Medieval Rogues (10 page)

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, knowing 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.”

“Eloquent words. In part, they are true.” Dominic smiled. “Yet, the lady does not seem helpless or suffering. She is a woman of astounding courage.”

Geoffrey’s rage flared, and became so intense, he almost choked. “I look into her haughty eyes and know all the luxuries she enjoyed because of my father’s sacrifice. Father bled to death in a stable. A
stable!
I owe it to him to demand revenge.”

Regret softened Dominic’s gaze. “Milord—”

“Brackendale will soon learn his daughter is missing. He will receive my ransom note, and demand my head. If he and the baron attempt a siege or challenge me to a battle, my men must be prepared.”

“Sedgewick may have ridden with Brackendale to Tillenham. He may not yet know of his betrothed’s abduction.”

Geoffrey spat an oath. “Sedgewick could not find the sharp end of a sword if it poked him in the arse.”

Dominic laughed, the sound vibrant in the quiet hall. “Still, he has the power to rouse a formidable army. His and Brackendale’s forces will outnumber yours.”

Wiping a drop of ale from the side of his mug, Geoffrey nodded. “I have not forgotten. I am not afraid.”

Uncertainty clouded Dominic’s gaze. “You asked me to scribe the ransom missive.”

“If you will. Your letters are far more patient than mine. I will not have Brackendale misinterpret my demands.” Geoffrey paused. “Yet, if you would rather not—”

“I will write it. When do you wish to send it?”

Geoffrey leaned back in his chair and stretched out his booted legs. “In a few days. First, I want Brackendale to agonize over his daughter’s fate. Then, in exchange for her return, I shall demand my rightful inheritance as Edouard de Lanceau’s first born son.”

With his finger, Dominic traced a deep mar in the tabletop. “Will you ask for Brackendale’s life, too?”

“I shall not have to. When he raises his sword to me in combat, I will not spare him.” Geoffrey imagined drawing his sword in that delicious moment, and his fingers curled and uncurled. His palm warmed with the imagined rub of leather, and the weapon’s slashing weight.

’Twould be a sweet victory.

Dominic frowned. His gaze shifted to the ledger. “There is also the matter of Viscon. Will you pay him to fight for you? He has already demanded a high fee for his part in the abduction and, I might add, has bedded down with one of the maidservants and made no move to leave.”

Geoffrey waved away Dominic’s disapproval. “I do not like the man either, but I have asked him to stay. His price is no greater than others of his profession.”

Exasperation gleamed in Dominic’s eyes. “Where will you get the silver? Have you received payment from Pietro?”

At mention of the Venetian merchant, Geoffrey smiled. He would forever be grateful that Pietro had befriended him when he was in the care of the Knights Hospitallers, at a time when Geoffrey had wished each night for death. Pietro had introduced him and Dominic to the riches of the Eastern silk and spice trade.

Aye, and Pietro had shown Geoffrey that every man had his price. When it came to his mistress.

Or his daughter.

“I do not expect the profits from the silk shipments till the first frosts. I have some silver in my coffers. I also have this.” Geoffrey drew near the wooden chest, flipped open the lid, and withdrew Elizabeth’s gold brooch.

“By the saints.” Dominic picked it up and held it at his eye level. Sunlight gleamed off the delicate design. “Where did you get it?”

“Lady Elizabeth.”

Dominic whistled and weighed the gold in his palm. “Worth a fair price, I vow.”

Geoffrey grinned. “Enough to pay several more mercenaries.”

“The brooch seems of an older style.”

“It belonged to the lady’s mother. When the lady first asked after it, I thought she missed a pretty trinket. Then I looked into her eyes, and—”

Dominic eyed him with fascination. Did he expect some kind of profound confession?

Geoffrey snapped his jaw shut. He would
not
admit compassion for her. “I do not care if ’tis important to her. Now, it belongs to me.”

“You should return it.” Dominic’s fingers brushed over the design. “If you kill Brackendale and seize his lands, she will have naught. The coin from selling this brooch would provide her an income for several years, at least until she finds a husband.”

“She is betrothed to the baron. He will provide for her.”

Dominic’s mirthless laughter cut into Geoffrey’s thoughts. “I doubt Sedgewick will still want her, when she no longer comes with a large dowry.”

Geoffrey resisted a stab of guilt. He would
not
care for the damsel, or cripple his ambitions with concerns for her welfare. Not when revenge was so close.

Over the crackling fire, he heard the patter of footsteps. He glanced up, and saw Elena. She looked tired and flustered, and he realized she had come from Elizabeth’s chamber.

He beckoned Elena over to the table.

She curtsied. “M-milord?” Her face looked pale.

“How is the lady?”

“She would not eat.” Elena stared down at her fingers, linked tightly together. “She refused. S-she said she cared not for lumpy gruel.”

Geoffrey downed the last of his ale and dried his mouth with his hand. “You left the fare with her?”

“Aye, but I do not think she will eat it.” Elena’s hands shook. “I helped her dress in the clothes you sent for her, but she almost ripped them to shreds. She shouted and cursed like a wild woman.”

He remembered well the heat of his captive’s eyes, and her stinging words. “What did she say?”

The maid drew a breath. “She . . . well, she did not respect your generosity, milord.”

“Go on.”

“She said you provided the gown of a
strumpet
.”

Geoffrey chuckled. Dominic hooted and slapped his palms on the table, and Elena jumped, her gaze as wide as a startled hare’s.

“Did you borrow from fair Veronique’s wardrobe?” Dominic asked.

“I dared not risk her wrath. I took a spare gown from one of the maids.” Geoffrey dried his eyes with his cuff, yet Elena did not curtsey and take her leave. “There was more?” he said.

She looked about to wilt in fright.

“For God’s sake,” Geoffrey snapped. “What?”

“She . . . she . . .”

“Tell me!” He did not mean to shout, but from Elena’s demeanor, he guessed the lady made another demand on his patience. She rankled him more than he ever imagined possible for one of the fairer sex, who had been in his company for less than a full turn of the sun.

“She demands . . . a bath,” the maid squeaked.

“
Demands?
” Dominic sounded astonished.

Geoffrey scowled. “Does she, now?”

“I told her she needed your permission, milord, for the water must be heated and brought up from the kitchens, but she insisted.”

Biting back his fury, Geoffrey jerked his head in dismissal. “I will deal with the lady. Tend to Mildred, then help prepare the evening meal.”

Elena dropped into a quick curtsy and scurried away.

“The next few days will be full of adventure, milord,” Dominic said with a grin.

“I do not think so.” Geoffrey shoved his chair back with such force it crashed to the floorboards. He stepped off the dais and stormed across the hall, dried rushes and herbs crunching under his boots. The sleeping dogs scrambled to their feet and darted under a table.

As he climbed the stairs to her chamber, his blood boiled.

The damsel would learn her lesson.
 

Chapter Seven

Pacing the floor of her tiny chamber, Elizabeth brushed her hand over the gown Elena had helped her into, a plain garment fit for a serving wench, not a noblewoman. “Knave,” she muttered as she walked. When she next saw de Lanceau, she would ask why he deliberately insulted her by sending her common clothing.

Her irritated gaze settled on the rough-hewn wooden door warmed by morning sunlight. If he had chosen the garment to torment her, or bend her to his will, he would soon learn she would not be manipulated or coerced.

She spun on her heel, and her leg pinched. With gentle fingers, she massaged the spot, and winced, for every muscle in her body screamed from yesterday’s horseback ride. Her limbs were as stiff as a wooden doll’s.

Reaching her arms over her head, she stretched and groaned.

A soak in steaming water perfumed with rose petals, lavender, and herbs, like the splendid baths Mildred arranged for her at Wode, would remedy the aches and pains.

Yet, de Lanceau did not seem a man to care about a prisoner’s wishes. Most of all hers.

Worry gnawed at Elizabeth. She wondered what had happened to Mildred. She hoped the matron was all right, and being shown the courtesies due a woman of her aging years.

When asked about Mildred, Elena had refused to answer. De Lanceau must have forewarned her not to divulge any details, and it seemed she took her duty to her lord with utmost seriousness. Elizabeth’s attempts to chat with the maid had won her a shy, guarded “aye” or “nay,” and no more. The conversation had dwindled to tense silence.

When asked to relay the request for a bath, Elena had looked about to faint. “I will ask, milady,” she whispered, and had sped from the room as though chased by a feral boar.

What kind of demon was de Lanceau to instill such fear in his maidservants? Uncertainty shivered through Elizabeth, but she swept it aside. Since she had not seen him since Sister Margaret’s visit, she could not have communicated her wishes except through Elena.

A bath was not such an onerous demand.

Elena had opened the shutters, and a breeze blew in the window and stirred Elizabeth’s unbound hair. She walked forward, drawn by voices and the
clang
of a blacksmith’s hammer from the bailey below. Sunshine spilled over the stone embrasure and cast the grille’s pattern onto the marred floorboards.

Elizabeth linked her fingers around the wrought iron. The sun’s warmth felt wonderful, and she leaned forward to soak in all she could.

Beyond the fortress’s curtain wall, a river meandered through wheat fields. At its deepest, the water looked as blue as her favorite bliaut. Giant oaks with gnarled roots lined the water’s edge. Swallows lifted from the boughs of one of the trees, looped and danced in the breeze, then disappeared in the direction of the distant, mist shrouded, blue-gray hills.

Elizabeth dropped her brow to the cool metal. What she would give to be a bird, with the freedom to soar wherever she desired. She would spread her wings, slip through the grille, and fly to a place where fear, death, and the past could never touch her.

Somewhere beyond the hills, her father and Aldwin rode toward Tillenham. They would reach it soon. Worry nagged at her again, and her fingers curled tighter around the bars. Did they know of her abduction? Did they know she was imprisoned at Branton?

If only there were some way to get a message to them.

Or escape.

A pair of robins hurtled past the window. They dove into the bailey and over the curtain wall, then raced back past her window. She laughed, wriggled her hand through the grille, and stretched out her fingers. One of the birds alighted on the ledge outside and studied her with its head cocked to one side.

At that moment, the door to her chamber opened. She glanced over her shoulder. De Lanceau stood in the doorway.

The robin flew away.

Withdrawing her hand, she faced him.

His expression was controlled, almost bland, but she sensed his seething rage. His gaze raked over her, from her hair to her bliaut’s hem that grazed her calves, and his lips curled in a faint grin.

He strode forward, slamming the door behind him.

Anxiety settled in Elizabeth’s belly like a lump of ice.

She was alone with him.

He halted near her, leaned one hip against the side table, and folded his arms across his jerkin. “You are well?” he asked, his words crisp yet polite.

“As well as I may be, under such conditions.” A silent groan burned inside her, for her frazzled nerves had betrayed her. While she had wished to convey her outrage and disdain, she did not want to infuriate him. Then he might never grant her a bath.

She also had no wish to repeat their earlier confrontation. Her skin still tingled where he had touched her.

“You feel mistreated?” His eyes darkened to the color of wet slate, and his gaze shifted to the bandaged wound at her temple. “How so?”

Unease ran through her, but she squared her shoulders and met his stare. “For a start, I am not used to being attended by a stranger. Mildred is my lady-in-waiting, and has been since I was a girl.”

“Elena is skilled.”

“She is, but I prefer Mildred’s help.”

He shrugged. “You cannot have it.”

Anger and concern thickened Elizabeth’s tone. “How do I know she is all right? If you dare mistreat her—”

“No one has harmed her. She is being held in another part of the keep, and is fine.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms to stop them from shaking. “If I could see her for myself, my worries would be appeased.”

He leaned farther back on the table, into a bright splash of sunlight. “You will see her soon enough.”

“When? The day my father batters through the gates and rescues me?”

De Lanceau’s jaw hardened, as though she tested the frayed boundaries of his temper. “The day my demands are met and I choose to release you, if not before then.”

A defiant reminder of her father’s military might sizzled on her tongue, but before she could say one word, de Lanceau shook his head. “I will not discuss your freedom. I was told you had grievances. Is your concern for Mildred the sum of them?”

Elizabeth shot him a glare. “Not at all. Elena tried her best, but could do naught with my hair. She could not even run a comb through it, ’tis so matted with grime. The jug of water provided me is enough to wash my face and hands, but no more, so I cannot complete my morning bath.” She sucked in a breath. “My bed linens also smell sour, and the dust in this room is thicker than mud in a pigpen.”

“I see.” His words held menace. Yet, in her ramblings, she had outlined good reasons why he should allow her a bath. She must persist until she had his answer.

“I am sure you will agree that my well being would be improved by a hot bath. I trust Elena relayed my request to you”—Elizabeth sweetened her tone in a deliberate show of respect—“
my lord?
”

His gaze sharpened. “She did.”

“And?”

“And, milady, you have no right to make demands of my servants.”

What sort of answer was that? He had not agreed to the bath, but he had also not refused her one.

She waited for him to continue. Drummed her fingers on her arms. Swept hair from her shoulder. When he still did not reply, but watched her movements like a hungry hawk, she sighed and threw up her hands. “Well? What is your answer?”

“I am considering your request.” He glanced at his fingernails, then back at her. “Elena mentioned to me you had another matter of concern. The gown?”

Elizabeth pressed her lips together. How clever of him to change the subject without agreeing. Well, she would ask him again, before their talk was done. “You have given me peasant’s clothes, milord.”

Did the light playing over his face trick her, or did his eyes spark with mirth?

“I feel a draught at my ankles.” She gave her skirts a brisk shake. “The sleeves do not cover my arms. You know as well as I that only a strumpet would bare this much flesh for all to see. ’Tis appalling.”

“I find the bliaut most fetching.”

Heat scalded Elizabeth’s cheeks. The rogue tried to appease her with flattery. Yet, she could not suppress the thrill that coursed through her, right down to her toes.

Shame crushed the pleasure. She should not savor the honeyed words of her father’s sworn enemy. “If you like this gown,” she bit out, “’tis all the more reason for me to hate it.”

His smile faded. “Milady.” Warning hummed in his voice.

She ignored an inner prick of caution and welcomed a rush of scorn. “You insisted before on courtesy and honor, yet you dishonor me with this gown. ’Tis clear you do not respect me. I shall never respect you, you despicable rogue!”

His face darkened with a lethal scowl. He straightened away from the table. “Beware. I may exact an immediate apology from your lips.”

Elizabeth thrust up her chin, even though her insides had turned as soft as pudding. She should not have insulted him, and let her pride and embarrassment overrule her common sense.

Tiny shivers started in her belly. De Lanceau was lord and master of Branton Keep. As his hostage, she had no rights or privileges. Naught stopped him from beating her if he so desired. He could throw her on the rack, have her tortured with hot irons, or lock her in a small, lightless cell without food or water for days.

He could rape her here in this room.

No one would stop him.

He took a step toward her. His boots creaked.

Elizabeth’s pulse lurched.

“So, you dislike my choice of garments.” The dangerous silk of his voice wrapped around her, threatened to ensnare her, and she fought the urge to step away.