Medieval Rogues (11 page)

Her nervous gaze dropped to his jerkin, the color of fine Bordeaux. She doubted even her father could afford such magnificent material that looked as soft to the touch as lamb’s wool. “You picked this gown on purpose. You intended to humiliate me.”

His heel scraped on the floor as he took another step forward. “Would you prefer to go without clothing?”

“Of course not.” She did not like his nearness, but she also would not show cowardice and retreat.

“You should be satisfied with what I have given you. Grateful, even.”

“
Grateful?
”

He nodded. His hair, curving past the edge of his collar, gleamed like polished oak. “When I came to Branton, I found it in disrepair. ’Twill take months to bring it to the standard to which a spoiled lady, like you, is accustomed.”

Chills rippled through her.

“Vast structural repairs must be done or this keep will crumble into a heap of stones and mortar. I need a full retainer of servants, which I do not have. There are far too many tasks for a few hands, yet I still provided you and your lady-in-waiting with a warm bed, clean clothing, food, and drink.” His lips drew back from his teeth. “I even paid a healer with my own coin, little that I have, to tend your wounds.”

“W-why are you telling me this?”

Promise smoldered in his gaze. Promise of . . . what?

He smiled, but warmth did not touch his eyes. “Mayhap I should have sent you to the dungeon instead. ’Tis a foul place, the perfect home for spiders, rats, and
vermin
.” His tongue curled around the word and Elizabeth shuddered. “’Tis damp and cold even in the heat of summer. Unlike this chamber, which you hold in such contempt.”

De Lanceau took one last step and halted in front of her. His gaze raked up the front of her bliaut. “Aye, you have much to be grateful for. Most of all, that I have not unleashed my fury and sought your body to appease me.”

Elizabeth gasped. She stumbled back, but his hand caught her left wrist and held her firm. She struggled, but he pulled her toward him until her breasts brushed his jerkin. Fabric whispered where their bodies touched.

He smelled of bitter, earthy ale. Of man.

Trembling, she stared up at the seductive fullness of his lips. “Milord.”

“You think to apologize?” His breath fanned against her forehead. “Too late, milady. You have taxed my restraint once too often with your waspish tongue.”

With a strangled cry, Elizabeth broke free of his grip. She whirled and bolted toward the trestle table.

De Lanceau’s laughter chased her. Pace by pace, he stalked her down the table. She scooted ahead of him, her bottom pressed against the table’s edge. Her hands skidded on the dusty surface. She tried to dart past him, but he thwarted her escape.

Her fingertips scraped against stone, and, with a horrified jolt, she realized she was against the far wall.

Trapped.

A wicked smirk on his lips, de Lanceau towered over her. He crowded her back into the corner.

His palms slammed on the wall either side of her head.

“Tell me,” he murmured against her hair. “Are your only assets the lands you bring to marriage, damsel? Or, are there other reasons for Sedgewick to covet you as his betrothed?”

“I do not know what you mean.” She flattened back against the cold stone, one hip squeezed against the end of the table.

“You will.”

“Please, let me go.”

His fingers tangled into her hair. “You should not have provoked me. Any woman with any sense would have realized I am not a kind or patient man.”

His thumb tilted up her chin.

He meant to kiss her.

Elizabeth jerked her face away. With gentle but firm movements, he twisted her hair around his hand until she had no choice but to look at him. “Nay,” she choked. “N—”

His mouth crushed down over hers.

The kiss tasted of anger. His lips branded hers with the essence of ale. His tongue lashed. In all her years, no man had ever kissed her.

No one had dared.

She shrieked and clawed and scratched at his jerkin. The fabric softened her blows. Grinding his hips against hers, he pinned her flush against the wall. Where they touched, the heat of his body scorched.

Elizabeth squeezed her lashes shut. His scent enveloped her, and her head reeled. Somehow she must endure this torture. She must maintain a prudent detachment until he lost interest or she wriggled free. With a strangled sob, she let her hands fall to her sides.

She sensed tension warring within him, the desire to crush her spirit with his strength. Yet, he did not. His kisses slowed, gentled, and as his tongue flicked into the corner of her mouth, she gasped. The skin across her chest tingled, a similar sensation to when he had kissed her hand in the market.

An unfamiliar ache blossomed inside her.

He nibbled her bottom lip. Taunted. Coaxed. Dared her, with the glide of his mouth and tongue, to meet his sensual challenge.

A muzzy haze clouded her thoughts. In her mind, she wept in self-reproach. He knew of the tremors running through her body.

Tremors not due to fear.

She moaned. Her lips parted. Despite the warning shrilling inside her, she began to kiss him back.

He growled. The pleasured sound stirred a primitive hunger. Molten heat flooded through her like sunlit water surging across glistening sand, slowing to a swirling eddy, and then returning a moment later on another cresting tide. His tongue slid into her mouth, and she sighed.

He released her hair. His fingers caressed her neck, and then slipped down her shoulder blade.

His palm brushed her breast.

She stiffened. Shock slashed through the haze of wondrous sensation, then indignation. De Lanceau meant to do more than kiss her.

As he had no doubt planned, she had melted under his onslaught like a lusty tavern wench. He could not conquer her will, so he would subdue her body instead.

This man was her sworn enemy.

She betrayed her father by wanting de Lanceau’s touch.

Resentment drowned her last glimmerings of pleasure. De Lanceau hesitated. He lifted his lips from hers and stared down into her face, his heavy-lidded gaze intense.

Protecting her bruised arm, she braced her palm against his chest and shoved with all her might. She kicked his shins and scratched with her nails. He swore, yelped, and she broke free.

Elizabeth darted behind the bed. “You
rogue!
” With the back of her wrist, she scrubbed her mouth, desperate to erase the taste and feel of him.

“I did not hear you protesting a moment ago.” He dragged a hand through his mussed hair and glared at her.

“You will pay for your boldness. My father will see you punished.”

De Lanceau’s eyes glinted like steel. “Consider what happened fair warning, damsel. Next time, you will not escape unscathed.”
 

Chapter Eight

Geoffrey strode into the hall, his clipped strides shattering the near silence.

Dominic glanced up from where he sat by the hearth. “The first adventure, milord?”

With a savage roar, Geoffrey slammed his fist down on a trestle table. Stoneware mugs bounced into the air with a dissonant
clink
. The scullery maids setting out bread for the evening meal shrieked and glanced at one another. He scowled in their direction, and, after frantic curtsies, they disappeared into the stairwell.

Aware of Dominic’s grin, refusing to acknowledge it, Geoffrey grabbed a mug, sloshed in some ale, and downed it in one gulp. The drink cooled his burning throat.

Every muscle in his body felt as taut as a drawn bowstring.

Because of her.

Dominic rose from a carved oak chair. He raised an eyebrow and his gaze dropped to the scratch marks on Geoffrey’s jerkin.

“What happened?”

Geoffrey swore. He did not use the vulgar oath often, but he embellished it with other expletives.

Chuckling, Dominic shook his head. “Send the ransom demand now. If the lady is that much trouble, you are best rid of her.”

A silent bellow exploded inside Geoffrey. He wished the solution were that simple. His blood pounded with a need that only a woman could assuage. In the musty hall, tempered by the tang of old rushes and smoke, he still smelled Elizabeth’s perfume that clung to her skin and hair.

He had gone to her chamber intending to frighten her and subdue her into respect for his authority. The moment he strode in and saw her gilded by sunlight, he longed to kiss her. She was stunning, a woman who would tempt him wearing naught but rags.

His fingers had itched to plow into her hair and feel its silk. Her bewitching blue eyes had challenged him to taste her, woo her, and coax back the radiant smile which had faded when she turned from the window and saw him.

He should never have given in to the urge to taste her lips. He should have guessed the experience would be as frustrating as her sharp tongue.

She was the daughter of his enemy, the man responsible for his father’s death. Forbidden.

He was a fool to crave her.

Geoffrey released his breath on a hiss.

“Take my recommendation,” Dominic insisted. “Send—”

“We keep to the original plan.” Shrugging tension from between his shoulders, Geoffrey stalked toward the solitude of the hearth. He sprawled in one of the chairs facing the fire and cursed; his carelessness with the mug had caused a slosh of ale, which soaked his thigh.

He did not glance up when Dominic sat in the other chair. Logs had recently been added to the blaze, and the flames crackled and shot sparks across the tiled hearth. Geoffrey leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and stretched his legs toward the inviting warmth.

Ah, for a moment of quiet.

In the space of three heartbeats, he sensed a powerful feminine presence stroll into the gap between the chairs.

The rustle of silk identified her, along with the scent of rosewater. Veronique. He would never mistake the signature fragrance of the vixen who had shared his bed for the past two years. She wore only the attar of the prized Damask rose brought into England by Crusaders on their return from the East. She considered any other oil inferior.

Veronique strolled past and a heady waft of perfume filled his nostrils. The scent teased, aroused a host of wanton memories. He raised his eyelids a fraction and watched the enticing sway of her hips. Yestereve, he had heard the maids whispering of the rosewater baths she ordered at least three times a week, and how she slapped servants for pouring water too hot or too cold.

One merchant in the town of Branton stocked oils to her exclusive standards, and a few weeks ago, she had wanted him flogged for sending fragrance she did not like. Geoffrey had refused. She, in a pique, had brushed the oil into her chestnut tresses and then tormented him with the sleek strands late into the evening.

That he permitted such extravagance was almost beyond reason. That he gave her a firm hand in his household was almost beyond belief.

Almost.

As his gaze traveled up Veronique’s curvaceous figure, outlined by a scandalous bliaut of red silk, he understood.

“Good day to you, Veronique,” Dominic said.

Her voice husky, she answered, “Dominic.” Pausing at the hearth, she stretched her hands toward the warmth. “Milord.”

Firelight played over the expensive fabric and her long hair, worn loose as Geoffrey preferred. Turning her head, she met his stare. Her eyes narrowed in a bold perusal of his body, and his desire flared.

Ah, she was a beauty. Her dark brows were slim and arched, her nose small and rounded, her mouth painted crimson. Yet, he did not mistake the cunning that glittered in her amber eyes. Sometimes, when her gaze settled on his face, Geoffrey felt she could read every thought that flashed through his mind.

He experienced that sensation now as Veronique smiled. His flesh remembered her skilled touch, and he flinched.

“Veronique,” he murmured.

“I saw Jenna in the kitchen. She thought you might have need of me.” Her words were smooth and heady, intoxicating as a strong liqueur. “I pray, milord, Jenna was not mistaken.” She turned, enough to silhouette her body against the firelight and display her bosom stretched taut beneath the silk.

Geoffrey dragged in a breath. The invitation could not have been clearer if she had written it on the floor in blood.

Did she realize how his body craved release?

“Jenna spoke true,” he rasped.

Triumph glimmered in Veronique’s eyes, as bright as the blaze behind her. She dropped to her knees before him and trailed slender fingers up his right calf. He shivered. With artful strokes, she caressed his corded leg muscles through his hose. After easing his knees apart with her body, she ran her palm up to his thigh.

Dominic cleared his throat and took a noisy sip of his ale, a reminder that what took place in the hall was public spectacle.

Geoffrey caught Veronique’s hand, stilling the movement.

Her lashes flickered down, concealing a glimmer of disappointment. “Milord? What—”

Setting aside his ale, he linked his fingers through hers. He drew her to her feet, and grinned at the flush of anticipation that warmed the chalky layer of flour dusted over her face. With a curt goodbye to Dominic, he led Veronique up the wooden staircase to his solar.