Medieval Rogues (60 page)

He said he desires you, yet he flirted with the servant
.

Anger bolstered her resolve. He wouldn’t treat her like a fool.

“Ah, there he is,” Torr said beside her.

“Who?” she asked, even though she knew he meant Brant.

“The knave who cannot refuse a wench’s charms,” Torr said in an overloud voice, as Brant approached the dais. Torr chuckled.

Faye reached for her wine. Realizing the goblet hadn’t been filled, she withdrew her hand. Her mouth craved a sip of the piquant liquid. A welcome distraction from Brant.

She tried not to look at him again, but somehow, couldn’t resist. Brant was smiling, a curious, almost smug expression on his face. His head dipped in a curt nod before he stepped onto the dais. After removing his cloak, he slouched into the chair beside Torr.

“A satisfactory meeting?” Torr murmured, yet Faye heard every word. Her fingers curled into the tablecloth.

“Very.” Knave! Brant didn’t even try to keep his voice down.

Her face scorched. Next, he and Torr would be discussing the best places to take wenches for a lusty romp.

Her chair squealed on the dais as she stood. “If you will excuse me . . .”

Brant rose. “Lady Rivellaux. You cannot leave.”

She glared at him, a look that she hoped delivered the full extent of her indignation. When Torr rose, she remembered she must pretend she hadn’t met Brant until today at Elayne’s grave. “I regret I must. You see—”

Brant clapped Torr’s shoulder. “You will let this lovely lady slip away? I have only just met her.” He grinned in a most charming way. “You must stay, Lady Rivellaux. At least for a short while.”

“I agree,” Torr said. “Here comes the maidservant with your wine.”

Her gaze downcast, the girl rushed to the table, set down the wine jug she carried, then mopped up the crimson-colored spill with a rag. Reaching over, Torr picked up the jug and filled Faye’s goblet. With an encouraging smile, he handed it to her. “Stay.”

“Aye, stay,” Brant echoed. A note in his voice—a hint of anticipation—made her pause.

More servants approached and set a platter of roasted fowl on the table before Torr. “At least have a few bites to eat before you leave,” he said, gesturing to the fare.

“Very well.” Faye set down her wine and retook her seat.

Torr set morsels of roasted quail on a bread trencher and pushed it in front of her. “Try some of this. Cook’s best.”

As she slipped a dripping morsel between her lips, Brant glanced at her. His keen gaze fixed to her mouth, as though fascinated by it. The way a ravenous man stared at a decadent treat. A shiver wove through her as she dried her fingertips.

Had he looked at the wench that way? After dining and refortifying his strength, was he planning to go to her, ready to slake his desire?

Movement at the tables below snagged Faye’s gaze. There, by the nearest one, stood the busty servant. With a brazen giggle, she swatted one of the men-at-arms on the shoulder before strolling on to another table.

The lump of quail jammed at the back of Faye’s mouth. Her hand flew to her throat before she choked.

“Is the quail tasty, milady?” Brant asked.

She forced herself to swallow, then washed down the mouthful with wine. She smiled at Brant. “Delicious.” Dabbing at her lips, she said, “Since we do not know much about one another, pray tell, how long have you known Torr?”

Brant’s gaze slid to Torr. “Many years.”

Nodding, he said, “We have been friends since our youth. Brant, his brother Royce, and I were squires at the same earl’s keep.” He laughed. “We shared meals, beds, wenches . . .”

Brant scowled. “We never shared wenches.”

Wiping wine from his lips, Torr grinned. “You do not remember? Ah. You were too besotted from the earl’s vile ale.”

“I may have been drunk, but we never shared women.”

Fury underscored Brant’s words. Faye glanced at him while she picked another morsel from the trencher.

Torr gave a dismissive wave. “As you say. In truth, it does not really matter now, does it?”

Brant shoved a mouthful of gravy-soaked bread into his mouth and chewed hard.

“Brant, Royce, and I even joined the king’s crusade together,” Torr went on, oblivious it seemed to Brant’s irritation. “Side by side, we fought the Saracens. We saved each other’s lives more than once. However, only two of us returned home.”

“Royce was killed,” Faye said.

Torr nodded. “Murdered.”

Brant’s head turned. His gaze as hard as stone, he said, “That, too, is a matter that belongs in the past.”

“For some,” Torr replied.

A strange note lightened his tone, as though he conveyed some hidden message. Brant shifted in his chair, a movement fraught with annoyance. The delicately spiced quail in Faye’s mouth suddenly tasted bitter.

What had happened between Brant, Torr, and Royce for Torr to make such a remark? The deliberate statement verged on cruel.

She reached for the wine jug. Smiling at Brant and Torr, she said, “More wine?”

Brant shook his head.

With a pleased smile, Torr slid his goblet to her.

As Faye poured, the well-endowed servant walked into her range of vision. The woman lingered near the dais, toying with her cap’s ties, until Brant glanced at her.

With a tilt of her head, the wench indicated the girl delivering more bread to one of the tables: the slender, pretty maidservant who had earlier spilled the wine.

The jug’s metal handle turned slick in Faye’s hand. Brant hadn’t arranged to lie with the wench from the bailey, but with one of the younger women.

Did the girl have any idea what had been planned? How much had he paid for the pleasure of her body?

“Careful,” Torr said.

Snapping her gaze back to his goblet, Faye saw it was on the verge of brimming over. With an apologetic laugh, she tilted up the jug, before setting it down with a
thud
.

“How clumsy of me. We would not want more wine spilled today, would we?”

Torr’s strong fingers slid around his goblet’s stem. He drew the vessel across the linen, his hand shaking slightly. The ruby liquid, as dark as blood, quivered in the goblet. A drop welled over the rim. Before it landed on the tablecloth, he wiped it away with his fingertip, as though it had never existed.

Gone, just like little Angeline.

“You are interested in that serving wench?” Torr said, dragging Faye’s attention back to the conversation at the table. Brant was staring at the girl.

“She is the one who has been spoiling Val with the best scraps. I must take the opportunity to thank her.”

Torr grinned before sipping more wine. “Knave.”

Concern and frustration warred within Faye. How galling that when Angeline’s life was in grave danger, Brant thought only of satisfying his own base, carnal urges.

Do not go to her
, wept a voice inside Faye.
If you desire me, as you claimed at Elayne’s tomb, you will not
.

His chair grated. He stood. “Torr, if you will excuse me.” Nodding to her, Brant said, “Lady Rivellaux.”

“Lord Meslarches,” she bit out. She smothered the foul taste of betrayal with a large gulp of wine.

His roguish smile faltered a fraction. He must have noticed her discomfiture. Still, he straightened, smoothed a hand over his tunic, and headed for the maidservant. When he stepped off the dais, light from the keep’s high overhead windows slanted over him, accentuating the broad swell of his shoulders, the sway of his narrow hips, the ripple of well-honed muscles as he strode toward the girl.

Faye’s eyes burned. No maidservant would refuse a handsome man like Brant. To some women, lying with him would be an opportunity to win his affection. If he cared for them, he might help improve their lives.

Adjusting her hold on the bread basket, the girl turned. She saw him and froze. Her nervous gaze fell to the floor. Reaching her side, he smiled and murmured close to her ear.

Faye’s cheek tingled as if he whispered to her, the warmth of his breath feathering across her skin. When he reached out to run his palm over the maidservant’s slender shoulder, Faye felt his hand, gentle and coaxing, upon her own flesh.

She could
not
sit here and watch.

Pushing aside her wine, she lurched to her feet. She snatched up her mantle.

Disappointment clouded Torr’s expression. He raised his hand, as though to halt her.

“I must leave,” she insisted, hating her wobbly voice. “My headache grows worse with each passing moment.”

“Shall I escort you to your chamber?” He pushed his chair back, as if to rise.

“Please, stay and finish your meal. I can make my own way.” Holding her head high, Faye stepped down from the dais. Her spine rigid, she crossed the hall, skirting the dogs fighting over fallen scraps as well as the servants hurrying between the tables.

She sensed Brant’s sharpened stare, but refused to glance his way. Never would she let him see her turmoil. He must never know how much his empty, cruel declaration of desire had corrupted her senses until she could think of naught but
him
.

Her head truly did hurt now.

Faye headed to the kitchens. Standing beside a boiling pot, her reddened face damp with perspiration, the cook beamed. “Lady Rivellaux.”

Faye managed a weak smile. “May I have a soothing infusion? I have a headache.”

The cook’s graying head bobbed while she wiped her face with the corner of her apron. “Of course, milady. One of the maidservants will bring it up ta yer chamber as soon as ’tis ready.” Waving her hand, she yelled, “You, girl, come ’ere and stir this stew. Where is that Blythe when I need ’er?”

Faye shuddered. Blythe was no doubt otherwise occupied. With Brant.

After making her way back to her chamber, Faye shut the door, then leaned back against the rough-hewn wood. A sigh rushed between her lips. Fisting her hands against the door, she shoved forward. She wouldn’t succumb to regrets. Regardless of what Brant had said, or what he was now doing, Angeline was more important than selfish desire.

Torr would soon be finished eating. Before he left the keep to attend other duties was the ideal time to request a private meeting with him.

Faye set aside her mantle and headed to the trestle table at the opposite side of the chamber to pick up her ivory comb, a gift from Elayne. Faye drew it through her tresses. The ivory whispered against her hair, the sound akin to ghostly secrets.

The tines snagged on a knot. She carefully worked out the tangle so her hair fell in a smooth, shiny mass to her waist. The way Torr preferred it.

Unease rippled through her.

Courage, Faye
.

A knock sounded on her chamber door. She set down the comb and opened the panel to find a maidservant holding a mug of fragrant tea. The girl dropped into a careful curtsey. “From the cook, milady.”

With a grateful nod, Faye took the infusion and closed the door. She returned to the table, took a long drink and set down the mug. The fortifying brew tasted of the ginger used to flavor the fowl served at the midday meal.

What if Torr tried to touch her when they were alone? Or kiss her, even?

If he desired her, she must use it to her advantage.

Aye, she
must
.

Fighting a rush of panic, Faye picked up her round, polished steel mirror—one of Elayne’s cast-offs—and studied her reflection. Her skin looked pale, her eyes huge. She pinched her cheeks with her fingers to elicit a pink flush. Better. A glint of renewed determination shone in her gaze, and she smiled.

When she returned the mirror to the table, sudden, sharp realization charged through her.

She was no longer alone.

Her chamber door closed with a muted
click
. She faced the doorway.

His hand still grasping the iron handle, Brant stared at her. How imposing he looked, blocking her escape to the rest of the keep. A physical barrier standing between her and Torr. Between illusion and enlightenment.

Dropping his fingers from the handle, he leaned back against the wooden panel, his cloak draped over one arm. His pose indicated he had no intention of letting her past.

“You did not knock,” she said, her words brittle with indignation. “You have no right to enter my chamber.”

He smiled—a bold, brazen tilt of his mouth that caused heat to pool between her thighs. “If I had knocked, Faye, you would have refused to let me in. Bolted the door, even. A risk I could not take, for there is a great deal I must say to you.”
 

Chapter Thirteen

Brant’s gaze skimmed over Faye. Standing beside the trestle table, her hair cascading in ripples of copper fire about her slender body, he barely resisted the urge to stride to her, sweep her into his arms, and kiss her.

How beautiful she looked. How fiercely proud. Indignation hardened her eyes to a bright, icy green, while her lips formed a stubborn line that forewarned him what he had to reveal to her wouldn’t be readily accepted.

Yet, she must accept the truth.