A Knight's Vengeance Page 4

  Fury snapped inside Geoffrey like a cracking whip. She called him a coward. Years of anguish and resentment rammed against the wall of control around his heart and threatened to shatter it into thousands of pieces.

  He balled his hands into fists. He would be foolish to lose his calm now, as she well knew. She had insulted his pride and prowess in front of his men, no doubt to provoke him into rash action. How clever of her, but futile. “Your father and I will fight soon, milady. When we do, I shall win.”

  Her expression shadowed with wariness. Geoffrey anticipated a biting reply that her sire would trample his bones into the ground. Yet, at that moment, crimson liquid dripped onto her shoulder. Blood?

  He frowned. “Dominic, a torch.”

  Elizabeth jerked her head to the side, but Geoffrey was faster with the light. The curls at her brow covered a scrape that bled down her hairline and gleamed on the rise of her strong cheekbones. She would need a healer. He stifled a pang of remorse, and wondered if she had any other injuries.

  The mercenary at her back snickered, and Geoffrey shot him a foul look. Viscon had rushed the lady down the stairwell, an unnecessary risk since she could not escape, and she was wounded. He would not receive all of the coin promised to him as payment.

  Geoffrey handed the burning reed back to Dominic. “I did not intend for you to be hurt, milady.”

  She snorted, a sound of disgust.

  “You may think me many things, but I am not a brute.” Geoffrey reached for the dagger at his belt. She flinched, but to his surprise, did not retreat. He lifted his wool tunic, took his shirt’s hem, and slashed a strip of linen. After sheathing the knife, he reached up to dab her temple.

  “Do not touch me.”

  The venom in her voice drew his gaze to her mouth. Her lips were so near. Lush. How would she react if he tipped up her chin and kissed her, as he had teased that day at the market?

  Was he mad?

  He lowered his hand and gestured to the dirt-smudged mantle. “My shirt is cleaner than your garments. Take the cloth.”

  She shook her head. “I do not want your pity.”

  He believed her. Hatred sparked in the air between them like invisible lighting. As grunts and mutters echoed from the opposite end of the passage, and the two guards hauled Mildred forward, he shoved the linen at Elizabeth. “Tend to the wound, or I shall do it for you.”

  She looked at him, hard, then snatched up the cloth. She wiped her face. The linen stained crimson.

  Mildred shrieked. “Oh, milady. You are wounded.”

  “’Tis only a scratch,” Elizabeth called back.

  Geoffrey watched, unable to tear his gaze away, as with stiff movements, she pulled back the mantle’s hood. She eased her hair free. Lustrous as black silk, it tumbled over her shoulders and fell to her waist in a riot of curls.

  He caught the scent of flowers. Desire thickened his loins.

  Curse her!

  He turned away, angered by the appalling weakness of his flesh. “We shall tend your injury later. Dominic, bring her.”

  “I go nowhere with you.”

  Geoffrey halted. He had anticipated a struggle, but not a refusal spoken without the slightest tremor. He spun on his heel and faced her. She swallowed and, while she held his gaze, she clasped her hands together.

  So she was afraid of him, after all.

  “You will come.” He growled. “Now.”

  “My father’s servants are loyal. They will not allow you to take me from this keep against my will.”

  “Indeed?” Geoffrey chuckled. “’Tis astonishing what a few bits of silver can accomplish when placed in the right hands.”

  “Bribery!”

  Her indignant cry sent satisfaction tingling through him. He resisted the urge to taunt her more. Later, he would have all the time he wished to toy with her. He looked at his men, drew a breath to give the order to move out.

  Her laughter stopped him. “Are you not aware we were forewarned of your arrival? By now, the captain of the guard and all the men-at-arms will know of your intrusion.” She smoothed her mantle with casual disdain. “You are probably surrounded.”

  Geoffrey frowned. Did she speak true?

  Then he remembered the boy. “You cling to foolish hope.”

  Her irritating smile did not waver. “I do not think so, Lord de Lanceau.”

  Her mocking use of his proper title scratched down his back like claws. “If you refer to the boy, Viscon captured him on his way back from your chamber. The lad will not be warning anyone of our presence here.”

  Her smile vanished. Desperation shimmered beneath her lashes. Her pulse beat hard against her throat’s milky skin. “What have you done to Jeremy? Did you . . . kill him?” Revulsion darkened her voice.

  Geoffrey’s gut tightened. At last, he had found leverage to make her obey. As long as she believed him capable of such a deed, she might comply. For that reason, he did not answer her.

  “You killed a defenseless child?”

  He shuddered inside and forced the words through his lips. “Killing is a consequence of war, is it not?”

  “How could you? Jeremy was only eleven years old.”

  Before Geoffrey could step away, her right arm moved. Her fist flew toward his face.

  He trapped her hand in mid-air. The smack of skin against skin echoed like a thunderclap.

  He locked his fingers through hers, crushing the bloodstained scrap of linen between their palms. She gasped, and her face drained of color. He held her arm immobile. She tugged. Swore. He waited until the blazing intent faded from her eyes, before he lowered her hand to her side. When he released her, the linen dropped to the floor.

  She stumbled back, cradling her arm to her chest.

  “Remember the boy, before you are as rash again.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “Will you kill me as well?”

  ***

  As soon as she had spoken the words, Elizabeth regretted them. Her stomach clenched with a pain worse than her bleeding head or hurt arm.

  The man standing behind her shifted. Mildred screeched.

  Tension buzzed in the smoky air.

  If only she could take back what she had said. Yet, she would not back down from de Lanceau’s glare. His eyes had darkened to the hue of a winter storm.

  He stood so near she could reach out and run her fingers over his jaw’s day-old stubble. His scent taunted her, a blend of leather, horse, and a masculine essence all his own.

  “I have never harmed or killed a woman,” he said, his breath hot on her forehead. “Nor would I find any pleasure in doing so. But I warn you, do not force me to prove it.” He turned to his men, strode toward them, and gestured to the man named Dominic. “Take the matron to the wagon. We will escort the lady.”

  Armed men moved toward Mildred.

  Elizabeth exhaled on a trembling rush. She had to stop de Lanceau. Whatever plan he had for her, she would not be a part of it.

  She fought her wounds’ discomfort and looked around. A pock-faced oaf blocked the stairwell behind her. She recognized him. Gareth Viscon. A mercenary. A soldier who had once fought for the king and would now lend his sword arm to any man who paid him. Her father had once hired him to ferret out a band of murderous outlaws living in a nearby wood.

  Viscon grinned and picked at his dirty fingernail with a knife, and she looked away. She would never get past him. Her gaze shifted to the men with drawn swords standing in the corridor to the left. She could not bolt past them, either.

  The bailey door was just yards away.

  She must reach it.

  She glanced at Mildred, now surrounded by guards and struggling to wrench free of her captors. Elizabeth tipped her head to the door. Mildred’s eyes widened. She winked before beginning to fight in earnest.

  “Swine! I demand you release my arms at once. Ouch! I shall have bruises upon my flesh on the morrow.” She huffed. “If you do not stop, I shall—”

  Elizabeth ran. Her fingers
tensed, ready to yank open the door. She would scream with such force, her mother and sister would hear her in heaven.

  De Lanceau still had his back to her.

  She shoved past two startled guards. Her feet pounded on the stone.

  “Milord,” a man yelled.

  De Lanceau spun around.

  In one smooth lunge, he blocked her path.

  She skidded to a halt, an instant before their bodies would have collided. Her mantle and shift swirled about her legs. Her breath rasped between her teeth, and in desperation, she looked toward the door.

  “You will not escape, milady,” he said.

  Faint voices emanated from the stairwell: two women talking. Servants checking the torches, Elizabeth realized with a burst of hope.

  In hushed tones, de Lanceau snapped orders. A man yanked open the bailey door. The scream flared in Elizabeth’s throat, but before it broke free, Viscon grabbed her from behind. His arm slammed around her and knocked the air from her lungs. His scarred hand clamped over her mouth.

  She clawed and kicked, but her clothing twisted around her legs. Her foot hit his shin. He grunted, grabbed her injured arm, and wrenched it behind her back. Pain shot up into her shoulder, and the passage around her blurred. As she slumped against him, Viscon dragged her through the doorway.

  The cool air, as startling as river water, snapped her agony-fogged mind alert. Dawn’s golden haze had not yet warmed the sky, and the inner bailey was blanketed in darkness. She squirmed, jerked her head from side to side to dislodge Viscon’s hand, and dug her heels into the dirt. Viscon hauled her toward a horse-drawn wagon waiting near the kitchens.

  Men pushed Mildred up into the wagon. The matron shivered, hugged her arms across her bosom, and crouched in the far corner.

  Viscon released Elizabeth’s arm. Before he took his hand from her mouth, he grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. He waved his dagger under her nose. “Ye make so much as a whimper, milady, and I will slit yer throat. Understand?”

  He sounded so savage, Elizabeth nodded.

  From somewhere behind her, de Lanceau muttered a curse. “Easy. Put the knife away. Get her in the wagon.”

  The mercenary spat an oath. He released Elizabeth and shoved her up into the wooden cart. Clutching her mantle to her shaking body, she staggered to her feet.

  She would yell for the guards.

  The wagon rocked, and Viscon leapt up behind her. He must have guessed her intent, for his eyes glinted. He looked from her to Mildred, unsheathed his knife, and pushed it up inside his sleeve.

  He strode closer, and Elizabeth’s mouth went dry. The shrill cry refused to emerge.

  His hand closed on her shoulder, and he shoved her down to the floor. He squatted beside Mildred, the knife’s leather-bound hilt visible.

  De Lanceau’s low voice came from nearby. “I will ride up front with the driver. Dominic, keep watch on the women.”

  Elizabeth felt Geoffrey’s stare upon her. Salvaging a last tattered shred of bravado, she raised her chin and glared at him standing beside the wagon.

  His mouth twitched. “On the floor.”

  Mildred gasped. “You cannot possibly expect my lady to—”

  Geoffrey strode from view.

  Viscon grabbed Elizabeth’s hair and shoved her face down against the filthy floorboards coated with flour. She flattened her hands against the wood and tried to rise, but the men crowded in. They trapped her hair and clothing beneath their boots. A rustle sounded overhead, then a sour-smelling tarp settled over her and Mildred.

  Elizabeth heard muffled voices, one sharp with annoyance. Someone reached beneath the tarp and shoved a soft linen shirt in her face. It smelled of him. After dropping de Lanceau’s garment, the hand disappeared.

  A moment later, the wagon creaked into motion.

  Elizabeth jostled from side to side. Her cheek bounced against the boards and, with a grudging sigh, she spread out the shirt for her and Mildred, and laid her cheek upon it.

  The wagon rumbled on, gathering speed. Each jolted movement sent pain shooting up Elizabeth’s arm. Her head throbbed.

  She squeezed her eyes closed. She would not cry. She would not give de Lanceau the satisfaction. Under her breath, she prayed the wagon would be stopped and searched at either of the two gatehouses.

  The cart did not slow. The wheels drummed on the wooden drawbridge, then gritted on the dirt road beyond the keep.

  Anger and determination blazed through her. She would escape. She would foil whatever scheme for vengeance de Lanceau had begun.

  Above all, she would never let him harm her father.

  Chapter Four

  “Stop here.” De Lanceau’s terse command carried over the clop of hooves and the wagon’s rattle.

  Elizabeth raised her head a fraction. The crunch of dirt changed to a hiss. The wagon had veered off the road and into grass.

  After a while the jostling slowed, then stopped.

  Mildred groaned. “My body is one big bruise.”

  “Mine too.” One of the men trapping Elizabeth’s hair moved his foot, tugging on her tresses, and she winced. “Barbarians.”

  The pressure eased from her hair and clothing. The wagon swayed from side to side. The tarp shifted and was hauled away.

  Elizabeth squinted in the sudden light. The sun had risen well into the sky. She sucked in the fresh morning air and fought the dizziness that threatened to overwhelm her. She would not succumb to the beckoning darkness.

  Gritting her teeth, she pushed herself up to sitting, shoved hair from her eyes, and looked around.

  The ruffians now stood in the waist-high grass. Several guarded her and Mildred, while others moved off to keep watch from a distance. They were all armed.

  The wagon rested at the edge of a meadow. A glassy stream meandered through the field of wildflowers and grasses before it disappeared into a forest. There was no sign of a road.

  Movement drew her gaze to two men striding toward the willows that grew near the stream. She recognized de Lanceau and Dominic. They headed toward horses tethered in the trees’ dappled shade. De Lanceau’s dark hair glinted silver-blue in the sunlight and hung in waves over his tunic’s shoulders, and she cursed herself for paying him the slightest heed.

  The man was a rogue. Worse than a rogue.

  He did not warrant her attention.

  “Are ye goin’ to sit there gapin’, me foin lady, or do I come in and get ye?”

  Viscon’s fingers clamped around her wrist. The guards standing a few yards away chuckled.

  With a loud “oomph” Mildred rose to her feet, her tresses a wild tangle. “Let go of her. This boorishness is unacceptable.”

  “Ye too, ye fat old hen,” Viscon sneered. “Out. De Lanceau wants ye ta stretch yer legs. While ye can.”

  Proving he would get their cooperation one way or another, Viscon drew his dagger with a slow, deliberate rasp.

  Recalling that blade waved in her face, and his earlier threats, Elizabeth got to her feet. He looked disappointed—he obviously had hoped for a fight—then shrugged and released her.

  Mildred climbed out. Elizabeth gripped the splintered edge of the cart and stepped down to the ground. Her stomach did a sickening turn. Daisies swam beneath her feet. As she pitched forward, Viscon chortled.

  Mildred rushed over. Her arms went around Elizabeth’s waist and propped her up. “Can you stand, milady?”

  “I . . . I think so. Aye, the dizziness has cleared.”

  The matron’s worried gaze shifted to Elizabeth’s brow. “Does the gash hurt?”

  Elizabeth nodded. The headache had returned with a vengeance, and her arm throbbed as though goblins hammered at her flesh. A cool breeze whispered through the grass and swirled over her bare ankles, and she shivered.

  Mildred, too, was shivering. When she began to fuss over Elizabeth’s bloody hair and cheek, Elizabeth caught her wrinkled hands. They felt like slabs of ice. “You are chilled. Here, take my mantle.” Elizabeth unpi
nned the gold brooch and pulled the cloak from her shoulders. She ignored the men’s mutters and stares.

  “Milady! You cannot stand before these ruffians wearing only a shift.”

  Disquiet flooded through Elizabeth, but she shook her head. “I do not want you to become ill. My clothing is not indecent, and I doubt de Lanceau’s men will harm me. If they wished to do so, they had the chance earlier.”

  “But—”

  Lowering her voice, Elizabeth said, “You must stay well, so we can escape.”

  “Are you certain you do not need the cloak?”

  Elizabeth resisted the urge to hug herself. “I am.”

  With a grateful sigh, Mildred pulled the garment around her shoulders.

  Fingering windblown hair from her cheek, Elizabeth glanced across the meadow, to where de Lanceau and Dominic stood beside the horses. They were taking items from the saddlebags.

  A chill skittered through her. The mantle had given her an added layer of armor against de Lanceau’s heated gaze, but now . . .

  She shook off her thoughts. She would not drain her strength by worrying. She must focus on escape.

  Mildred fastened the brooch beneath her chin and rubbed her palms together. “Ah, for a hot draught of mint and nettle.” Her gaze slid to Viscon leaning against the wagon, then to the other watchful guards. “Why has de Lanceau run off? The least he could do is offer ointment for my lady’s wound.”

  The mercenary picked at a sore on his face. “’Is whereabouts are no concern of yers.”

  “Oaf!” Mildred turned her back to him. “Come, milady. Let me wash the grime from your face. Then I can examine the cut.”

  Sliding her left arm through the matron’s, Elizabeth whispered, “On the way, mayhap we will get a chance to flee.” They started for the stream, flattening a path through the grasses dotted with poppies and cornflowers.

  “Oy!” a guard called.

  “Where do you think you are going?” another shouted.

  Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “Ignore them.”

  Mildred chuckled. “I shall.”

  Irritated voices rose behind them. Grasses crunched as the men followed. Elizabeth quelled the urge to run. With her wounds, and the guards so close, she and Mildred would only get a few paces before they were caught.