A Knight's Vengeance Read online

  The matron shot Geoffrey a withering glare. His lips twitched. She thought to intimidate him? He had clashed swords with bloodthirsty Saracens and triumphed.

  He raised his brows.

  “Harrumph!” Mildred picked up the cloak, shook it out with a perfunctory snap, and fastened it over the black mantle.

  Over glinting gold.

  Warning tingled through Geoffrey. He had forgotten about the brooch. “Wait.”

  He stepped forward and parted the cloak’s edges with his fingers. The matron squawked and swatted his hand, but he managed to unfasten the ornament. It dropped into his palm.

  “Nay!” Elizabeth lunged forward, but Troy caught her arm. She cursed and struggled.

  Geoffrey rubbed the intricate scrolled pattern with his thumb. The metalwork was of superb quality, a masterful blend of gold and artistic design.

  “Give me my brooch.” Hurt and anger rang in Elizabeth’s voice.

  He wondered what the ornament meant to her. Mayhap one of her adoring suitors had given it to her, or Sedgewick.

  Or even her accursed father.

  Elizabeth stretched out her hand, palm upturned, fingers curled like a water lily’s petals. “Give it back. I demand it.”

  Words ground between Geoffrey’s teeth. “Demand? So you can use it to bribe one of my men and escape?” His fingers closed around the shimmering gold. “I think not.”

  “’Tis mine!”

  He locked his heart and mind against her shrieks. He would not return the brooch. By doing so, he could jeopardize his victory, and he had waited too many years for revenge.

  Geoffrey turned his back to her and slipped the gold into his bag. “Troy, get her on the horse.” Over her indignant cries, he shouted, “Paul. Viscon. Bring a horse for Mildred. Be quick about it.”

  ***

  The roan stumbled. Elizabeth pitched forward, then back against Troy’s chest. Her breath expelled on a groaned “oomph.” The cursed nag seemed to find every one of the road’s potholes and raised stones.

  Elizabeth straightened and drew back the edge of the cloak’s hood which shielded her face. Viscon rode on her right, his scarred hand braced upon his knee, his saddle creaking like a hangman’s noose.

  Shuddering, she recalled the gleam in de Lanceau’s eyes when he had spurred his destrier up alongside her several leagues back. He had ordered Mildred and Paul, riding on her left, to the back of the entourage. No doubt he had done so to separate her from her one ally on the journey.

  Fury had whooshed through Elizabeth like a summer fire, for she had indeed planned to conspire with Mildred to leave clues behind—a dropped shoe, or even a torn bit of shift. When de Lanceau had addressed her and asked if she were all right, Elizabeth had stared off at the fields and refused to answer.

  His rough laughter had mocked her. “Watch her,” he had told Viscon in a tone cold enough to freeze stone. “If she draws attention to us, or escapes, you forfeit your payment.”

  Elizabeth sensed the mercenary’s gaze dart over her now like the flick of a serpent’s tongue. “Keep yer head down,” he snapped.

  She dropped her chin, but only until his attention slid from her to a dog bounding through a field dotted with clusters of bundled sheaves. Raising her lashes, she looked through the haze of dust and floating dandelion spores to where de Lanceau rode ahead with Dominic. They spoke in low voices, their words punctuated by occasional laughter.

  Both had donned concealing cloaks, as had the guards. The easy sway of de Lanceau’s hips proved he was comfortable riding a horse. She scowled. Of course he was. On Crusade, he had galloped headlong into battle against the Saracens.

  He had become a hero.

  He was no hero now. He was a man robed in deceit. He kept his horse to a walk, adding to the illusion they were a convoy of unhurried travelers. The farmers and peasants they passed on the road would not suspect him of kidnapping their lord’s daughter and spiriting her off to his wretched keep.

  Elizabeth fought the sting of tears, and glared at de Lanceau’s back. Knave. She could never replace her treasured brooch. Would he return it, or keep it as part of his cruel revenge?

  She could not bear to think of never wearing the beautiful ornament again.

  Viscon grunted and swatted her cloak’s sleeve. “Head down.”

  De Lanceau swiveled in his saddle, his expression wary. She dropped her gaze to the roan’s tangled mane and bit back an unladylike oath.

  As the day wore on, she shifted in the saddle to ease a cramp in her thigh. Twice, de Lanceau took bread and mead from his saddlebag and passed it back to her and his men. Twice, Elizabeth refused. Her bottom hurt. Her arm pained. Her head ached so much that her stomach churned, and she could not have swallowed the food if she tried. Hugging her arms across her grumbling belly, she tried to forget the mead’s tempting scent and her parched mouth.

  Swollen clouds blackened the afternoon sky. As raindrops splattered on her hood and shoulders and peppered the road with dark spots, de Lanceau barked an order to quicken their pace.

  She burrowed into the cloak’s folds. While the garment provided her with an extra layer of warmth, it did not stop the water from soaking through. Her shift plastered to her skin. The road transformed into a sheet of mud. Ahead, de Lanceau and Dominic huddled against the driving rain. Their chatter and laughter ceased. Over the gusting wind and clip-clop of hooves, she heard harsh commands to keep moving.

  Her teeth chattered, and she pulled the cloak tighter around her body. Dizziness courted her, and tempted her to close her eyes and yield to soothing darkness.

  It seemed only a moment later that a hand shook her.

  “Milady.” Troy’s voice sounded distant. “Wake up.”

  “Mmm?” She forced her leaden eyelids open and pushed wet strands of hair from her cheek. As the smells of horse and wet earth flooded her consciousness, she blushed, mortified to find she had slumped against Troy’s chest.

  She sat up, and froze. Twilight had fallen. Ahead, a fortress perched on the edge of a natural rock incline. Silhouetted against the sunset’s vibrant reds, oranges, and gold, the stone walls looked as black as midnight. The squared keep thrust up past the crenellated curtain wall like an ugly dragon rearing its head, and a water moat curled around like a tail.

  Branton Keep looked a forbidding place. She had no wish to ride into de Lanceau’s lair, but her body screamed for an end to the day’s ride, a change of clothing, and a hot, tasty meal free of flies and lumps.

  As they clattered through the streets of the town nestled around the fortress’s wall, villagers peered out of their wattle-and-daub homes. De Lanceau spurred his horse to a canter, and the other men did the same. As they approached the massive wood and iron portcullis, locked under the gatehouse, he shouted to the sentries in the watchtowers. The wooden drawbridge thumped down over the moat, the portcullis winched up with a squeal, and the inner wooden doors opened.

  Flickering reed torches lit the inner bailey. Men emerged from straw-roofed buildings, some young, some old and battle hardened. They smiled and, as de Lanceau reined his horse to a halt, welcomed him with cheers and handshakes. His face eased into a boyish grin, and an odd pang gripped Elizabeth. She looked away.

  Troy slid down from the roan and led it through the crowd toward the stables. She struggled to calm her pulse. What would happen to her now? The boisterous chatter around her swelled, and she laced her clammy fingers together over her lap. She must keep her wits about her. Any man who tried to harm her would learn she was the daughter of a powerful lord, and would regret his actions.

  As Troy slowed the mount near the stables, the noise seemed to rise again. She glanced over her shoulder. De Lanceau had dismounted and stood watching her, his gaze as keen as a predatory hawk’s.

  He handed his destrier’s reins to a stable hand. “Will you need help getting down from the horse, milady?”

  His words hummed with challenge. She shoved back the soaked hood, and, ignoring the icy rain
water trickling down her arms, shot him the frostiest stare she could muster. “Not from you.”

  She stretched her stiff legs and prayed for ladylike grace as she drew one leg over the front of the saddle. Despite her bravado, she winced.

  De Lanceau muttered under his breath. He shrugged out of his wet cloak and drab tunic, tossed them to a servant, and headed toward her. The sea of men around him parted.

  A tremor shook her. He could not mean to help her himself. The thought of his hands upon her—

  She should not stare at him. ’Twas not proper. But, she could not seem to wrench her gaze away. His common garments had concealed a black tunic, a garment that rivaled even her father’s costliest clothes. The damp cloth molded to de Lanceau’s chest, outlining broad swells of muscle. Exquisite filigree embroidery accented the tunic’s collar and cuffs. Light glittered off the gold thread. How he captivated.

  As he neared, his jaw taut with purpose, she jolted her exhausted body into motion.

  “Lady Elizabeth!” Troy cried. “Wait.”

  She held the edge of the saddle, turned, and slid down.

  The instant her slippers touched the slick, hard-packed ground, her legs collapsed. She clawed for the saddle. “Oh!”

  Arms swooped around her from behind. De Lanceau’s embroidered cuff brushed against her wrist. He drew her back against him, supporting her weight with his. Her bottom pressed against his thighs. Her cloak tangled about his legs.

  Awareness hurtled through her. She squirmed, tried to pull away, but dizziness thwarted her. She sucked in a breath, ripe with the scents of man and sweaty horse, and fought to clear her whirling mind.

  Potent, invisible tension unfurled in her belly.

  His breath stirred her hair. “Can you stand?” Next to her ear, his voice sounded unsteady.

  She nodded.

  He pushed her away, and turned her to face him.

  “Does your arm still pain you? What of your forehead?” Concern glinted in his eyes.

  Drawing herself up to her full height, Elizabeth refused to acknowledge the slightest gratitude for his compassion. He had abducted her as part of his plan for vengeance, and no doubt intended to use her as leverage against her father.

  De Lanceau did not care for her well-being.

  “I am fine,” she said.

  His laughter grated. His eyes darkened to steel gray.

  Elizabeth gnawed her lip. He knew she lied, but if it took every last bit of her strength, she would not admit weakness.

  “For a moment,” he drawled, “I thought you looked pale and unwell.” His smile turned lazy and, as his gaze traveled over her sodden cloak, her breath settled like a rock between her ribs. “I would hate to think my prize had been damaged during the day’s journey. Your value to me might be lessened, Lady Elizabeth, if that were so.”

  She swallowed. She scrambled to find words with which to battle, scathing remarks to wound and scar.

  Yet, she was so very, very tired.

  Darkness beckoned. She closed her eyes, unable to resist.

  The bailey’s noise faded to a drone.

  A hand caught her elbow. Steadied her, though she did not realize, until then, how close she had been to collapsing.

  “Troy, escort her to her chamber.”

  When Elizabeth opened her eyes, de Lanceau had gone. He stood across the bailey, speaking to an old woman drawing water from the well. Elizabeth strained to see past the stable hands crowded around the other riders, to see what had become of Mildred, but Troy set his hand in the small of her back and urged her toward the keep’s forebuilding.

  She stepped inside. The dank air smelled of cheap tallow candles and a century of secrets.

  Her strides stiffened. De Lanceau intended to throw her in his dungeon. A shiver rippled through her, and she steeled herself to face rats and iron shackles. Yet, Troy led her up into a cramped, winding stairwell. At the end of three flights of stairs they came to a chamber. A short, plump maidservant with wide brown eyes and hair the color of honey stood inside. She turned as they approached. After setting down a stoneware pitcher, she dipped in a timid curtsey and hurried out.

  Troy motioned for Elizabeth to enter.

  She paused on the threshold, held back by a sense of misgiving. “Whose chamber is this? Why have you brought me here? Tell de Lanceau I—”

  Mumbling an apology, Troy shoved her forward. The door thumped closed. A key grated in the lock.

  “Troy!”

  Elizabeth fisted her hands and hammered on the door. He did not answer. She yanked on the iron handle, twisted and turned it, but the metal refused to budge.

  With a furious sigh, she spun away from the door. Her fingers shook, yet she managed to shed the cloak. It slapped into a heap on the floorboards. She ignored the ache of bruised muscles and stalked around the chamber. If there were a way to escape, she would find it.

  She threw open the window’s wooden shutters. A wrought iron grille barred the opening, and held firm when she gave it a good tug. She slammed the shutters closed.

  Turning on her heel, she crossed to the high oak bed near the door. The worn sheets had been patched in places, as had the woolen blankets. They would not hold up if she ripped them to shreds and braided them into a rope. Desperate laughter bubbled in her throat. Since she could not squeeze past the grille, that plan had no merit anyway.

  Her belly did an anxious turn, and, steadying herself, Elizabeth leaned against one of the bedposts. Her palm brushed rough wood. Glancing down, she saw the post had once splintered. The clumsy repair was the work of an apprentice rather than a skilled carpenter. She smiled. If she exerted enough pressure, mayhap she could snap the post again. She could use it to batter down the door, or, if that failed, knock senseless whoever next came into the chamber.

  Linking her hands around the mended wood, she pulled, hard. The joint held firm.

  Defeat wailed inside her. Refusing to listen, she crossed to the dust-covered trestle table and the bedside table set with candles. Neither held items that might aid her escape. Not even a book to hurl at a guard and distract him, while she dashed for the door.

  De Lanceau had planned well.

  Elizabeth slumped on the bed’s edge. The ropes squeaked and sagged. Her eyes burned and she bit back a defeated sob.

  She would not cry.

  Lying on her side, her cheek pressed to the pillow, she stared at the opposite wall. She should remove her garments before she got a chill or soaked her blankets. Yet, all strength had drained from her body.

  Her eyelids drooped. Wretched de Lanceau. He had not sent a bath to ease her aching muscles, wash her wounds, and scrub away the wagon’s filth. He had not offered her a meal, lumpy or not. She wrinkled her nose. The pillowcase smelled sour, no doubt stored before it had dried, and the linen scratched her skin.

  Her eyes closed. Elizabeth fought the ever-present dizziness. She must not rest. She must not sleep.

  She must find a way to escape.

  ***

  Geoffrey stood in the chamber doorway and listened to Elizabeth’s rhythmic breathing. Hers was a sleep of sheer exhaustion, free, for now, of emotional distress and memories that gnawed at one’s soul until it bled.

  How he envied her.

  His leather boots creaked as he crossed the threshold. Moonlight slipped in through the cracks in the shutters and painted the room in an ethereal, silvery light. The maidservant Elena had left a candle burning beside the bed, but he did not need its light to see. Still, he did not snuff the flame.

  Softening his strides, he approached the bed. He stared down at Elizabeth. Studied the beauty he had snared.

  Willful damsel. She had surprised him today with her defiance, but in the end she had only made the journey more difficult for herself.

  She lay on her back, her hair tangled across the pillow, the bedding tucked about her shoulders. She had not stayed awake long enough for Elena to bring food or water to wash. The damsel had not even roused when the damp clothes
were stripped from her body. When Elena had applied the last of the healing salve he had saved from the hospital at Acre to Elizabeth’s temple, she had moaned, but not awakened. Not once.

  His gaze skimmed over her cheek, brushed by moonlight. Did his eyes trick him, or did she look ill? Frowning, Geoffrey bent over her. Her lids were the color of cream above the dark fans of her lashes. Her mouth formed a gentle pout, innocent of the biting words she hurled at him at every opportunity. Elena said the lady had no fever, but he set his hand on her forehead to see for himself. Her flesh was warm, pulsing with life, but not hot.

  She stirred. Sighed.

  He jerked back, and his face stung. He hoped he had not woken her. What would he say?

  If he tried to leave the chamber now, he would wake her for certain.

  Still as a tombstone, he counted his throbbing heartbeats. Waited. Her head drifted to one side, and her breathing slowed.

  Relief whooshed through his body. He should leave and tend to the other matters demanding his attention this evening.

  Yet, the delicious warmth of her skin shimmered on his palm.

  He longed to touch her again.

  Caution blazed through him. Still, his traitorous fingers trailed a feather-light path down the side of her face. How smooth her skin felt against his, and as soft as the silk hawked in the crowded Venetian markets.

  Her warmth curled up his hand. Reminded him, with arousing potency, of how good she had felt in his arms.

  He ground his teeth and drew away from the bedside.

  She had found a weakness in him. How he hated her for it.

  The candle extinguished on his coarse oath. He could not afford weakness. Not when years of anguish and rage had led him to this pivotal point, and victory was so near.

  This beauty was his enemy. He admired her boldness, but he would not let her weaken him. Not through desire.

  He turned and strode to the door.

  Lady Elizabeth Brackendale would never touch his soul.