Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  "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 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 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 re
ply, 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.

  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 lip 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 mind and 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 slash
ed 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.