Medieval Rogues (59 page)

“I do not know who she is,” he bit back, hating the strained quality of his voice. He had no reason to feel guilty about the wench mistaking him for another man.

“Whoever she is, she is certainly eager for your attention.”

Brant resisted a smile. Did he hear jealousy in Faye’s voice?

He looked back at the servant. She’d set down her armload of wood to right her cap. Sunlight caught her pocked face.
Deane
.

Catching his gaze, she beckoned again, impatience apparent in the thrust of her hand.

Brant cleared his throat, fighting the urge to tell her to stop being so bloody obvious. He feigned a roguish chuckle. “I suppose I should see what she wants.”

Torr snorted.

Faye’s lips pressed together.

Brant sauntered toward Deane. Behind him, he heard Faye and Torr’s footfalls resume.

As he approached, the strumpet winked at him. “’Allo.”

In the near distance, the forebuilding door creaked open. Brant sensed Torr escorting Faye inside, before the door clicked closed.

A level of tension slid from his taut posture. “Good day.”

Deane’s wide, conspiratorial gaze darted about the bailey. “I gots ta speak with ye. I gots news.”

Brant’s pulse jolted. “Good.” In a low voice, he said, “Pretend to be seducing me. Move to that quiet, shadowed area beside the stable.”

Deane tittered. With loose-hipped strides, she started backward toward the stable. “Pretend ta seduce ye? ’Tis easy. Ta ’ave a stallion like ye interested in me . . .” Her gaze raked over him, lingering on his groin. “Mmm.”

Brant grinned and swaggered forward, matching her strides. As they entered the shadows, he reached out and flicked aside the ties of her cap.

Her bosom bounced on a brazen giggle.

Two more steps, and her bottom hit the stable’s wattle and daub walls. Pressing one hand to the rough wall, he leaned over her. “Tell me your news.”

Her tongue darted between her lips. “First, ’ow ’bout a kiss?”

“’Twas not part of our agreement.”

Her face creased into a lusty grin. “’Twould ’elp with the pretendin’.”

Unable to hold back an impatient growl, he said, “The news?”

She loosed a petulant sigh. Then her gaze shadowed. “’Tis about a young girl who works in the kitchen, named Blythe. She ’as been a big ’elp ta me, she ’as.”

“Aye?”

“Well, ya see, the other eve, as we ate our pottage after gettin’ ’is lordship’s meal, she told me about somethin’ she ’ad seen. She could not put it from ’er mind.”

“Go on,” Brant said, toying with Deane’s cap tie.

“She feared what she ’ad witnessed. ’Er eyes were ’uge. She was shakin’. Made me promise not ta tell another soul, and I told her ’twould be all right. She told me she snuck out a few eves ago fer a quick tumble with ’er young lover. ’E’s a farmer’s son, ye see. She came back in the dark hours, meanin’ ta ’urry through the postern gate. When she got close, she saw two men on ’orses. She did not know what was ’appenin’, so she ’id in the brush.”

Anticipation hummed inside Brant. “What happened?”

“They was speakin’ ta another man in quiet voices. Like they did not want ta be overheard.” Deane’s mouth tightened before she whispered, “Blythe saw that little girl bein’ lifted onto one o’ them ’orses.”

Brant froze. “Is she certain she saw Angeline?”

Deane nodded. “There was just enough moonlight that Blythe saw the child. Would never mistake that li’l angel’s face. She was all wrapped up in a blanket, mind, and sleepy.”

The question Brant wanted—nay, needed—to ask, hovered on his lips. He looked at Deane. “Lord Lorvais?”

The strumpet’s eyes widened before concern glinted in their depths. “’Is lordship ’anded the child over to those men.”

Anger and elation surged like a heady brew in Brant’s veins. “She definitely saw Torr?”

“Aye. She saw ’is lordship’s face. No mistakin’.”

Brant pushed away from the wall. At last, he had proof for Faye. “Who else has Blythe told?”

“No one. She feared Lord Lorvais would find out and she would lose ’er job.” Deane’s voice became a whisper. “Or worse.”

“I must speak with this girl.”

Indignation sharpened Deane’s gaze. “Why? Do ye not trust what I ’ave told ye?”

Trying very hard to control his impatience, Brant bestowed upon her his most charming smile. “Of course I do. There may be other details, though—important ones—that she remembers.”

“If I tell ’er ye wish ta speak with ’er, she will know I broke me promise.”

Brant touched Deane’s cheek, so different from the silken softness of Faye’s skin. “Since you have provided such excellent information, I will pay you another five pieces of silver.”

Deane looked away. She shrugged before her gaze slid back to his. “This eve, Blythe goes ta spend a few days with ’er mother, who is plagued by achin’ joints. I could, mayhap, see if she will speak with ye—”

“Good. As soon as possible.”

“—fer the silver and a kiss, me lusty lord.”

Brant scowled, challenging her coy grin. He’d paid her well to gather information for him. He didn’t owe her a kiss. Still, he leaned in to drop a quick kiss on her cheek.

Rolling her eyes, she grumbled, “’Twas not a kiss.”

Brant spun away from her, resolve glowing as hot as coals in his gut. The only woman he intended to kiss full on the mouth had disappeared into the keep, escorted by the man responsible for causing her anguish. A merciless bastard who had participated in his own daughter’s kidnapping, and pretended not to know her whereabouts.

Why? Ah, God,
why?

Brant’s gaze fixed on the forebuilding. He started toward the keep, his boots crunching on the dirt. Over his shoulder, he said, “I will be in the great hall, dining with Lord Lorvais. Tell the girl I wish to speak to her. Hurry.”
 

Chapter Twelve

“Are you certain you are all right, Faye?” Torr asked, his voice carrying in the dank forebuilding along with their footfalls. His arm tightened around her waist, so that her hip brushed against his.

All right?
a voice in her head screeched.
How, by the blessed saints, could she be all right?

Forcing down the denial, concentrating on the narrow, uneven stone steps ascending to the hall, Faye nodded to Torr, even as she struggled to temper the storm of emotion inside her.

How foolish of her to let him keep his arm at her waist. How weak of her not to have found some way to thwart the unwanted body contact, to put discreet distance between them. ’Twas unfair to encourage his attentions. At the moment, however, his possessive hold was an anchor securing her to the cold sea of reality.

Shadows, cast by reed torches lighting the passage, licked over the forebuilding’s walls. Her mind shot back to the tavern room, to the agonizing moments when she’d lain awake watching the firelight and trying to ignore Brant’s sensual presence, before a vision of him sauntering toward the busty servant consumed Faye with tormenting vividness.

How could he look at that . . . that wench in such a manner?

Faye’s jaw clenched. Only a few moments earlier, he’d expressed his desire for her in a tone frayed by such hunger, her whole body had trembled.

The forebuilding’s smoky shadows opened into the keep’s great hall, crossed overhead by blackened beams. His arm still at her waist, Torr guided her across the rush-strewn floor.

“Milord,” maidservants murmured, dropping into curtseys before hurrying past with platters of grain bread as well as jugs of wine. Wolfhounds scampered under the rows of trestle tables, awaiting the bits of food dropped during the meal. The mingled smells of warm fare, moldering rushes, and dog made Faye’s stomach whine in protest.

Sensing Torr’s gaze upon her, Faye managed a half-smile. She willed her nausea to dissipate. This was
not
the time to be ill. She would never escape from Torr’s cloying attentions under those circumstances.

The tightness inside her eased a notch. Good. Soon, her light-headedness would be gone—as, too, would her emotional tempest.

After all, she didn’t care what Brant was saying to the servant. She didn’t care if he found the wench fetching, or what sweaty tryst he might be arranging with her.

From the moment they met, she knew Brant was a rogue. He’d never tried to convince her otherwise. An irrelevant, disappointed part of her had come to believe that despite his tough, scarred visage, a knight’s honor burned within him. Especially when it came to protecting Angeline. And herself.

Of all indignities, how could Brant vow he desired her, then pursue the first well-endowed wench to smile at him? Such behavior was unforgivable.

She would tell him so when she next saw him.

When
. Ha! Sennights from now, if she had her way. With luck, she could avoid him until she chose to speak with him. She didn’t need any man’s help to find Angeline. She wasn’t without choices, no matter how difficult those choices might be.

If Brant still imagined himself as her protector, he was an addled idiot.

Knave. Liar. Lustful, arrogant—

“Faye.”

She blinked, to find herself standing at the opposite end of the hall, before the raised dais. Chewing on a bone, a wolfhound gaped at her from under the table.

Torr, it seemed, awaited her response.

“I am sorry . . . Pardon?”

A puzzled frown creased his brow. He motioned to the dais, urging her to step up to her usual place at the table.

“Thank you.” Raising the hem of her mantle so she didn’t trip, she stepped onto the dais. Careful not to catch the wolfhound’s shaggy tail, she drew out the vacant chair. She’d often sat in this place and cared for Angeline when Elayne was unable to attend meals.

As she removed her mantle, Torr came up beside her. He shook his head. “You will sit next to me.”

Faye’s gaze traveled down the pristine, white linen cloth to the vacant spot next to the grand, carved chair at the table’s center. Elayne’s place.

Nay
.

“’Tis very kind of you,” Faye said, “but I would prefer to sit here. You see, I have a bit of a headache, and may need to quit the meal early.”

Torr’s frown deepened. “Would you like me to ask the cook to make an infusion?”

“Thank you, but the ache is not unbearable. I will see how I feel after I have eaten.”

“Very well. Still, I vow ’twould be best if you sat by my side. For today,” he added with a coaxing smile. “What harm is there?”

She smothered a groan. Somehow, she must decline without upsetting him.

A maidservant hurried to the dais with a jug of wine. She filled Torr’s goblet, then reached for Faye’s. At that very moment, the wolfhound yelped—a sound of intense pain—and flew out from under the table.

With a startled squeak, the girl lurched backward. The jug flew from her hand. It landed sideways on the table. Red wine flowed in a crimson streak toward Faye.

Gasping, Faye stepped away from the table. Wine dripped onto her chair.

“Oh!” The maidservant’s face paled.

“God’s blood,” Torr snapped.

“I am sorry, milord,” the girl stammered, “but the dog—”

“Clumsy fool! Lady Rivellaux’s garments might have been ruined.”

”But they were not,” Faye added with a reassuring smile. Whatever had occurred, ’twas certainly not the poor girl’s fault. Surely Torr realized that.

Tears welled in the maidservant’s eyes. “I do not know what happened. The dog seemed content. Milord, all of a sudden—”

Torr scowled. “Go fetch cloths to clean up this mess. Go!”

The girl curtsied, then bolted through the throng of curious onlookers.

Shaking his head, Torr muttered, “I am sorry, Faye. It seems you must sit next to me, after all.”

How convenient. “Torr, do you know why the dog yelped and ran at the very moment she poured my wine?”

“Why would I?” He sidestepped the crimson puddle on the dais. “Worry no more about the matter. Come.”

With a frustrated sigh, Faye brushed past the spilled wine. She could walk right past Torr to the vacant chairs at the table’s other end, but after the incident moments ago, she guessed he would find another way to thwart her. Regardless of how she felt about sitting in Elayne’s place, the servants didn’t deserve to suffer from Torr’s whims.

Faye draped her mantle over Elayne’s chair back. Then, her posture stiff, she sat.

Torr smiled.

As she smoothed her gown across her legs, a sharp tingle danced down her spine.

Brant had entered the hall.

She tried to deny the immediate quickening of her pulse. She couldn’t. Oh, God, she couldn’t!

Faye raised her gaze, unable to deny a glance. The power of his spell drew her, compelled her, to meet his gaze. Across the crowded hall, he stared at her. His eyes glittered with unwavering determination.

A flush suffused her face. She broke his gaze. Yet, she felt his potent stare as he strode through the crowd of castle folk toward the dais. Each one of his footsteps seemed to match the
thump
of her heart: the echo of the very life force within her.