He stared at her for a moment, then shrugged. "Most of the rumors are true. My father never liked me. He saw me as more of a nuisance than a son. When I played pranks on the servants or pointed out ways to improve running the keep, he beat me."
"Oh, Fane," Rexana whispered.
"He was always shouting and ordering me to be obedient. I tried, for a while, but I still made him furious. The day I killed his favorite destrier, he sent me away for good."
Rexana could not imagine Fane injuring an animal out of spite or carelessness. "What happened?"
He brushed aside a rumpled garment, and resentment tightened his features. "In front of a hall filled with important guests, my father insulted me. He said I would never be man enough to ride his new, high strung stallion."
"How could he?" Rexana choked out.
A terse chuckle broke from Fane. "I was angry. I stormed off to the stables, saddled and bridled the destrier, then climbed onto its back. It tried to throw me, but I hung on. It bolted out of the keep's gates and I rode it for leagues. When it began to tire, we started home. I was proud to have proven my sire wrong." Fane paused, as though he could not bear to remember. "The destrier jumped a broken wall. I did not know peasant children were playing behind it. As the stallion soared over, it sensed the children and startled. It landed at an awkward angle, and its right front leg snapped."
A sob burned Rexana's throat.
"My sire and a contingent of men-at-arms found us by the wall. The horse lay with its head in my lap, shivering. It could not walk, thus it had to be killed." He exhaled a shuddered sigh. "My father dragged me back to the keep, whipped me, then told me never to come back."
" 'Twas not your fault!"
"It does not matter." He snatched a bag of coins and a dagger out of the chest, slammed the lid, and stood.
Shaking her head, Rexana said, "It does matter. You did not deserve to be treated so." How she yearned to hug him and murmur comforting words for the injustice he had suffered.
Yet, Fane's flinty gaze warned he would not accept her succor.
The emotional wall between them remained intact.
He seemed to believe she had rejected him just like his father. Oh, if Fane only knew how she truly felt.
His gaze slid down her bodice to her brooch, and the corner of his mouth turned up. "After the midday meal, I will come to fetch you. Be prepared to ride."
Astonishment jolted through her. "Ride?"
"We will journey to Tangston market."
Excitement sped her pulse. "Am I no longer a prisoner?"
His brittle laughter scratched down her spine. "I have not forgiven your misdeed, love. I wish to question the goldsmith about your brooch, and I want you with me. I do not trust you here alone while I am gone."
A disbelieving sigh burst from her. "You have ridden from Tangston several times in the past days. You left me alone then. Why, now, is the situation different?"
His gaze shadowed. "I hoped the journey might encourage you to reassess your loyalties. If you heard of your brother's treachery from someone other than me, you might reconsider your foolish faith in him." His shoulders rose in a stiff shrug. "I regret I was mistaken."
He turned and strode toward the door.
Oh, what she would give to be able to leave this chamber. She craved freedom. Sweet, fresh air. The cacophony and smells of market day.
And the chance, no matter how slim, to make contact with her brother.
Schooling all eagerness from her voice, she said, "I do need soap, milord. If I may, I would like to choose some of a pleasing fragrance. I have my own coin to pay for it."
His hand on the iron door handle, he glanced back at her. He seemed about to declare that since she was his wife, he would buy the soap for her, but then nodded. "You may."
As soon as the door closed behind Fane, she ran to her wooden chests of belongings. She tossed aside the folded gowns, shoes, and hose, until she found the small leather coin pouch. It held less silver than she had hoped, but '
twould
be enough. Dropped into the right hands, she could easily persuade a vendor or street urchin to whisper what he had heard of her brother.
She could even pay for a message to be delivered to him.
Rexana fought a tremor of unease. How she hated to deceive Fane again.
Yet, she must. Oh, God, she must.
As Fane strode out into the sunlit bailey, Kester left the men-at-arms by the stable and crossed to him. " '
Tis
set, milord?"
"Aye." Fane glanced up at the solar window. Rexana stood with her arms folded, staring down at him. Their gazes locked before she turned away and disappeared from view.
His voice lowered to a fierce murmur. "She must not come to any harm. No matter what she has done, she deserves —"
"The men know what to do, milord. They are already spreading the word that you and your lady will visit the market this afternoon. Your plan is sound."
A bitter smile touched Fane's mouth. " '
Tis
not the least bit barbaric?"
Kester grinned. "Nay, milord. I vow 'tis very clever."
Her coin purse clutched in her hands, Rexana halted in the crowded market square.
Fane stopped beside her and tipped his head. "The soap maker is that way."
She strained to see past crates of hissing geese, a wagon filled with vegetables and flanked by shouting peasants, and the blacksmith forging a horseshoe near his blazing fire. As the smoke dissipated, she spied the table of small, wrapped parcels. Would the soap seller know of her brother's whereabouts?
She had not yet had the opportunity to ask questions, for Fane had escorted her from her horse into the market. He walked close at her side, followed by armed guards — though fewer guards, it seemed, than had ridden with them. The others must have dispersed through the market. Mayhap they ensured no unsavory villains tried to harm or rob them. Mayhap they kept an eye upon her from a distance.
Fane might have ensured she was closely watched, but she would find a way to get the answers she sought.
Tightening her hold on her purse, she nodded to him. "I will fetch the soap."
"When you are done, come back here. Then, we will see the goldsmith."
Surprise rippled through her. "You are not coming with me?"
His eyes clouded with a strange, almost bleak expression. "I must speak with the spice merchant about recent thefts from his stall. Do not worry. These guards" — he gestured to four men-at-arms — "will ensure your safety, and that of your coin purse. They will also make certain you do not escape." He strode away, stirring up dust beneath his boots.
Rexana drew in a nervous breath, sharpened with the smells of horse and wood smoke. She wove her way through the milling throng, aware of the guards' gaze upon her and their strides several paces behind. What luck, that Fane had decided not to escort her. She would not have been able to complete her deception with him nearby.
Ahead, two boys scampered through the crowd. One followed a puppy at the end of a rope. Young though they were, such urchins often knew as much gossip as the vendors. For a bit of coin, would one of them be willing to help her? With discreet glances, she tried to catch their attention, but they ran on.
She stopped at the soap maker's stall. The mingled scents of rose, lavender and almond oil rose from the variety of soaps arranged on an old cloth. She fingered a cake sprinkled with dried rose petals, hoping to attract the attention of the hunchbacked woman behind the table.
A solid weight barreled into her.
Rexana gasped and grabbed the table's edge.
"Sorry, milady."
She righted herself. The boy with the puppy stood in front of her, his dirty face red and his eyes round. His gaze darted behind her, as though he saw her guards storming toward him.
"Sorry," he blurted again, as though he expected a beating.
" '
Tis
all right." She waved her guards away. They hesitated, obeyed, then spoke to one another in muttered tones.
As she looked back at the boy, her mind raced. She must ask him. Now.
Before she could speak, he brushed past her.
Something rough scratched against her fingers. A note. She curled her hand around the slip of parchment.
Her pulse thundered. Who knew she would be in the market? Who tried to contact her? She quickly chose two rose-scented cakes, paid the merchant, and waited as the woman wrapped them in a swath of fabric.
As Rexana strolled to the end of the table, she pretended to examine vials of scented water. With careful fingers, she unrolled the tiny parchment.
I know where your brother is.
Shock tore through her like a sprinting hound. Who had penned the note? The scruffy peasant boy certainly had not. The lettering looked too precise to be a child's.
She glanced at the next stall, the first in a line of cloth merchants. She looked further down, and saw a familiar face.
Garmonn.
He met her gaze, then resumed speaking with a merchant.
A shiver raked through her, cold and then hot. Bile burned her throat. She would sooner trust a rat than Garmonn.