Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  Geoffrey grinned and pointed to the hearth. "There."

  Elena saw him and attempted a curtsey, but the soap tumbled off her pile, followed by two of the towels.

  Chuckling, Geoffrey rounded the chair and crept up behind the little boy who was crouched down, watching Elena pick up the fallen items. With a mighty roar, he grabbed the child around the waist and swung him high in the air. Roy- don squealed in delight, before Geoffrey set the squirming boy down.

  His eyes shone with excitement as he stared up at Geoffrey. "Again."

  "Roydon," Elena said in a gentle but firm voice. "To bed with you. I have a lady to tend."

  He stuck out his bottom lip. "Mama, 'tis not fair."

  Reaching down, she took Roydon's chubby hand in hers and hurried across the hall.

  "Elena," Geoffrey called to her.

  She halted and looked back at him. "A-Aye, milord?"

  "When the lady has finished her bath, bring her to me."

  Chapter Ten

  "The water turns cool, milady. I will fetch you a towel." Elena set aside the lathered soap and pushed to her feet beside the round wooden tub.

  With a reluctant nod, Elizabeth trailed her fingers one last time through the lukewarm bathwater. Candlelight winked off the rippled surface, and the scents of rose, lavender and cinnamon drifted up to her. Elena had poured the fragrance earlier into the bath from a glass-stoppered bottle, and, closing her eyes, Elizabeth savored the exotic essence that reminded her of far away lands.

  When she raised her lashes, Elena waited beside the tub. "Please, you must not get a chill."

  Elizabeth sighed. After rinsing a soap bubble from her arm, she stood. Water dripped from her hair and body. Shivering, she stepped out of the tub and into the towel Elena held out.

  Concern in her gaze, the maid poured a mug of wine from a flask on the table. "Drink. 'Twill warm you."

  Elizabeth swallowed a mouthful, glad of the heated glow flowing down inside her.

  Once dried, with a towel wrapped around her hair, she took the clean chemise Elena offered. The sheer undergarment was not cut from coarse linen, but fine silk, and felt as light as goose down against Elizabeth's palm.

  "Whose garment is this?" she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

  Elena lowered her gaze. "Veronique's, milady."

  "Why does she lend it to me?"

  "I cannot say."

  Memories of Veronique flaunting the gold brooch and her vain hostility whirled through Elizabeth's mind, and she wondered at the leman's motives for being kind. Elizabeth's fingers curled into the silk, and she drank more wine to wash down the bitter taste of indignation.

  Dropping the chemise on the table, she said, "I prefer the one I wore before."

  Wide-eyed, Elena shook her head. "'Tis a garment fit for your station, milady."

  Elizabeth stared down at the gossamer silk and could not hold back a pang of yearning. 'Twould be wondrous to wear such a beautiful garment against her skin, and she could confront Veronique's motives when they were made clear.

  "Very well." Elizabeth set down the mug, donned the chemise, and then reached for the green wool. With a hesitant smile, Elena handed her an exquisite bliaut the color of the wild roses that grew inside Wode's bailey. Another of Veronique's garments. As Elizabeth slipped it on, she wondered again what the leman hoped to gain by her generosity.

  Elena fastened the gown's ties, stepped back, studied Elizabeth from head to toe, and gave a shy nod of approval.

  Elizabeth laughed. She felt like a lady again.

  The maid dried Elizabeth's hair by the fire, and tamed it into a braid bound with pink ribbon. She fetched a small, round mirror made of polished steel. "You are beautiful, milady. More so, since you do not require layers of powders and rouges."

  Elizabeth stared at her reflection. The eyes that returned her scrutiny appeared wiser and more knowing than days ago. Her face looked slimmer too, mayhap because of the warped metal. But she smiled at her complexion, tinged with pink from the bath's heat, for the bliaut complimented her skin tone.

  "You are pleased, milady?"

  "I am." Elizabeth placed the mirror on the table. "Thank you, Elena."

  The maid beamed. "Milord will be pleased, too."

  Elizabeth's smile wavered. She did not wish to hurt the woman's feelings, but she did not care what de Lanceau thought. For the first time in days she felt relaxed, and looked forward to watching the sunset fade into the black velvet of nightfall.

  Sipping the last of her drink, she skirted a puddle of spilled water and crossed to the window, the soft wool brushing against her heels. As she drew open the shutters, voices carried on the breeze, children reciting a bedtime prayer.

  "I must take you to him now."

  One hand gripping the cold stone ledge, Elizabeth faced the maid. "Pardon?"

  Panic swam in Elena's eyes. "Lord de Lanceau ordered it. He bade me to bring you to him when you had finished your bath."

  "Why?"

  "I do not know, milady."

  Disquiet pounded in Elizabeth's blood like a drum. Mildred's warnings about ransomed maidens raced through Elizabeth's mind, and she fought for calm. "Tell him I am tired and have gone to bed, and he may speak to me tomorrow."

  "A-Aye, milady."

  Elena bent and picked up the soap. She was trembling. Did she anticipate a beating? Would de Lanceau punish her, and then send guards to the chamber to see his order obeyed?

  Elena was a mere servant, after all, and 'twas her duty to obey the wishes of lords and ladies . . . but after her kindness with the bath, she did not deserve de Lanceau's wrath.

  Elizabeth stepped away from the window and set down the empty mug. "I will come. I hope the matter is not important, and I may return here soon."

  The maid's eyes shimmered. "Thank you."

  When Elizabeth followed Elena into the corridor, the guards straightened away from the wall and fell into step behind her. The passage seemed darker and grimmer than before. The maid led her past rows of hissing torches and into the passage ending at the wooden landing. Despite Elizabeth's sketchy knowledge of the keep, she soon realized the maid led her to the living quarters above the hall reserved for the lord and his family.

  To de Lanceau's private solar.

  She suppressed a shudder.

  A few more steps and the maid halted before two massive oak doors braced with iron hinges bolted into the wood. The doors looked designed for an impenetrable fortress. Elena knocked twice, pushed open a door, and gestured for her to enter. A nervous giggle tickled Elizabeth's throat as she walked inside.

  The door boomed closed. The chamber plunged into shadow. Elizabeth whirled and groped for the handle, and her nails scratched over wood. When she found the cold metal ring, it did not budge.

  This time, de Lanceau had trapped her in his own cage.

  She dropped her forehead against the door and forced herself to breathe. She would not face him with panic screaming inside her like a terrified child. For all she knew, he might ask her a question or two about her father or mending the

  trapping, and then would let her go.

  There could not be many reasons for him to summon her to his solar at night, after a perfumed bath, without a chaperone.

  The primary reason that filled her mind was not reassuring.

  Elizabeth thrust up her chin. She was the daughter of a strong, respected lord, and she was no coward. She must keep calm and sensible, and see what de Lanceau wanted.

  Silence settled around her. Across the room, a fire glowed. Fingers of flame beckoned her, and she headed toward the light.

  Her slippers whispered on the wooden floor. Elizabeth held her head high and waited for her eyes to adjust to the solar's dimness. She walked past a large, comfortable-looking bed covered with a silk coverlet and pillows. Opposite were three windows fitted with wrought iron grilles. The chamber must have a magnificent view of the lake and fields in the daylight.

  She paused to
brush a loose curl out of her eyes and noted the oak table beside the bed, the unlit candles in the sconce on the wall, and, in the darkest shadows, a large wooden chest. The chamber seemed well appointed but not opulent, and well suited to Branton's rogue lord.

  As Elizabeth approached the fire, her steps slowed. Two carved chairs were drawn up to the hearth. A table draped with a cloth stood between the chairs, and held a burning candle, a jug of red wine, silver goblets, and assorted sweetmeats on a silver tray. Next to the wine she spied a dish of

  dried figs, glazed with honey and cinnamon.

  Her stomach rumbled. She had not tasted figs in so long—

  The solar door slammed behind her.

  She screeched. Her hand flew to her throat.

  De Lanceau emerged from the shadows and strode toward her. He had shed his white shirt. Another of black wool hugged his shoulders and draped to the thighs of his black hose. He must know he had startled her, but 'twas not laughter that gleamed like gray fire in his eyes.

  His strides slowed. His gaze skimmed over her bound hair, down the rose wool, and back up to her hand gripping the back of one of the chairs. "Lady Elizabeth," he murmured.

  Her breath burst from her lips.

  "I did not mean to frighten you." He picked up the candle on the table, then walked to the wall sconce and lit the tapers and the candles beside his bed. The shadows dissipated into a golden haze. "Better?"

  She managed a nod.

  "I do not normally light all the candles in the solar," he said, implying he had seen a question in her gaze. "I find the firelight adequate, and the darkness calming after a long day." He crossed back to the table. "I forgot how forbidding the solar can be to those who have not been here before."

  His tone was pleasant, but his mild words mocked her fretful thoughts. She would know why he had ordered her here. "Lord de Lanceau—"

  "I just came from the hall. As I expected, you did an excellent repair on the tunic."

  Elizabeth smothered a startled, pleased smile.

  He flicked his hand. "Come. Sit. I promise there are no monsters or ghouls lurking in the shadows." He did not wait for her to reply, or protest, but rounded the nearest chair, lowered himself into it, and stretched his legs toward the hearth.

  An uneasy sigh broke from Elizabeth. She did not agree with his comments about monsters and ghouls, but for now, she would do as instructed. She perched on the chair's edge, smoothed the rose wool over her legs, and clasped her hands about her knees. The loose curl sprang back into her eyes and she swatted it away, aware he watched the movement of her hand.

  "The gown is to your liking?" His voice sounded husky against the fire's muted roar.

  She nodded. "Lord de Lanceau, I must ask. Why—"

  "Geoffrey."

  "What?"

  His mouth twitched. "My given name is Geoffrey. Yours is Elizabeth."

  Her hands dampened. "I know milord, but—"

  "For this one night, why do we not address one another by our given names? Pretend that we stand on equal ground."

  She choked down a gasp. She would never consider a rogue who intended to destroy her father her equal. Yet until she knew what de Lanceau had planned for her, she would feign ignorance and play along. "Very well. . . Geoffrey."

  He smiled. "Now, you were saying?"

  Pointing to her bliaut, Elizabeth said, "I do not understand why Veronique was so generous."

  "Veronique? Ah, of course. She will miss such a bliaut from her wardrobe."

  Elizabeth frowned. Mischief gleamed in his eyes, but she did not understand why. "'Tis a fine bliaut, sewn from quality wool. The chemise is silk rather than linen." She glanced at the logs snapping in the hearth, and her voice lowered. "I am surprised she would lend me such garments after . . ."

  "After her scorn this afternoon," he provided.

  Elizabeth shifted in her chair and pulled the gown's hem over her slippered toes. "Aye."

  "Do not let the matter trouble you." Geoffrey reached over and picked up the stoneware jug. "Wine?"

  "Nay, thank you." One mug of wine already tingled inside her, and she must not dull her wits. Yet he had already poured a goblet full and offered it to her. As she took the vessel, her fingers brushed his, but he did not seem to notice.

  She curled her fingers against her skirt and sipped. The wine tasted sweet, far nicer than what she drank earlier. She took a large sip. Before she remembered to caution herself, she had downed half. Geoffrey watched her over his goblet's rim, but looked away when a log fell and sparks flew up like

  tiny, dancing butterflies.

  The fire's warmth lulled. Soothed. An odd, companionable silence settled. Beneath lowered lashes, she stole a glance at Geoffrey. Her gaze traveled over his legs outlined by the snug-fitting hose. Horn buttons lined his shirt, and the cloth stretched taut over his wide chest. His muscled physique, sculpted and honed to peak efficiency, revealed his skill as a battle hardened fighter.

  A formidable opponent for her father.

  Her belly clenched. She sipped more wine, and her gaze shifted up to Geoffrey's angular profile. A day's growth of beard darkened his jaw. Warmth coiled up inside her. He might be a seasoned warrior, but his stubbled jaw proved he was still just a man, formed of flesh and blood. She wondered how his skin would feel beneath her fingertips.

  "You are quiet tonight." Geoffrey's voice cut into her musings like a knife through soft cheese.

  Elizabeth found his intent gaze upon her. She looked down into the liquid ruby depths of her wine and fought a blush. "I-I was thinking."

  "I see." His tone held a trace of humor. Had he noticed her study of him?

  "I want to know why you brought me here," she blurted, wishing her voice did not waver. "'Tis not usual for a betrothed lady to meet a man alone in his private quarters." She met his gaze. "I will know your intentions, milord. If you will not answer me, then I wish to return to my chamber."

  Geoffrey's fingers tightened around his goblet's stem. A smile flickered across his lips. "You missed the evening meal. I thought you might like something to eat."

  Glancing at the food on the table, she said, "That is all?"

  He laughed, a rough, dangerous sound. "Not all."

  Elizabeth rose to her feet. "Why, 'then, did you summon me here?" She banged the vessel on the table. Wine sloshed over the rim and stained the pristine white linen . . . and the room swam before her eyes.

  "Oh!" She made a frantic grab for the table, and touched Geoffrey's arm.

  "The chair is behind you," he said, his voice near her ear. He stood in front of her, she realized through a dizzy blur. As he leaned close and eased her back down to sitting, his earthy, masculine smell filled her nostrils. His prickly jaw grazed her brow. She tried to sit up straight and regain her poise, but her head reeled in a perplexing manner.

  "Too much wine," she moaned.

  Geoffrey pushed the plate of honeyed figs into her hands. "Here. Eat. You drank on an empty stomach. 'Tis no wonder the floor moves under your feet."

  "Sorry." She hated how pathetic she sounded.

  He grunted at her apology and sat down. She picked up a fig and bit into it, and found the combination of sweetness and spice delicious. Honey drizzled down her chin. She brushed it away with sticky fingers until Geoffrey sighed and pressed a linen napkin into her hand. Within moments, she finished the plate, and he handed her a bowl of gingered custard and a spoon.

  He did not indulge himself, but watched her devour the food. He seemed fascinated. She meant to challenge his stare and the wry grin tugging at his mouth, but first, she would satisfy her hunger. The creamy custard, a little overcooked, dissolved on her tongue and she scooped more onto the spoon, taking care to run it along the bowl's edge to glean every sweet bit.

  When she had almost finished, he rubbed his thumb over his mouth. "I suppose I do owe you an explanation."

  Elizabeth swallowed her mouthful. Thank God, her head had almost stopped whirling.

  "I w
anted 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."