Medieval Rogues (69 page)

Stones rattled as he straightened. Hair tangling about his shoulders, he looked up at her, his expression cautious, his scar stark against his cheek.

He stood near enough that if she kicked out, she would catch him full in the ribs and send him staggering backward. A simple matter, then, to snatch up the reins and ride off.

Not so simple, though, to follow through with such a daring plan with a tired, thirsty horse trained to obey his master’s commands. Moreover, before she rode three paces, Brant would yank her out of the saddle.

Better to wait until a more opportune moment to flee.

Brant seemed to sense the dangerous path of her thoughts, for he leaned forward and flattened his palm to her leg, holding it where it pressed against Val’s leather bag. An acute physical awareness tingled up her flesh, reminding her, with shocking potency, of the spellbinding pleasure of his touch.

Inside the bag, Val yapped, demanding to be let out.

“Patience, Val,” Brant said before stretching up his hand to her. “I will assist you down.”

An addled part of her yearned to slip her hand into his, to reclaim that wondrous bond between them that had been richer than any other joy in her entire life. How could she place her hand—and her faith—in him again?

Glaring down at him, she said, “You have done quite enough for me.”

His brows arched. Bowing his dark, tousled head like a chivalrous courtier, he swept his arm to encompass the rocks and trees surrounding them. “By your leave, milady. Do as you wish.”

She pursed her lips. “You will not draw that dagger on me again? Force me to do as you bid?”

He straightened. His jaw clenched. Setting his hands on his hips, he toed one of the rocks by his boots. “I may deserve that remark—”

She arched her brows in answer.

“—but mayhap after I have explained, you will understand . . . and forgive me.”

“Or not,” she muttered.

Anguish darkened his gaze. He shrugged, faced the water, and dragged his fingers through his hair in a futile attempt to straighten it. In that moment, he seemed bone-deep weary.

Taking care not to hurt Val, Faye shifted in the saddle, swung her leg back, and slid toward the ground . . . much faster than she imagined. Her skirts bunched, at the same time her leg muscles seized up. With a frantic squawk, she grabbed at the saddle.

Strong, sure, Brant’s hands closed around her waist, easing her back against him while her shoes connected with uneven stones. Without his intervention, she would have fallen on the rocks.

“T-thank you,” she said.

“My pleasure.”

His tone suggested that he did, indeed, find assisting her to be pleasing. Another element resonated in his words as well, a complex nuance of emotion that revealed her well-being was vital to him. That he . . . cared.

How could she think he cared for her, when he’d threatened her with a knife?

She stepped away, out of his hold. A sigh broke from him. Turning back to the horse, he loosened the leather bag. Val’s fuzzy head popped out before Brant reached in, lifted him out, and set him on the ground.

Tail wagging, Val bounded along the water’s edge.

Tucking hair behind her ear, Faye glanced at Brant. Their gazes locked with the force of two waves crashing together, a connection so intense, she stumbled back.

“Do not run from me.”

The raw plea in his voice shuddered through her. Shaking her head, she took another step away from him. “You took me hostage. You held a knife to my throat.”

“For that necessity, I am sorry.”

“
Sorry
?” she squeaked, throwing out her hands in disbelief. A raindrop splattered on her open palm, as if the heavens wept for her and Brant.

“I could not leave you behind at Caldstowe.”

“Brant—”

“Your plan to ride to Waverbury was flawed. Torr would never have let you leave the keep. He knows you took the journal.”

Dread dissolved the rest of her defiant words. Slowly, she nodded.

“Never could I let you face Torr alone. After arresting you, he would demand to know why you took the tome and gave it to me. Physical punishment is only one of the methods he would use to manipulate you.”

“Do not speak to me of manipulation,” she muttered.

“I know you are angry with me. Believe me, if there was any other way to protect you—”

Fury burned so hot inside her, her mouth scorched with the taste of it. “
Protect
me? By threatening to murder me?”

“’Twas the only way I could think of to get us both out of Caldstowe alive.”

“One wrong move, one slip of the dagger, and—”

“I would never harm you.”

So angry she could barely speak, she bit out, “Why should I believe you?”

A despairing laugh broke from him. He looked across the water, his rugged, beautiful profile outlined by the waning light. “You are the most precious thing in my life, Faye.”

His declaration hit her with the force of a slap. She lurched backward, stumbling over a rock.

“Standing here, I long to touch you. To brush my fingers through your hair, to run my hands down your back, to . . .”—he swallowed—“to love you as I did in your chamber, what seems like years ago.”

“Stop!” Her innards twisted with each word, tighter and tighter until bile leapt to the back of her mouth.
Oh, God, she was going to vomit!

He reached for her, as if to catch her elbow and offer support.

“Nay!” she cried, twisting away from him.

Shaking his head, Brant swore under his breath. His arm lowered to his side. When she straightened, his glittering gaze met hers. “I took you from Caldstowe because to think of you being forced to Torr’s will, suffering for his deceptions . . . I had to spare you. Bound by my blood oath, I did his bidding for many months. I would gladly die, Faye, rather than see you enslaved to him.”

“Instead, I am to live as your hostage?”

A sad smile touched Brant’s mouth. “Only for a little longer.”

A grim finality tainted his words. A raindrop fell on her cheek, an icy reminder of her tears when he’d confessed to murder. She wiped it away. “Where are you taking me? What . . . shall you do with me?”

He glanced down the river to a distant point, as if he saw into the future. “I am taking you to Waverbury.”

Relief rushed through her, quickly submerged by wariness.

“I will ensure you a safe journey. Together we will rescue Angeline, and thus I will fulfill the agreement I made with you days ago. Then, we will part ways.”

He spoke matter-of-factly, without a trace of the volatile emotions she sensed coursing through him. Still, his words chilled her. There was more to his plan than he’d voiced. She sensed it as keenly as the unraveling storm.

“What are you not telling me?” She fought unwelcome panic. “After we separate, what will you do?”

Brant’s mouth tilted in an anguished smile. Reaching up, he trailed his fingers down the side of her face. His fingertips skimmed her healing bruise in a touch so tender, she wanted to weep.

She should slap his hand away. Shriek and tell him never to touch her again. Somehow, she couldn’t. In his gaze, she caught the memory of their most intimate joining, the moment their bodies and souls had fused in exquisite pleasure. A glorious revelation she would cherish until the day she died.

Faye, my treasure
.

She trembled, remembering his husky endearment, as well as the enchantment of his touch that had spread warmth to the forgotten reaches of her soul. Her body quivered, yearned, with painful recognition; this would be the last time he touched her.

How she wanted to fall to the stones and cry that their relationship, once bright with promise, had disintegrated to the insignificance of a handful of dust.

She caught her bottom lip, sucked it into her mouth.

Brant’s gaze dropped to her lips. Then, with obvious reluctance, he withdrew his hand.

“Brant,” she whispered.

Already the intimacy between them had vanished, as if swept away by the wind. Now, his gaze held the determination of a fierce warrior. “To answer your question,” he said, “after we rescue Angeline, I will return to Caldstowe. Torr owes me an explanation for Royce’s journal. Before I die, I will have one.”
 

Chapter Eighteen

When Faye’s face drained of color, Brant fought an answering tightness within his chest. Seeing her so distraught, he vowed his heart would rend in two.

His arms ached to hold her one last time, to kiss her until they were both breathless, to tell her that loving her was the best part of his entire existence.

His tender admission wouldn’t be welcome.

Nor would it be wise, when very soon, he would be dead.

Wind whistled past the walls of rock, a sound as eerie as a dirge. She stared at him, her skin pale against her hair’s coppery hue. Stirred by the strengthening breeze, her tresses tangled about her shoulders.

Brant savored the wild beauty of her. He committed her loveliness to memory, so that in his last, dying moments, she’d be with him.

Hugging herself, she said, “You cannot return to Caldstowe.”

“To know the truth, I must.”

She shook her head. Such anguish shone in her eyes, he curled his fingers into fists to stop himself from embracing her.

“I must know why Torr denied me Royce’s journal. There is no reason for him to have kept it. Save one.”

“The treasure,” Faye whispered.

“Aye.” Rage that Brant was unable to suppress made his voice harsh. To think of his brother’s tome, the sum of his dream, secreted away because of Torr’s greed—

“I do not understand. Why would he covet the lost riches? His wealth and authority exceed those of most lords in these lands. He can have whatever he desires.”

Brant raised his brows. “Can he? Mayhap he wants most what he cannot have.”

Thunder growled in the near distance.

“On crusade, Torr and Royce often discussed the treasure. What kind of gold artifacts they might find. The most likely locations of the treasure, judging by Royce’s notes and sketches. The notion of discovering a lost treasure—riches of an ancient king so extraordinary, he is a legend even to this day—fascinated Torr.”

Shivering, Faye rubbed her arms. A raindrop hit Brant’s shoulder, and he frowned up at the darkening sky.

“Torr does not seem a greedy man,” she went on. “Yet . . .”

“Yet?”

“I did not imagine you to be a murderer, either.”

The condemnation in her gaze lashed like a knife. Suddenly, again, the stinging bite of Torr’s dagger sliced Brant’s cheek. “’Tis the only way to avoid suspicion,” Torr had muttered inside the tent, as Brant had recoiled to gape at the blood staining his tunic—the same hue as the crimson pool surrounding Royce’s body. “Remember, the Saracen cut you when you tried to stop him from killing Royce.”

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.