Medieval Rogues (19 page)

“I wanted to satisfy my curiosity.”

Wariness crept into her thoughts. “How?”

He looked at her spoon poised over the custard bowl, then at her. “Why did you help Elena this afternoon?”

Elizabeth rubbed her lips together. She had not expected this question. Cupping the bowl between her hands, she said, “Elena was upset because she had many other duties to attend. The embroidery was a simple task for me.”

“Elena is a servant,” he said in a biting tone.

“What of it?”

His gaze darkened. “She is duty bound to work as long and as hard as I wish. That is her way of life. She was born a villein and worked the demesne fields with her husband until he died in a storm last month.”

“How terrible.”

Geoffrey stared at the flames. “A tree fell on their cottage and crushed him while he slept.”

“I did not know,” Elizabeth whispered. At last, she understood the woman’s timidity.

“I took pity on Elena and her son Roydon and offered her work in the keep. Yet, she is still a servant. Far below your noble caste.”

A cold sweat dampened Elizabeth’s brow and she shrugged. “I consider her a friend. She has shown me kindness and compassion, and I was glad to help her in return.”

His eyes glowed as bright as the candle flame. “Ah. Elena wins greater respect than, say, a gallant stranger who saved your life at the market?”

Elizabeth’s stomach did a sluggish turn. Too late, she sensed his carefully laid trap. She set the custard bowl on the table and snatched up her wine goblet. “’Tis not a fair comparison, milord. As well you know.”

“Do I?”

Words tumbled from her lips. “You insulted me. You took advantage of your chivalry and demanded a kiss.”

“I
demanded
naught. Even so, ’twas not much to ask considering I had saved your life.” He paused and set his goblet on his thigh. “Tell me, would you have given it?”

A shivered breath caught in her throat. “A kiss?”

“A kiss.”

Her gaze darted to his mouth. She could not halt the sinful memories. His lips gliding over hers. His warmth. His taste. “I . . . I cannot say. I did not know you were a lord.”

He scowled. Setting down his wine, he steepled his fingers together. “Let us pretend you never discovered my identity. Would you have condemned me to Wode’s dungeon because you objected to my harmless jest? Because I teased you about what is natural between a man and a woman?”

Warmth drained from Elizabeth. That morning at the market, he had shocked her with his boldness, and she had spoken without forethought. She felt his verbal snare tighten. “You provoked my anger and—”

“You avoid the heart of the issue,” he growled. “Aye or nay?”

“N-nay.”

His breath roared through his lips. She could not tell if he were glad of her answer, or even more furious.

Elizabeth’s hands shook. “Is there a point to your questioning, milord?”

“The point, damsel, is I find you puzzling. You flaunt your privileged birthright with annoying haughtiness, yet you also show compassion for a servant who is not of your household, which implies a tender nature. Which is the true Lady Elizabeth Brackendale?”

She stared down at her white-knuckled fingers, locked around the goblet as though the silver could lend her strength. “Does it matter?”

“I find it does.” Torment and loneliness threaded through his words. A place deep inside her cried out, and she steeled herself against the foolish empathy.

“I had no reason to withhold my help from Elena,” she said, “and would do the same for any servant at Wode. I was taught that lords and ladies should show equal measures of kindness and discipline toward their subjects. Otherwise, they will never win their subjects’ best work, respect, or loyalty.”

Geoffrey nodded. “Wise words.”

“My father’s words,” she said with pride.

Geoffrey’s expression darkened. The poignant intimacy vanished like a wisp of smoke. “Your father’s.” He spat the words like a curse.

Desperate to convince him, to make him see past his hatred, she said, “My father is not the cruel lord you mistake him to be. He is a man of honor and justice.”

Menace blazed in Geoffrey’s eyes. “With his own sword, your father murdered my sire. I will never forget. Or forgive.”

A furious sigh burst from her. “You do not know for certain he cut your sire’s mortal wounds. How can you recall what happened eighteen years ago? You were a frightened child, in the midst of a battle.”

“Lord Brackendale besieged Wode. He commanded the attack. He gave the orders. The responsibility falls on his head.”

“The king’s orders!” Her worn patience frayed, about to snap. “My father could not refuse a command issued by the crown. To do so would be treason.”

Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. “Your devotion to your father is admirable, but misplaced. He should have determined, before he led the attack, that my father remained loyal to King Henry and did not support his intransigent son.”

“If there were no justification,” she said, her voice as taut as the knot around her heart, “why did the king order the siege?”

“My father was betrayed.”

“A theory without proof.”

Geoffrey’s face, gilded by firelight, hardened with anger. “My father was a powerful lord. His estates covered half of the county of Moydenshire, and he had great prominence in the previous sovereign’s reign. I have often wondered if King Henry feared my father’s influence.”

“If so, that is another reason why my sire is not to blame,” Elizabeth said.

Geoffrey’s lip curled back from his teeth. “You refer to honor and a lord’s duty to the crown. What of greed? I vow like most of the lords in this land, your father wanted his share of the spoils. He would do whatever King Henry asked, including murder an innocent man, to get it.”

Elizabeth pushed her empty goblet onto the table. A scream shrilled up inside her. Terrible anguish crushed her hopes of persuading Geoffrey of the truth. How could she reason with a man so embittered, so convinced he was right?

“’Tis senseless to seek revenge for what happened years ago,” she choked out. “You cannot change the past. Why can you not find peace within yourself, and forget about Wode?”

Geoffrey lunged with such speed, Elizabeth shrieked. She slammed against the back of the chair, her blood hammering in her veins. He gripped the chair’s arms. Ensnared her. Loomed over her. Tremendous anger poured from him.

His breath hissed between his teeth and her forehead burned with the heat of it. “Forget?” he bellowed. “How
dare
you ask that of me?
You
were not there, trying to stop the blood gushing from his chest.
You
were not there when he drew his last breath.
You
did not have to listen as he coughed and gasped and struggled for air. My father was a great man. A man of integrity.” Geoffrey’s voice cracked. “He was no traitor, and did not deserve to die as one.”

“I do not doubt he was a great man,” she whispered.

He jerked back a fraction, clearly startled by her agreement, and glared down at her. She braced herself for more lashing words. Yet, his gaze softened. His lips formed a smile tinged with remorse. “Then you understand, milady, why I will take what is rightfully mine. Why I will avenge my father.”

Geoffrey’s hands fell away from the chair, and he straightened. He crossed to the hearth, braced one hand against the stone wall, and looked down into the fire. Shadows played over his face. He looked tortured, haggard, and . . . human.

“King Richard will never accept your siege of Wode,” she said in a hushed tone.

Geoffrey did not stir.

“What you intend is suicide. My father has the favor of the king. Your attack will be viewed as an act of treason. The crown will send an army to Wode and reclaim the keep, and you will die in dishonor like your father.”

Geoffrey’s head tilted. Hair slid down over his brow as he met her gaze. “King Richard has not returned from Crusade. He may be dead. If that is true, his brother John will inherit the throne. The dawn of a new king is the perfect opportunity to secure what is mine.” Brutal determination rang in his voice.

“You will seek the favor of John Lackland?”

“I will earn it. I have much to offer in exchange.”

“You jest. What can you offer a king that is beyond his sovereign power?”

“Cloth.”

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “
Cloth?
”

Nodding, Geoffrey faced her. “You think me a fool. What if I turned half of Wode’s farmlands into pasture?”

“Your villeins would starve.” When his lips curved in a disbelieving smile, she snapped, “You have forgotten drought, disease, and plagues of insects. In good years, they threaten the harvests and lessen what is stored for the cold months. In the worst . . .” She remembered the harsh winter seven years ago. “Then, there is naught, for lord or peasant alike.”

His smile widened. “Shrewd thoughts, milady, yet I vow I would become a rich man. With that much pastureland, I could raise thousands of sheep. Some would be killed for mutton, but the rest would provide wool. Wool woven into the finest, most sought after cloth in all of England.” His eyes glinted. “For a portion of the profits, I vow John Lackland would recognize my birthright to a keep ruled by de Lanceaus for over a hundred years. Well before your father wrested it from us.”

“You cannot earn your riches, milord, if you have no means to market the wool.”

He chuckled, clearly not bothered by the disdain in her words. “Well said. Yet, I have contacts in France and the port of Venice, the center of the silk and spice trade. Good English wool is prized by the French merchants, almost as much as spices and perfumes. Where there is a demand, milady, there is profit.”

She swallowed past the ache in her throat. His plans for Wode showed great foresight. He had planned, it seemed, for many years. Unable to school the bitterness from her voice, she said, “You will trade your sword for a merchant’s tally stick? You are a hero of the Crusades. A man of war.”

He did not even flinch. “I am weary of fighting. When I ride into battle against your father, ’twill be my last.”

“True.”

His gaze hardened. “My last, because I will triumph. All that I have told you will come to pass.”

He moved back to the table, picked up the jug, and offered her more wine. She shook her head.

Elizabeth shut her eyes against a sudden headache. Demand. Profit. Revenge. All of his plans hinged upon her. She was the pivotal pawn, his way to get his fortune and destroy her sire.

Fear cut into her soul. Her father would never agree to de Lanceau’s ransom demands. Her father would die before he surrendered Wode. Battle was inevitable. Bloodshed and death loomed like hideous, fanged specters, and here, snared in de Lanceau’s grasp, she was helpless to stop them.

Her heart ached with a pain so profound, she could not bear Geoffrey to see it. Elizabeth pushed up from the chair. Ignoring his brooding gaze, she crossed to the windows and looked out. Thousands of stars sparkled in the sky and reflected back from the lake’s glassy surface. How serene the world outside looked, as though war would never scar its beauty.

She sensed, rather than heard, Geoffrey’s approach. His hands touched her shoulders, and she stiffened.

“Elizabeth.”

Where he touched, awareness blossomed. Her traitorous body still craved him, despite all he had told her. Despite all he intended to do.

With a muffled gasp, she shrugged free of his hold. “I wish to go to my chamber now.”

“You have not finished your wine, or the custard.”

“I do not want them.”

His breath warmed the back of her neck and stirred the ringlets that had escaped from her braid. She spun around. He stood so near, her hand brushed his sleeve. Stumbling back, she bumped against the cold stone ledge.

A frantic cry warbled within her. She shut it from her mind. She might be de Lanceau’s pawn, but she would not let him intimidate her. Her father refused to yield to a rogue, and so would she. “You may summon the guards now.”

“Not yet.” His rasped voice sent heat swirling down to her belly, and she swallowed hard.

“’Tis late, milord.”

“Mmm.” His knuckles brushed her cheek. Then he cupped her face with his hand, holding her captive with a gentle touch. Moving his thumb, he coaxed her chin up, until she stared straight into his eyes. She could not suppress the tremble weaving through her, and his steely gaze flickered with a hint of regret. “Do not blame yourself for the days ahead, damsel. My battle is not with you.”

His tender words rippled through her like water rings spreading across a still pond. How had he known her thoughts? She tried to squirm away, but he did not release her.

“I will not let you kill my father.”

Grudging admiration softened his expression. He caressed her cheek. “As you have said before.”

“I will stop you.”

“You cannot,” he whispered without a trace of threat. His free hand skimmed down her side and brushed over her bliaut, near the small of her back.

“W-what are you doing?”

His fingers moved. He had untied her braid. “Such incredible hair,” he murmured, and both of his hands threaded through her tresses. “I will never forget the day we first met. Your hair shone like black silk.”