Medieval Rogues (28 page)

He silenced her with a finger to her lips. He laughed, a wicked sound. “I have told you too much. Indeed, I am tired of talking.”

She shivered. Her lashes fell, and she covered her breasts with her arms.

A grin tugged at his mouth. She interpreted his words as a dismissal. Did she believe he had grown weary of her? How very foolish.

“You wish me to leave.” Her body rigid, she sat up, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and peered over the bed, as though to find her garments.

He caught her around the waist. Tossed her back against the silk pillows. Hovered over her.

“Did I tell you to go?” he growled against her mouth.

“I thought—”

He smothered her words with a kiss, one so blatant a blush stained her cheeks. Her eyes glowed. Her face looked luminous against the black silk of her hair.

“What do you desire now, milord?”

Geoffrey grinned. “You.”

***

“All is ready, Lord Brackendale,” Aldwin said. “The men await your command.”

Astride his destrier, adjusting his mail gloves, Arthur narrowed his eyes against the dawn sunlight. He glanced past the squire to the smoking embers and swath of trampled grass, the remains of their camp in the field beside the earl’s keep. Aldwin had been efficient, as usual.

The squire’s hands curled and uncurled on his horse’s reins. His face set in a frown, he turned his horse in tight circles on the dew-laden ground. Since the lad had learned of the ransom demand, he had not stood still. He was impatient to be on the move.

A scowl twisted Arthur’s mouth. He felt the same.

He and his men had spent yesterday replenishing supplies from the earl’s stores and riding to the far edges of Tillenham’s boundaries to rouse the local knights, who had agreed to fight with him in the melee. He would not be defeated by de Lanceau.

Drawing on his simmering fury, Arthur shouted, “We ride!” Thrusting his fist into the air, he signaled his army onto the winding ribbon of dirt road that would lead them to Moyden Wood.

The men behind him rode in silence, their sullen mood matching his. Arthur stared at the fields around him and bit back a furious bellow. Geoffrey de Lanceau may have succeeded in his deception, but he would learn his folly.

The knights were angry, their tempers thinned by cold, sleepless nights and wretched fare. Of them all, green and seasoned alike, Aldwin had made the fiercest vow that de Lanceau would suffer. The lad saw no honor in de Lanceau making a pawn of one of the fairer sex, and condemned him for not declaring an outright challenge to battle to settle his claim to Wode.

The sun’s heat had evaporated most of the morning dew when, on the crest of a distant hill, Arthur spied two figures on horseback. He squinted through his helm’s slits. One was a woman clad in a fur-trimmed mantle, the other a man.

Squat, brutish, the ogre looked familiar. Viscon. Arthur’s jaw tightened. ’Twas rumored the mercenary had sold his services to de Lanceau.

As the couple drew nearer, the woman’s features became clear. Chestnut curls showed at the edge of the mantle, framing a face of such beauty that Arthur’s blood ran a little hotter. Yet, as he straightened in the saddle, disquiet rippled through him. Bitterness tinged the smile curving her lush, crimson lips, and ruthless determination gleamed in her amber eyes.

She held his gaze over the last yards separating them. This lady sought him out for a reason. Why did she associate with the vicious, grinning brute riding at her side? Why did she not lower her gaze in respect? Arthur’s surcoat identified him as a powerful lord.

His annoyance swelled, for she was bolder still to travel dangerous roads with only one escort. Despite Viscon’s reputation, a gang of thieves or bandits could wrest the fine mantle from her back and slash her neck before he had time to draw a weapon.

Arthur ordered the army to halt. As the woman reined in her horse in front of him, sweat beaded his forehead and plastered his hair to his scalp. He took a deep breath, his senses on alert. He smelled flowers. Roses. A lady’s scent.

“You are Lord Brackendale of Wode?” she asked, her voice strong in the morning air.

“I am. And you are, milady?”

“Veronique,” she answered, her tone husky.

As her slender fingers tightened around her horse’s reins, and the mantle’s edges parted, Arthur saw the luster of yellow silk. “You are the lady of Branton Keep?” he guessed.

She replied with a throaty laugh.

“She is no
lady
,” muttered Aldwin. Arthur knew the slur was intended only for his ears, but the sound carried. Veronique turned her head and glared at the squire, but from one blink to the next, her fury transformed to blatant sexual interest.

As she took a long, thorough look at the lad, Arthur shuddered. “Did de Lanceau send you?” he demanded, reclaiming her attention.

“I come of my own accord. I have a proposal that will benefit us both, milord.”

“Return to the cur,” he snarled. “I will not barter.”

“I suggest you reconsider.” She smiled, an angry curl of her lips. “What I intend to tell you concerns your daughter.”

***

Elizabeth awoke to soft linen sheets against her skin, a thick feather mattress cradling her body, and sunlight warming her bare shoulders. She stretched her arms out wide. The bed was at least three times as large as that rickety rope thing in her chamber.

She inhaled, and smelled Geoffrey’s scent on the sheets . . . and remembered.

With a groan, she slumped back onto the pillow. Opening one eye, she dared to peek over the side of the bed. Her clothes were gone. Glancing toward the hearth, she saw her chemise and bliaut draped—by Geoffrey’s hand, she imagined—over the back of one of the chairs.

Memories of her night with him flooded her mind, and her fingers knotted into the bedding. Guilt poked at her like an accusing finger, and, with a firm shake of her head, she forced the remorse aside. She had vowed no regrets, and she would have none. Heat tingled across her skin, still tender from his lovemaking. Why should she feel shame, when their intimacy had been necessary, enlightening, and . . . wonderful?

Elizabeth drew the bedding aside, stepped down to the floor, and padded over to the chair. She pulled on the chemise warmed by the fire and exhaled a long sigh.

Geoffrey was a magnificent lover, his kisses and caresses as sweet as clover honey. Yet, she must not succumb to romantic notions of him falling in love with her. They had shared pleasure, sated their physical desire, but in his heart, he did not care for her. He did not love her. Because of his soul-deep hatred of her father, he never would.

She and Geoffrey remained enemies.

But what bliss she had experienced with him.

Indulging in a smile, she ran her fingers through her hair and remembered the boyish grin on Geoffrey’s face as he toyed with her ringlets. He had enjoyed learning the secrets of her body, as she had his. After coupling for the second time, he had found comfort in her embrace, for he had fallen asleep with his arms around her.

Odd, how a trust had formed between them by one physical act. An act that had changed her forever—heart, mind, and . . . body.

Elizabeth twisted around to fasten the chemise. The ties slipped through her fingers, and she muttered under her breath. Geoffrey had left her no means to put her clothes back on.

A delicious shiver wove through her. Had he intended to keep her in his solar, awaiting his return for more sensual play?

The fire sparked, releasing the tang of burning pitch, and Elizabeth heard a faint knock. Mayhap Geoffrey had not intended for her to stay in his chamber. He might have sent the guards to fetch her for another day of toil. As the door opened, she clutched at the gaping chemise, but relaxed when Elena slipped inside with a pitcher and wooden board of food.

A blush stung Elizabeth’s face. The rumpled bed and her state of undress would tell all that had transpired last evening between her and Geoffrey. Yet, the maid did not even look at the bed, but walked straight to the table and set down the fare.

“Good morning, milady,” Elena said with her usual timid reserve. “Lord de Lanceau sent me to help you dress.” She scooped up the rose wool and shook out the wrinkles.

“Thank you.” Warmth blossomed inside Elizabeth, and she could not resist the ridiculous urge to grin. How kind of Geoffrey, to remember her needs.

With deft fingers, the maid tied the chemise and then helped Elizabeth don the bliaut.

While Elizabeth perched on the edge of a chair, munching day-old bread, Elena tidied her tresses into a loose braid. “You fare well today, milady?”

“Mmm? Ah, aye. Of course.”

“Milord did not punish you too much after what you did to the ale?”

“Nay.” Elizabeth fought another blush. What she had been given by Geoffrey could not be called punishment.

“I am glad.” Elena exhaled a shaky sigh. “’Twas frightening to see him in such a rage.”

“Dominic is recovered now?” Elizabeth asked.

“Aye.” Releasing Elizabeth’s braided hair, the maid strolled to the bed and smoothed the mussed linens. “Dominic went with Lord de Lanceau to tour the estate today. Dominic refused to lie abed one more day, though milord wished it.”

Elizabeth chewed her last bit of bread. “What of Mildred?”

“She is weeding the garden. Milord wishes you to work on the saddle trapping.”

Elizabeth nodded. She was glad of a day’s respite from the gardening and, as she well knew, he could have given her a far more onerous task than the embroidery.

She sat near the hearth in the hall and left her chair once, to eat the midday meal. It seemed strange to dine without Geoffrey’s bold presence beside her.

Veronique was absent as well.

As the servants chatted and cleared away the remnants of the meal, Elizabeth returned to her work. The torn silk shifted on her lap, and she straightened it with clammy fingers.

She remembered the shock and loathing in Veronique’s eyes when the courtesan had walked into the solar unannounced. An unspoken rule, that Veronique laid absolute claim to Geoffrey’s attentions, had been broken in that moment. Though Elizabeth had resisted him then, Veronique no doubt still held a grudge. The courtesan would hate Elizabeth even more when she learned Geoffrey had spent the night with her in his bed.

Turning the trapping a fraction, Elizabeth began a row of stitches on the embroidered hawk’s talons. The needle slipped between her fingers. Had Veronique gone with Geoffrey to the fields? The courtesan enjoyed the freedom to roam the keep and its grounds as she pleased. Elizabeth’s mouth pinched. Freedom was denied to her. Now, as she embroidered, she was watched by two guards playing a game of dice.

Mayhap Veronique hoped to win Geoffrey back.

Mayhap at this very moment, she kissed him full on the lips. Pleasured him. Ensnared him again in her lover’s web.

Jealousy uncoiled in Elizabeth like a hissing snake. She should not care at all about Geoffrey’s affairs with Veronique.

Yet, Elizabeth could not bear the thought of him making love to the courtesan. Not after last night.

The thread snapped. Elizabeth groaned. She would have to remove the entire row of stitches and start again. How unfair, that the rogue should be able to rattle her thoughts, when he was not even in the hall.

The servants delayed the evening meal until Geoffrey’s return. As the sun’s rays lengthened on the walls, Elizabeth heard his unmistakable laughter echo in the forebuilding. Her hand stilled. A thrill of joy and then dread washed through her.

When Dominic and Geoffrey strode into hall, discussing the harvest, she did not glance up. She longed to raise her head and catch Geoffrey’s smile, to see his mouth ease into that devastating grin just for her. But she could not bring herself to look him in the eyes. Jealousy chafed like a new wound. How could she look at him, when he had spent the day with Veronique?

As the men’s conversation continued, she blew a sigh. Thank the saints he had not seen her by the fire.

The voices stopped. Her relief fled.

Bold footsteps approached. Halted. A broad, tanned hand curled over the arm of her chair. “Damsel,” Geoffrey murmured near her ear.

His husky voice sent her pulse pounding with delight. How foolish, that her heart beat so. “Milord,” she said, and refused to glance up from inspecting her stitches.

“You have accomplished much today.” He trailed a finger over the silk.

The slow touch triggered the memory of his hands on her skin, exploring and caressing. Fierce passion ignited, and she could think of naught but him and the pleasure he had shown her.

He was still speaking. “—you have done excellent work.”

She shrugged aside her sinful thoughts. “I had no distractions today, milord, to keep me from my work.” Though she tried, she could not keep the venom from her voice.

“You are angry with me?”

Her lashes shot up. A curious smile hovered on his lips. His windswept hair curled over the collar of his moss green tunic flecked with dirt and grain husks. He looked rugged, wild, and very handsome.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, a silent kiss. When he handed her a single, bright blue cornflower, her breath jammed.