant the knock to her head was more severe than he’d thought, and thus he would need to find a healer. One who wouldn’t ask a slew of questions.

The lady listed slightly forward, her belly pressing against his forearms as she drew in deep breaths. Then, with a choked huff, she swatted at his arms.

“Unhand me.”

“I will, if you can stand on your own.”

“Of course I can.”

Brant’s eyebrows rose at her defiant tone. “Very well.” Drawing his arms away from her, he stepped back.

She squared her shoulders, an attempt at elegant pride despite her bedraggled state. She winced. Her hand flew to her cheek, swollen and purplish even in the dim light. The smooth line of her jaw tightened with pain.

Before her legs could buckle again, he looped one arm around her waist and guided her back to the pallet.

“Nay,” she groaned.

“Aye.” His tone ordered immediate compliance.

With an indignant sigh, she sat. Tilting her face away from him, she massaged her brow. With her other hand, she smoothed her gown with jerky swipes.

Sitting a short space away from her on the pallet—close enough to catch her if she fainted, but far enough to allow her a sense of her own space—he moved the tray of food closer. The fare’s aroma made his stomach gurgle. “Eat. ’Twill improve your strength.”

Her hand dropped away from her forehead. Her green eyes, hard with frustration and wariness, studied him.

“While you eat, we will talk.”

“I have naught to say to you.”

Little claws clicked on the floorboards. With tentative steps, Val crossed to Brant, sat, and nuzzled his leg.

Her gaze on the little dog, she said, “Why does he only have three legs?”

Brant’s mouth flattened. He imagined the wretched thoughts racing through her mind. If he were vile enough to help abduct her friend Angeline, he could also harm a helpless animal.

Disgust coiled up inside him. He scratched the back of his neck where his linen shirt stuck to his skin, and inwardly groaned that he couldn’t simply stand and strip off his garments. Let her think what she liked. He didn’t owe her the truth. Mayhap ’twould be easier for both of them if she thought him a depraved beast.

“What happened to the dog?” she pressed.

Ignoring her question that seemed to hover in the air between them like a grisly specter, Brant took the bowl of pottage from the tray and offered it to her along with a spoon.

Her throat moved as she swallowed. “I told you—”

“To regain your strength, as well as reach the door the next time, you must eat.”

Hands clasped in her lap, she looked at the fare. She gnawed her bottom lip. “You might have told the innkeeper to poison it.”

“If I wanted you dead, I would have left you at the lakeshore. I would not have bothered to save you.”

Her brow knit with a contemplative frown. “True.”

Doubt still lingered in her gaze, so he tipped the bowl to his mouth, sipped the disappointingly bland broth, then wiped his lips with his thumb. “No poison.”

Her head dipped in cautious acknowledgement before she said quietly, “I still do not understand. Why did you save me? You had the gold.”

The reasons, complex and dangerous, tangled up inside him. A log shifted in the hearth, scattering glowing red embers. He watched them swirl, then fade, before he forced a careless shrug. “I have no grievances with you.”

“You mean, you would receive less payment for abducting Angeline if I came to harm.”

Brant exhaled a weary sigh. He would accomplish naught by telling her his payment didn’t depend at all on her welfare. Holding out the pottage one last time, he said, “I will not offer it again, milady.”

Her gaze slid to Val, licking his mouth, before a faint smile tugged at her lips.

“Is this your dog’s dinner, too?”

“Val will not let food go to waste.”

At last, she took the bowl as well as the spoon. Her slender fingers brushed his in the exchange, and he sensed her little jolt when she drew away, splashing broth onto her lap. She cursed under her breath.

He pretended not to notice. Breaking off two pieces of the dense brown bread, he popped one into his mouth. He tossed the other to Val, who jumped into the air and caught it before landing back on all three legs and chewing noisily.

A wry chuckle came from the lady.

Brant glanced at her. She sat with the bowl cradled in one hand, the spoon poised over the vegetable-laden broth.

Moisture shimmered on her bottom lip. Before he could stop the thought, he imagined the lush softness of her mouth—softer even than the long strands of hair that had begun to dry in shiny, copper-red waves about her shoulders.

She dipped the spoon, then parted her lips to take the mouthful. He couldn’t drag his attention away. As though beguiled by a fey spell, he stared, aware in that moment of the muted snap of burning wood, the rasp of his own breath, the thickening beat of his pulse.

The lady hesitated. Her wary gaze flicked to him. Her emerald eyes, bright with uncertainty, seemed to mirror the same emotions coursing through his body. An odd sense of longing pulled at him.

Bewitchment!

He wanted no part of it.

Brant snatched another hunk of bread, rose, and strode to the hearth. Val trotted at his heels. From behind him came a ragged exhalation followed by the
clink
of the spoon against the earthenware bowl. He refused to let his errant thoughts imagine her eating. Breaking off another morsel, he tossed it to Val, who again snatched it out of the air, swallowed it down, and sat waiting for more.

Brant bent, picked up his saddlebag, then worked the ties, hoping as he did so that the leather wasn’t wet all the way through and that his spare clothes would be dry enough to wear.

He sensed her keen gaze upon him, watching the movement of his hands. He jerked the ties free and flipped open the bag. In the shadowed depths, gold glinted against the wool of his folded brown tunic.

“Do you still have the goblet?” she asked, her voice intruding over the fire’s crackle.

He squeezed his rumpled hose in his palm. A bit damp, but better than the garments he wore. “’Tis in a safe place,” he said. Better she thought he didn’t have the vessel, than for her to try and cross the room to get it. She might hurt herself. He didn’t want to be responsible for yet another injury.

“Is the goblet in your bag?”

He rubbed his cold lips together and yanked out his tunic before flipping the bag’s flap down again. “Do not worry your lovely head about it, milady. At the moment, your well-being is more important.”

She gave a little snort, as if she couldn’t believe he cared one whit about her. “Since I cannot remember coming here, you could well have met with the kidnappers while I was unconscious.”

“True.”

“Is that what happened? Did you hand the gold cup over to them? Or did you hide it away, somewhere I do not know, so when you are finished with me you can sell it?”

Before he could answer, another knock rattled the door. She started and looked toward the wooden panel.

“Remember,” he muttered to her as he dropped his tunic on the chair. “Not a word.”

She shot him a frosty glare. He sensed, however, she would obey. She, too, must have realized the wisdom of no one knowing she was with him, alone, in this seedy tavern room. Moreover, she likely believed that if she didn’t heed him, she would lose any chance to rescue Angeline.

Brant crossed to the door and drew it part way open to find the innkeeper holding a steaming bowl of water.

“Nice an’ ’ot,” the innkeeper said, his gaze sliding past Brant into the chamber. Draped over his arm were more blankets, cloths and a gown, which he passed to Brant. “Anythin’ else, milord?”

“Nay, thank you.” Brant abruptly shut the door, curtailing the man’s curious stare.

The lady watched him from her perch on the bed’s edge as he placed the water bowl down on the hearth tiles. When he walked to the table near her, she tensed, but he paid her no heed as he set the candles on the floor, picked up the table, and moved it close to the fire’s warmth. He carefully placed the bowl on the tabletop.

After moving his tunic and helm, he drew over the chair. “There. Not quite the luxurious arrangements you are used to, I imagine, but ’tis the best I can do. At least you can sit while you are bathing.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the spoon. “Bathing?”

“The innkeeper brought a gown.” Brant draped the plain woolen garment over the chair back, along with the cloths. “’Tis a servant’s garb, but ’twill do until the fire dries your other clothes.”

The lady’s lips pursed.

“We both need to remove our wet garments,” he went on, trying to temper his impatience. “You will get a chill. I will guide you over here, and then you will wash—”

“I will not bathe with you in the room.”

“’Tis the only way. If we are to preserve your anonymity, I cannot ask one of the other women in the tavern to tend you. Nor can you stand unassisted. If you fell—”