Medieval Rogues (56 page)

Staring at the door, Val growled.

Unease glimmered in Faye’s eyes before her gaze slanted to Val.

Smoothing her gown, Greya crossed to the door. “I will delay them as long as I can.” Shooing Val out of the way, she opened the door and slipped out. The wooden panel creaked closed behind her.

Silence settled inside the cottage. Arms crossed, Faye hugged herself, as though struggling to comprehend what he’d told her.

She appeared to be deciding whether to believe him—or reject him.

How he wanted to fall to his knees and plead with her, to make her swear she wouldn’t reveal to Torr their dealings together. Yet, pride refused to let him yield. Pride, along with deep-rooted disgust that Torr had chosen to manipulate the life of a woman who held him in such high esteem.

With immense effort, Brant steeled all emotion from his voice. “I cannot give you all the pieces of the puzzle, Faye. I do not know them myself. Yet, I promised to help you find Angeline, and I will.”

She rubbed her hands down her arms.

“If you betray me to Torr, I will not be able to help you.”

Her lips flattened into a line, the only indication she’d heard him. Outside, he caught Torr’s laughter above a swell of conversation.

Clenching his jaw, Brant snapped his fingers. Val scampered to his side. Brant darted behind the wooden screen and ordered the little mongrel to sit. Val’s wagging tail swept the floor as he stared up at Brant.

He drew in a slow, steadying breath. Faye’s fragrance lingered in the shadowed air. It teased the fraying edges of his patience, tantalized him with memories of her kiss. As he rolled tension from his shoulder blades, his gaze fell to Greya’s bed, rumpled as though by lovers. The way Faye’s bed had looked after he’d pressed her down upon it.

What he regretted most was that he might never kiss her again.

The cottage door creaked open. A frigid draft stole into the room. Brant resisted a shudder, forced himself to remain stone still, for whatever transpired in the next few moments was entirely beyond his control.

He hoped Faye didn’t drown in the consequences.

***

When the door swung inward, Faye turned. Hugging herself tighter, she forced a welcoming smile.

Torr blocked the doorway’s light while he stepped inside. His rust-colored mantle, cut from the finest wool, fell to his calves, which were encased in brown leather boots. As he swept blond hair from his brow, his gaze lit upon her. He grinned. “Faye.”

“Hello, Torr.”

His boots sounded on the dirt floor as, slipping his gloves from his hands, he crossed to her. “Your journey went well?”

“Of course.” Unable to hold back a nervous little laugh, she added, “You did not need to follow me. I told you I would be fine.”

His four men-at-arms tromped into the cottage, their voices echoing to the wooden trusses overhead. Several crossed to the fire, crouched, and extended their hands to the flames to warm them.

“You did indeed promise me you were well enough to ride,” Torr said in a mildly irritated tone. He threw his gloves down on the table beside her. “My men were traveling to the village today to question some of the cotters about Angeline’s disappearance, so I accompanied them. I was concerned about you.” Reaching out, he caught a lock of her hair. “I am glad I worried for naught.”

A possessive note wove into his last words. Twisting his hand, he slowly began to wind her hair around his fingers.

Months ago in the great hall he’d done the same with a skein of Elayne’s flaxen tresses. A sly expression stealing across her features, she’d smiled before arching her slender body against him for a passionate kiss.

Faye swallowed. Surely Torr did not expect such a reaction from her. Her uneasy gaze darted to his mouth, pursed as he studied her coppery tresses threaded about his hand. Odd, that she hadn’t noticed the hard, thin quality to his lips—far different than the sensual fullness of Brant’s mouth—until now.

The thought of kissing Torr, of sharing such intimacy with her dead friend’s husband . . . She could never do so.

She longed to yank her tresses free of his hold. However, if she did, she risked offending him. Unwise, when he still seemed to be possessed by the odd mood from earlier that morn.

The men’s rowdy conversation continued, accented by the
clank
of Greya’s metal cauldron being returned to the fire to heat. The rituals of greeting went on, even as Torr told her, in his own way, that her life was bound to his.

While Brant stood behind the screen.

Hearing every sound.

Listening to every word.

Wondering if she would reveal him.

What strange, heady power she held, to determine what happened to him.

Unable to suppress a shiver, Faye glanced up at Torr. Her thoughts whirled together in a confused snarl. Brant’s claim that Torr had arranged Angeline’s disappearance seemed ludicrous. However, a lord of his authority could likely make anyone disappear if he so wished.

Even Brant.

If you betray me to Torr, I will not be able to help you
.

A dull ache ran through her, settling close to her heart. Could Torr, who had so generously provided a home for her, have coordinated his little girl’s disappearance? If so, what reason did he have for such a despicable act?

An anxious tickle at the back of her throat made her cough. Torr’s gaze turned wry, and he released her hair. Before she could turn away, his fingers trailed down her cheek. “You look uneasy.”

Faye turned slightly to avoid his touch, while she searched for a way to divert his suspicion. “I cannot help but think about Angeline. I hope that today your men will find some hint as to her whereabouts. Until she is home, I will always be unsettled.”

“Mmm,” Torr said, flexing his fingers as though to warm them.

Greya walked past the men crouched by the fire. After dropping into an elegant curtsey, she handed Torr an earthenware mug. “Mead, milord, as you asked.”

“Thank you.” Raising the drink to his lips, Torr sipped.

Moving next to Faye, the healer asked, “Would you care for some, milady?”

“Nay, thank you.” Mead would only dull her wits, and her thoughts were already far too muddled.

Torr slowly lowered his mug. He wrinkled his nose. “Greya, do you have a dog?”

Faye caught a gasp.
Oh, God!

The old woman hesitated the barest moment. “Nay, milord.”

“I smell a wet mongrel.”

“’Tis probably the scent of my drying herbs.” Greya waved a slender hand toward the ceiling. “Sometimes they give off a peculiar odor.”

One of the men-at-arms by the fire guffawed. “’Tis ’is boots, milord.” He pointed to one of the other guards, who flushed. “They stink.”

The other men chortled. With a wry smile, Torr shook his head. “My apologies, Greya.”

Faye smiled, too, before Torr’s assessing gaze skimmed her face. Quelling a pinch of dread, she willed a bland expression, a ladylike composure that revealed none of her internal turmoil—or that she thought of Val and Brant behind the screen.

Tucking the lock of hair Torr had fingered back behind her ear, she averted her gaze, and saw the lamb lying on the table. Angeline’s treasure.

Reaching over, Faye picked up the bedraggled toy.

“Look what I found by the river.” Laying the lamb in her palm, she offered it to him.

Giving her outstretched hand the most cursory glance, Torr demanded, “When did you go to the river?”

Refusing to heed a surge of panic, she said, “This morn, on my way here.”

“Alone?”

She managed a stiff nod. “I . . .” She rubbed her lips together. “I missed Angeline and Elayne. We had many happy outings by the water.”

“’Tis all right,” Greya soothed, sliding her arm around Faye’s waist. “Angeline will be home very soon. Do not fret, milady.”

Cold water seeped from the toy and collected in her palm. “’Tis difficult not to worry.”

Torr’s hand trembled. He set the mug down on the table. “Greya is right. We will find Angeline. I have men searching for her each day.”

“I know you do.” Faye managed a smile.

His head dipped in a nod before he dragged his unsteady hand over his mouth. “You should not go to the river alone, especially not when you are injured. If you slipped on the wet stones—”

“If I had not gone,” Faye insisted, “I would not have found her lamb.”

He frowned. “Whose lamb?”

A puddle formed in Faye’s stomach, as icy as the water against her skin. Torr must know how important the toy was to his daughter. She’d refused to part with it from the day Elayne had bought it for her at the market. Pointing to the lamb, Faye said, “Do you not recognize it?”

His nostrils flared in disdain. “That filthy scrap?”

“Look closer.” She softened her request with a gentle, “Please.”

Exhaling a weary sigh, Torr caught her hand and raised it higher. “I see now, ’tis a lamb. A dirty toy discarded by some peasant child. Best tossed in the fire, I vow.”

“Never!”

Torr scowled. “Faye, what are you about?”

The conversation in the room hushed. Faye sensed the men-at-arms’ curious gazes upon them.

A little voice inside her cautioned her not to provoke Torr further. Another, more insistent cry, wondered how he couldn’t have recognized his daughter’s favorite toy. Pressing both of her hands to her breast, cradling the little lamb like a cherished object, Faye said, “’Tis Angeline’s. Do you not remember seeing her with it?”

His harsh laugh cracked like broken stone. “’Tis so grubby, it could be any child’s.”

“’Tis Angeline’s. She would never have parted with it, unless ’twas wrested from her.”

“By whom?” Snatching up his mead, his hand shaking, Torr gulped another mouthful.

“I do not know.”
Do you?

The accusatory words burned on the tip of Faye’s tongue. Here, now, with witnesses to his response—and Brant hearing it, too—she could challenge him with Brant’s assertion. Torr wouldn’t expect such boldness from her. Thus, she would see the truth in his expression.

His answer, of course, would be “nay.” If the denial shot from him without hesitation, she’d know his conscience was clear of guilt. However, if he hesitated, switched focus from her question to avoid a direct answer, or had to ponder his reply . . . Then, she would know Brant had spoken true.

The desire to know flared within her. She inhaled, preparing to speak, but right as the words warmed her lips, Greya pressed her arm. A plea for caution.

“Let us dry the lamb by the fire,” the old woman said. “Then, I am sure Lord Lorvais will recognize it as Angeline’s.”

Faye bit back a frustrated oath. “Greya—”

“Finding a toy so similar to a missing child’s would unsettle any woman,” the healer said while she steered Faye toward the fire, “especially when you cared for Angeline throughout most of Elayne’s illness.” Keeping hold of Faye with one arm, she bent and murmured to the men at the fire, who scooted aside to let her in. “Here.” The healer patted one of the stones encircling the burning logs. “Put the lamb where ’twill dry quickest.”

Opening her hands, Faye looked at the sodden toy. If she left it by the fire, would it be safe?

What if a spark landed on it, causing it to burn? What if one of the men, flinging out his hand as he spoke, knocked it into the flames? If, by chance, Torr
was
involved with Angeline’s disappearance, he might discreetly order one of his lackeys to see it destroyed.

How she hated the suspicion slithering through her like a snake, but she’d promised dying Elayne that she would protect Angeline. She’d failed in that vow, but could still protect the treasured toy till she could return it to the child.

“Milady.” Greya smoothed a hand down Faye’s hair, as she’d done that day at the river, when she had delivered Faye’s stillborn baby girl.

“I cannot yield it,” she whispered.

Footfalls approached. Torr. Faye’s fingers tightened again around the lamb. If he tried to take it from her, she’d fight him.

“’Tis all right,” Torr said from behind her. His voice held no condemnation, only sympathy. Greya stepped aside, and then his trembling palm skimmed down Faye’s hair to the base of her spine. “Mayhap we should ride back to Caldstowe. The lamb can dry by the great hall’s fire. When we arrive at the keep, there may be word that Angeline has been found.”

Faye nodded. How she hoped so.

“The lamb will be waiting for Angeline when she comes home.”

Faye glanced over her shoulder, confusion again snaking through her. His manner seemed so comforting. Yet, he could simply be trying to ease her distress, without really being sincere.

He didn’t look like a man who would endanger the life of his young daughter, for some purpose Brant hadn’t explained. Instead, Torr’s expression again held the restless disquiet that had plagued him since Elayne’s passing.

Who was the real Torr? Grieving husband and father, or heartless villain?

His gaze turned puzzled. “Why do you look at me so?”

“How do I look upon you?” she asked, her words a little too quick.