A Knight's Vengeance Read online

  Chapter Six

  Through a sleepy haze, Elizabeth became aware of two people speaking. The man’s voice seemed familiar, but she did not recognize the woman’s.

  “Milord, the head wound does not appear deep,” the woman said in hushed tones. “’Twill be clearer once I wash away the dirt and blood.”

  Elizabeth’s groggy mind stirred. Who had been injured?

  “Troy told me she faded in and out of consciousness.”

  Concern poked at the fog smothering Elizabeth’s thoughts. Troy? She recognized the name, but could not remember from where. Why did her thoughts seem as dense as cabbage pottage?

  “Poor dove. She will have a mark on her brow for a few days, I vow.”

  The man sighed with displeasure. “What of her arm?”

  “’Tis not broken, but the bruises may cause her discomfort.”

  A breeze wafted against Elizabeth’s cheeks. Fabric rustled. She dragged up the strength to raise her lashes.

  A warm, wet cloth pressed against her temple.

  Pain!

  She gasped. Her eyes flew open.

  “Do not fret, my child.” An old woman hovered at the bedside. Her black habit and white wimple enhanced her round face wizened by sun-bronzed wrinkles. Her smile offered trust.

  Elizabeth licked her dry lips. “Who—”

  “Lie still. Let Sister Margaret finish her work.”

  The rumbled command swept the last slumberous cobwebs from Elizabeth’s mind. Memories of the previous day flooded back to her, and her stomach tightened.

  She turned her head on the pillow. Geoffrey de Lanceau leaned against the doorway, his leather-booted legs crossed at the ankle. He wore a burgundy wool jerkin and black hose, and looked refreshed and clean despite their long journey but a short time ago. He had even shaved. With his squared jaw bare of stubble, he looked even more arrogant.

  Her gaze flew back to Sister Margaret. Did the nun know that de Lanceau was a kidnapper? It seemed not. Sister Margaret’s gentle smile did not waver as she rinsed the bloody cloth in a bowl on the side table, and dabbed again at the wound.

  “Ouch!” Ignoring a wave of nausea and dizziness, Elizabeth pushed herself up to sitting. Yet, she did not lie atop the bedding as she remembered, but was snug inside it.

  The linen sheet slid from her shoulders. A draft cooled her throat. Her bare throat.

  Someone had removed her shift.

  She squeaked and snatched at the bedding.

  De Lanceau chuckled. With lazy strides, he strode to her, his boots thudding on the floorboards.

  The nun glanced at Elizabeth. Puzzlement shone in the woman’s eyes before she shook her head and picked up the bowl. “I must fetch clean water. I shall return in a moment.”

  As the door clicked shut behind the nun, Elizabeth clutched the blankets to her naked flesh.

  “What ails you, damsel?”

  A blush stung her face. “How dare you.”

  “Dare I what?” He dropped down on the edge of the bed. The ropes creaked and groaned, and she bobbed up and down like a child’s ball. With effortless grace, he crossed one muscled thigh over the other and seemed oblivious to her frantic attempts to keep hold of the bedding, though she guessed from the mischievous glint in his eyes that he knew of her predicament.

  She shot him an icy glare. “Where is my shift?”

  His grin, a slash of straight, white teeth, made her belly flip-flop. “Ah, I remember now. That filthy, ripped bit of linen? The one you wore yesterday?”

  “Aye,” she snapped.

  “I told Elena, the maidservant, to send it to one of the town peasants. He could use it for scraps.”

  “You what?”

  De Lanceau’s brow furrowed into a frown. “Should I ask Sister Margaret to treat your hearing too?”

  “I hear as well as you.” Elizabeth choked back a shriek. “My shift could have been mended with a needle and thread. You had no right to give it away.”

  De Lanceau flicked a speck of lint from his hose. His gaze locked with hers. “’Twas not worth salvaging. The esteemed Lord Arthur Brackendale would not want his daughter to be seen wearing such an inferior garment.”

  Anguish lanced through her, but she stifled the hurt. She would not stoop to his challenge and fight to defend her father. Her sire was a brave, loyal, noble man, and when he learned of her abduction, he would lead his army to Branton and squash de Lanceau like an annoying bug.

  “By your own admission, you are a thief as well as a rogue,” she said in a cold voice. “’Twill cost you many coins to replace my shift with one of equal quality. Yet, you will, since you are responsible for its ruin.”

  His brows arched. “Am I?”

  “You are.”

  He laughed. A warning. He flattened one hand on the bedding and leaned on his extended arm, bringing his broad torso nearer to hers.

  She shivered, but refused to shrink back from him. She would not be threatened by his nearness. His mocking words had failed to defeat her. His intimidation would not either.

  His tanned fingers splayed on the patched blankets. His hands were beautiful. Callused, weathered, yet nobly formed. She remembered his fingers closing around her mother’s brooch, and resentment swirled within her like a gathering tempest.

  Had he taken the ornament to sell it? The gold would fetch a good price, more than most merchants earned in a year. With its proceeds, he could hire an army to fight her father.

  She must get the ornament back.

  “The brooch you took from me,” she began.

  He shrugged. “The trinket?”

  “’Tis not a trinket.”

  His gaze bored into hers. “Why is it important to you?”

  Elizabeth looked at her white-knuckled fingers. If he knew how she cherished the brooch, he might ensure she never got it back. By admitting how much it meant to her, she gave him another means to taunt and wound her.

  Yet, if she did not speak out, how could she hope he would understand or return it?

  Tamping down an inner cry for silence, she said, “It belonged to my mother.”

  “I see.”

  “She gave it to me before she died.” Elizabeth looked up at him. “I ask that you return it now.”

  His mouth flattened. “I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “As I said before, I will not risk you using it to bribe a servant. You are an intelligent and resourceful woman. You would use any means to escape me.”

  “I give you my word.”

  “Your word?” He laughed. “You think I am foolish enough to trust you?” His gaze clashed with hers, then slid down to her shoulder peeking above the blankets. Dangerous promise blazed in his eyes. “I will not risk losing you, before I have had revenge.”

  Wariness screamed through her. He stared as though he saw through her flimsy shield of sheets and blankets.

  Someone had undressed her as she slept.

  Had he?

  Shock snatched the air from her lungs. Heat scorched across her skin. The indignity. The horror. The thought of his hands upon her as she slumbered, oblivious—

  Words, rough as stones, ground between her teeth. “Who removed my shift?”

  De Lanceau grinned. “Who do you think?”

  A chill raked down her spine, yet she must ask. “Did you?”

  He shook his head, and his silky hair slid over his shoulders. “Elena has nursed the sick and aged for years and tended you well. She told me you did not stir once.” His smile turned crooked. “If I had been so inclined to undress you, damsel, you would have awakened. And you would remember the experience.”

  “Why, you lewd, vile—”

  The bed ropes creaked. He leaned toward her. Closer. Closer. Blue flecks darkened his irises, yet that was not half as unsettling as the blackness of his pupils. Or the intoxicating, soapy tang that surrounded him.

  He paused, his face a mere hand’s span from hers. “Beware your insults, my dear lady.” His words rubbed ove
r her nerves like gritty sand. “Remember, your fate lies in my grasp.”

  Did he expect her to cower like a terrified girl? In her mind, Elizabeth condemned him to eternal torment in Purgatory. “I do not fear you, and do not call me your lady.”

  “Why not? You are my prisoner. You are secured like a dove in a stone cage. You are indeed my chattel.”

  “Chattel?”

  “As lord of Branton Keep, I command all who live within these walls, including you. My blood is as noble as yours, milady. I will speak to you with respect, and, in turn, you will address me with the honor I am due.”

  Stunned laughter bubbled up inside her. Honor? He was a thief, a rogue, and a traitor’s son. “Never.”

  “Tsk, tsk. You will not win my favor with that answer.”

  Her breath exploded from her lungs. “Your favor? You arrogant, thick headed—”

  He lunged. Before she could scoot sideways, he caught her chin. She shook her head, tried to jerk free, but he pulled her forward until their noses almost touched.

  His glittering gaze bored into hers. Where his fingertips touched, her skin tingled. Burned.

  Her pulse thundered.

  Awareness hummed. He was her avowed enemy, but also a man. A bold, handsome, determined man.

  Why had she taunted him?

  His eyes lightened with the barest smile. “Now, I ask you again. Will you show me due courtesy?”

  By sheer willpower, she said, “Nay.”

  “I can make you say ‘my lord’.”

  His thumb traced her jawline. Oh, God, that one, gentle touch was enough. Her skin throbbed. Her body began to wilt like a parched flower, like a besotted maiden’s in the chivalric tales. His touch devastated like a lover’s kiss.

  Nay, his kiss would shatter her.

  He seemed to sense her thoughts, for he looked at her mouth. He stared as though her lips were a feast, and he was starved.

  She fisted her hands into the bedding. “Release me.”

  “Why? You have not done as I bade.” His thumb paused, then started to caress her neck with light strokes.

  “Stop.”

  “Say ‘my lord.’ Two simple words. Then, I will cease this sweet torture.”

  “You cannot sway me.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed for fortitude. “You are knave, a rogue, a criminal. I will never show you the respect that—Ohhh!”

  His chuckle rumbled like a cat’s purr. “Aye?”

  A moan burned for release. Would she have to yield?

  Three knocks sounded on the door before it creaked open.

  Relief flooded through Elizabeth.

  Shuffled footsteps echoed, then a gasp. “Lord de Lanceau?” Sister Margaret’s voice quavered. “Shall I wait outside? I . . . I do not mean to intrude, but soon, I must return to the abbey to settle the accounts and—”

  De Lanceau growled under his breath. “I will hear you say it, damsel.” His hand dropped away. “Come, Sister.”

  He uncrossed his legs and rose from the bed.

  The ropes shifted, settled, and Elizabeth exhaled. She had won a reprieve. For now. She slumped back against the pillows, cocooning herself in the bedding.

  In quiet tones, he spoke with the nun. She appeared bewildered and a little frightened, but as he continued, gesturing with his hands, the worry left her eyes. She nodded.

  Elizabeth scowled. Whatever he had said, he had gilded the truth to suit his purpose.

  De Lanceau smoothed the front of his jerkin. “Milady, Sister Margaret will finish tending your wounds now.”

  “’Tis a pity you must leave,” Elizabeth said. Hope sparked within her like a greedy flame. If he quit the chamber, she could tell the nun of the kidnapping. Mayhap Sister Margaret would even relay a message to—

  De Lanceau’s laughter prowled into her thoughts. “I will wait here until she is done. I will not have you delaying her work, or telling delusional tales. A knock to the head can cause all manner of imaginings.”

  As Sister Margaret strolled to the bed, Elizabeth pursed her lips and stared at the mortared wall. He might have thwarted her for now, but she would not yield to defeat.

  Not now.

  Not ever.

  ***

  Geoffrey escorted the nun out of the chamber, shut the door behind him, and guided her down to the great hall. He ordered a maidservant to fetch the wooden chest from his solar. Once she returned, he withdrew a small bag and pressed it into the nun’s hands. “Thank you. I pray my donation is welcome.”

  Her fingers closed around the bag and the coins inside clinked. Her eyes widened. “Milord, ’tis too much.”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “The sisters do good work in this land. I vow the abbey has need of the coin, as you have started feeding the children who beg in Branton’s market.”

  A smile spread across the nun’s face. She bowed her head, patted his arm, and then shuffled off toward the forebuilding.

  He tucked the chest under one arm and watched her leave, an odd sensation warming his belly. He had indeed been generous, more so than he could afford. Yet, when he had sent a messenger to the abbey, seeking a healer, she had come right away and had not plied him with awkward questions.

  Blowing a sigh, he glanced across the smoky hall to the leather bound ledger, quill, and ink he had left earlier on the lord’s table. He skirted the dogs curled up near the hearth, stepped onto the dais, and dropped into his high-backed chair. He pushed the chest aside. The shy maidservant set a jug of ale before him. He nodded in thanks, then opened the ledger.

  The crisp pages, marked with lines of black ink, whispered as he fingered through them. In the blended scents of cured parchment, ale, and smoke from the fire, he caught a memory of Elizabeth’s fragrance. His brow creased into a scowl. He flattened his lips and glanced over the rows of numbers, accounting of the recent purchases of wine, spices, grain . . .

  He wondered what Lady Elizabeth was doing now. Did she march about the chamber, damning his name? Had she wrapped herself in her blankets, one hand holding them together while she paced and plotted her next verbal battle? What a glorious sight she was when her eyes blazed blue fire.

  He tapped the ledger’s edge. By now, Elena should have delivered the lady’s meal and clean clothes. A laugh tickled the back of his throat. He wished he could have seen the lady’s face when she spied her new garments. Ah, wickedness.

  He blinked, and the ledger came back into focus. Sunlight slanted further across the scratched oak table. The day passed. Once he had settled the accounts, he must ensure he and his men were prepared to confront a furious Lord Brackendale.

  That day would come. Soon.

  Geoffrey snatched up the quill, braced an arm on the table, and leaned his head on his hand. He began to add a row of numbers. Anger simmered. He should not waste moments thinking of her, when vital details demanded his focus. He was not starved for a woman’s attentions. The lady was no more than a means to change fate and, at last, avenge that night years ago.

  “Milord.” Dominic stood at the opposite side of the table, his hair snarled and coated with dust, his tunic damp across the chest. No doubt he had been in the tiltyards.

  Geoffrey lifted his cheek from his numb hand. How had he not heard Dominic approach? Pointing to the chair beside him, he said, “Come. Sit.”

  A wry smile tilted Dominic’s mouth. After scraping the chair back, he sat. “You looked leagues away. You were not mulling over the accounts.”

  “Nay,” Geoffrey muttered.

  Dominic’s gaze shadowed. He linked his hands together and rested them on the table. “Do you have doubts?”

  “Of course not. Our plot is unfolding the way I had hoped.”

  “Then what troubles you?”

  “Naught.” Geoffrey sipped his ale and swirled the lukewarm, bitter liquid on his tongue. He would not be coaxed into revealing his musings on the lady. He picked up the ale jug and offered Dominic a drink, but his friend shook his head and chuckled, an all-too-familiar, k
nowing sound.

  The jug landed back on the table with a clunk.

  “Milord, I have known you long enough to know your moods”—Dominic grinned like a well-fed cat—“and when you speak false.”

  A groan dragged up from deep within Geoffrey. What had he done this time to give himself away? Hold his mouth at an angle? Squish his eyebrows together?

  “Will you tell me what weighs upon your mind, or must I resort to more devious measures?”

  Despite his friend’s good-natured teasing, fury heated Geoffrey’s blood. He resisted a snide reply. Loyal, trusted Dominic did not deserve his scorn. “If you must know, my thoughts were of no consequence.”

  Dominic snorted. “You insult me. Do you believe that after visiting your hospital bed every day for months and months, and coaxing you back to the world of the living, I have no idea what eats at your soul?”

  The residual ale soured in Geoffrey’s mouth. “You visited me because you expected me to die. You felt obliged to offer me succor until my spirit left my body.”

  “There were other reasons, as well you know.”

  Geoffrey’s words emerged as a growl. “As I told you long ago, and many times since, you are not indebted to me for saving your life at Acre.”

  “Not once, but twice. I do owe you. That is why I worry about your well-being.”

  Geoffrey gave a brittle laugh. “It seems you are the one with doubts, my friend.”

  To his surprise, Dominic did not refute the statement with a jest and a lop-sided grin, but nodded. “Rage is a dangerous ally. I hope in the coming days you will not act with rashness, and will consider the consequences of your vengeance. You are a good man. I have no desire to see you lose your head.”

  “My father was a good man. He should not have died a traitor. Thomas, too, did not deserve his fate.” Geoffrey’s fingers tightened around his earthenware mug. “My brother deserved to be a scholar, as he dreamed.”

  Geoffrey downed a long draught of ale. The anguish had not dimmed, even after eighteen years. The invisible wound hurt ten times worse than the Saracen blade that had plunged deep into his chest and left as proof a brutal scar.

  “You cannot change the past,” Dominic said, “but—”

  “You believe I am mad to return to England and seek what is mine. I should release the helpless, suffering Lady Elizabeth, forget revenge, take Veronique to Venice, and earn a fortune from the silk trade.”