Medieval Rogues (3 page)

A primitive, sensual hunger roused in Geoffrey’s gut.

Vengeance would be delicious indeed.

“Through her,” he said, “I shall exact my revenge.”
 

Chapter Two

Raising her bliaut’s hem, Elizabeth hurried up the forebuilding’s steps toward Wode’s great hall. Her father’s voice boomed into the torch lit passage, and her pulse quickened. The guards had told him of the market mishap. He did not sound pleased.

Ten more steps and she would reach the hall. What pleasure she had enjoyed as a little girl, counting each step aloud as, hand in hand with her father, they made their way up. He had been patient and forgiving when she muddled her numbers.

He would not be so forgiving of her running from her guards and falling into the arms of a randy rogue. Nor would he be pleased that, despite the wagon incident, she had refused to leave the market until she had bought thread.

As she climbed the next step, she swallowed hard. Whatever happened, she would not regret her much needed purchase. She had vowed to donate the garments, and she would see her commitment through.

She also would not be blamed for her rescuer’s boldness.

He
had spoken of a kiss, not she.

His voice reverberated in her mind, and the skin across her breasts prickled in a peculiar manner. A fit of nerves, no doubt. She brushed away the memory.

Footsteps echoed ahead. Someone descended the stairs. She edged toward the wall to allow room to pass, and a young man loped into view. Aldwin, her father’s squire, whose corn-silk blond hair always looked tangled from bouts in the tiltyards.

“Milady.” A relieved grin warmed his features. He caught her hands, and warmth flooded through her. “Your father is in quite a rage,” he said, his tone hushed. “I heard what happened. Are you all right?”

Dear Aldwin. His friendship had helped her through the anguish of her mother and baby sister’s deaths, and she adored him as if he were her own brother. He, in turn, never failed to be overprotective. Elizabeth smiled. “I am fine.”

Terse conversation drifted down from the hall.

“Your father has ordered half of the garrison into town to catch that rogue. Your sire intends to join the hunt soon. That man might have saved your life, but if he had dared to kiss you . . .” The corner of Aldwin’s mouth tilted upward. “Did I tell you I have become an excellent shot with the crossbow?”

She laughed. “Four times. This afternoon, I hope to watch you shoot some targets.”

Afterward, they could retire to the secluded bench in the garden. While she embroidered one of the children’s garments, he might lift her spirits with tales of knights rescuing damsels and vanquishing evil. How she hoped he would agree. His stories always took her mind off the matters weighing upon her heart.

Aldwin squeezed her hands. “I am to go with your father. Later, I will be pleased to show you my target skills.”

She nodded, but could not stop her smile from slipping.

In the dim light, the squire’s face reddened. “I do not wish to disappoint you, but I must obey your father’s orders. With the threat of de Lanceau—”

“I know.” She sighed.

Aldwin’s gaze turned earnest. “Milady, do you realize I have honed my prowess for you? Until that son-of-a-traitor is dead, I fear you will not be safe. I have sworn upon my honor—indeed, my life—that I will always protect you.”

His words were softly spoken, but echoed the passion of the chivalrous knights in his tales. As his voice faded, she stared up at him. She wondered if he referred to more than de Lanceau.

Aldwin had never tried to discuss her upcoming wedding with her. Yet, he was a man of fierce convictions.

His thumbs caressed the backs of her fingers, and she fought a shudder. If she confided how much she hated her betrothal, would he see her as a damsel in distress and do all within his power to save her from her plight?

Desperate hope soared within her. If he agreed to be her protector and help her flee Moydenshire, then she would not have to marry Sedgewick. She would also be safe from de Lanceau.

Once her father had crushed that treacherous rogue, she could return and marry a man of her own choosing. A knight as noble as those of the
chansons
.

A man she loved.

Her belly knotted. Such a plan meant deceiving her father and angering him, but she had no other choice.

She met the squire’s concerned stare. “Aldwin, I—”

Footfalls sounded near the top of the stairwell. “Where is she? Does she ignore my summons?”

At her father’s roar, Elizabeth yanked her hands free. Under her breath, she cursed her foolishness. How could she have considered discussing such a matter now? She must not risk her budding plan’s success, or get Aldwin into trouble.

Keeping her voice low, she said, “I
must
speak with you. This evening, in the garden?”

Curiosity lit Aldwin’s eyes, and he bowed. “I will see you anon, milady.” He brushed past and pounded down the stairs.

Elizabeth squared her shoulders, drew a calming breath, and hurried up the last steps. As she entered the hall, the tap of stone under her shoes became the crunch of dried herbs and rushes. Wood smoke hazed the chamber, but she made out her father’s tall figure, hands clasped behind his back, pacing the floorboards. Nearby, her guards stared down at their feet.

Her father glanced up. “Elizabeth.” He dragged a hand through his silver-gray hair. Tension lined the corners of his eyes, and guilt pinched her. She had not wanted him to worry.

She crossed the distance between them, but a throaty rumble drew her gaze to the lord’s table. The balding man seated there might long ago have been called handsome, but now his features were bloated by excess.

His mouth slid into a lecherous grin, and he wiggled his fingers. “Beloved.”

The knot in her belly twisted. “Baron Sedgewick.”

She had not expected to see him today. Was this another surprise visit, in which he would try to woo her?

“I brought you a gift. I hope you like it.” He held up a delicate hair comb, studded with gemstones.

“Thank you.” Revulsion for him pressed upon her like a granite slab, yet she graced him with an elegant curtsey.

She straightened, and his tongue flicked over his lips. He tossed aside the comb and slurped his wine, then reached under the table and groped at his bronze silk tunic, stretched over his stomach. His hand kept rummaging. She looked away.

Shivers crawled over her skin, colder than when she had overheard the servants whispering of Sedgewick’s perversions and cruelty.
Malicious gossip started by a former lover
, her father had said.
Pay it no heed
. Could there be truth to the rumors?

“Daughter.” Her sire hugged her, and, with a sigh, she leaned into his reassuring warmth. He pushed her to arm’s length, and frowned down at her. “You look pale. Are you well?”

She forced a smile. “Aye.”

“Thank God,” Sedgewick muttered.

Her father’s mouth flattened. “What possessed you to flee your guards? Why were you so senseless, when you know of the dangers from de Lanceau?”

Frustration welled up inside her. “Why, every day, must I be accompanied by guards? ’Tis ridiculous, Father. De Lanceau is no threat so close to Wode.”

“You were almost run down by a wagon.”

She smothered a groan, and hoped he did not suspect the poor wagon driver of trying to do her harm. “’Twas an accident.”

“Was it?” His fingers curled into her sleeves, and he seemed to struggle for patience. “Accident or not, think, Elizabeth. What might your rescuer have dared to do, if the guards had not run to your side?” She tried to speak, but her sire thrust up his hand. “I love you, and I will not risk your safety. You will accept your guards and obey them.”

She gnawed her lip. Still, after all these years, his angry voice made her tremble. “Father—”

“You are all I have left.”

His anguished words tore at her. The little girl inside her cried, and Elizabeth’s head dipped in a nod. “I will obey.”

“Good.” He released her and turned on her cowering guards. “See that my orders are carried out. I want to depart as soon as we have eaten. Go!”

The guards darted for the stairwell, just as young women rushed into the hall with wooden boards of bread and platters of food. It was too early for the midday meal to be served, Elizabeth noted, but it seemed her father had arranged for him and the baron to dine. As the maidservants hurried past, the scent of spiced sauces and spit-roasted fowl wafted to her.

“Come.” Her father gestured to the lord’s table, where the servants set the fare. “The baron wishes to eat before we join the search. No doubt you are hungry too.”

She would rather eat cow dung than share another meal with the baron. Yet, if she refused, she risked not only offending him, but her father. She must not arouse their suspicions.

Forcing herself to take poised strides, Elizabeth walked through the sunlight filtering in through the high overhead windows and crossed to the table. Sedgewick’s greedy gaze skimmed over her before riveting to her breasts. His eyes gleamed, as though he imagined trailing his fingers over her naked skin and examining her breasts’ weight and feel.

Her cheeks flamed. He ogled her as though she were as valuable as a king’s ransom and as delectable as a cream pastry. Had he looked at his previous three wives that way, all of them deceased?

She slipped into the vacant chair beside him, and the baron grinned. His chipped teeth, stained from the wine, had shredded food caught between them. Shoving aside his wine goblet, he leaned in close. “My love, you look most fetching in that gown.” His thigh nudged hers under the table. “’Twill be a long seven days till we are husband and wife.”

She choked. She grabbed the nearest wine goblet and took a gigantic gulp.

“Careful.” His sweaty hand smothered hers. “I could not bear to see your life endangered again this day.”

As the wine scorched its way down to her stomach, she freed her fingers and dried them on the tablecloth’s edge. ’Twas the same hand the rogue had kissed. Sedgewick’s kiss could never be as thrilling, or as competent.

Her skin warmed, and with shocking clarity, she recalled the glint of her rescuer’s eyes. Brilliant, secretive eyes. He seemed far too clever a man to be apprehended by her father’s guards.

Sinful heat coiled through her to the tips of her toes. What would his kiss have been like? She imagined his eyes darkening to a smolder, and his lips pressing over hers. He would kiss like the heroes in the
chansons
. Her belly swooped.

The chair beside her creaked as her father sat. She blinked away her thoughts and fought a blush. How foolish to swoon over that arrogant stranger, when she would never see him again.

Her father smiled at her, then asked the flushed chaplain, who had only just emerged from the stairwell, to bless the fare.

Sedgewick piled a day-old bread trencher with the dishes that smelled of ginger, cumin and fresh rosemary. “What can I tempt you with, love?” He dangled a greasy bit of game hen between his fingers. “You must keep your strength for our wedding night”—his eyelid dropped in a wink—“and if your womb is to swell with my son.”

Elizabeth waved away his offering and grabbed the goblet, grateful for the wine’s numbing warmth.

Just as she set down the vessel, cool air whipped over her ankles. Bertrand de Lyons, Wode’s captain of the guard, strode out of the stairwell. He crossed to her father, bowed, and handed him a rolled parchment.

“A messenger gave this to one of the guards. ’Tis urgent.”

“Urgent?” Her father wiped sauce from his chin, then cracked the wax seal between his fingers.

Bertrand turned and handed her a scrap of faded linen. “Milady, for you.”

Elizabeth frowned. She was not expecting any deliveries or messages. She set the little parcel on the table and opened it.

Her ribbon!

She had thought it lost for good. Who had found it? Who had returned it? She gently brushed it free of lingering dust.

“
God’s bones
.”

Elizabeth had never heard her father speak in such a tone. Her sire’s lips were pressed into a line. His blue eyes blazed.

“Father?” she said, fighting rising unease.

“Fires have burned the harvest at Tillenham.” His hands shook. “The wheat, barley, and rye are destroyed.”

The meat in the baron’s fingers fell with a juicy
plop
.

“The message bears the Earl of Druentwode’s signature. He begs for my help. He writes that whoever started the fires made sure naught would be left but ashes.”

“Who would be so pitiless as to burn the year’s crops?” Elizabeth whispered in horror.

The baron’s eyes bulged. “You do not think—”

“De Lanceau.” Arthur snarled. “For weeks, I have heard rumblings that he was spying, gathering an army, and plotting revenge against me. Now, he has issued his challenge.”

“If he wishes to stake his blood claim to Wode, why did he set fires in a town two days from hence?” Sedgewick’s chin trembled. “The man is a hero of the Crusades. He knows how to fight and win. If he wanted to defeat you in battle and reclaim Wode, he would bring an army and spit at you through the portcullis. Would he not?”