Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  "When I have you right where I want you? I think not."

  Elizabeth dug her nails into his skin. He cursed under his breath and exerted more pressure on her wrists, little by little, until with a gasp, she relented.

  His breath warmed her temple, and he shifted his weight over her. His body fitted against her breasts, belly, and thighs in a manner that thrilled and alarmed her. His male smell flooded her nostrils. Tempted. A traitorous ache stirred in her belly, and she shivered.

  "Surrendering at last, damsel?"

  "Never!" Ashamed by her weakness, she arched against him, writhed and bucked to throw him sideways. She tossed her hair in his face like a weapon.

  "I have had enough of your struggling. Cease."

  Thrashing, kicking, she got his shin twice, despite his strength and the ease with which he deflected her blows. When she continued to fight, he grabbed her hair. Twisted. Her tresses pulled taut. Panting, she fell back against the bed. Her ripped bodice gaped further open with each breath, and a whimper broke from her. "You are hurting me."

  He released her hair, but glared down at her in warning. "Lie still."

  "Let. . . me . . . go." On the last word, her voice cracked. He planned to ravish her. He meant to shame and ruin her, and she could not stop him.

  The rogue looked down at her . . . and smiled.

  As his warm, skilled lips brushed the side of her neck, Elizabeth closed her eyes. Her breaths echoed in the stillness, harsh, painful gasps. How foolish she had been to imagine lying with him in a slow, tender dance of bliss. How foolish she had been to savor his kisses.

  Somehow she had to sway him. Somehow, she had to touch his tormented soul and make him see how wrong his actions were.

  As his fingers skimmed down to her torn bodice, her lashes flew up. She stared up into his dark, glittering eyes with all the anguish inside her. "Please. Do not."

  "I will not have to force you," he said against her cheek.

  "Your body is willing."

  "Then let go of my wrists."

  He laughed, and the chilling sound echoed deep inside her. "I will not, damsel. Not until I have finished with you."

  * * *

  Lying over her, Geoffrey felt the violent shudder that rippled through Elizabeth's body. For all of three heartbeats, he hesitated, and looked down into her proud, pale face.

  Admiration stirred in his soul. She was brave to try and thwart him, even when she knew he would not heed her pointless words. His mind filled with thoughts of how she had deceived him with the herbal potion, how she had harmed Dominic, and what her cruel father had done years ago, and Geoffrey's wrath blazed like a wildfire.

  He had every right to take what he desired.

  His palm slid beneath her slashed bodice and cupped her soft, warm breast. Her lips parted on a gasp. Did she, too, feel intense sensation when their skin touched? He had never before felt such exquisite torment. No woman had held such power over his senses, thoughts, and desires. No woman had come so close to touching his soul. Fury and need roared inside Geoffrey, tinged with . . . guilt.

  He shoved the unwelcome emotions from his mind. The lady was his hostage. His pawn. He would do with her as he wished.

  His fingers skimmed lower, toward her belly's curve. Her flesh tensed beneath his fingertips. She turned her face away, and buried her cheek in the braided tangle of her hair. Her blue eyes glittered. She blinked, but could not hide from him the watery shimmer of tears.

  A ragged breath tore from him.

  She lay still and silent, resigned to her fate. Her eyes were closed now, and he guessed she blocked out the experience with whatever means were left to her. He had tried to do the same when he lay in the desert hospital. Though he had battled the horrific memories with a mental sword, 'twas a far more difficult fight than he ever imagined.

  She would learn that, soon enough.

  Her dark lashes fanned against her cheek. He sensed her fear. Helplessness. The shattered pride of a woman forced to compromise when she did not want to yield.

  Her lips quivered.

  Her desperate plea echoed in his mind. Please. Do not.

  Revulsion unfurled in him with shocking force. He had never hurt a woman. He had never coerced a virgin to his bed. Never in the lowest moments of his existence had he wanted to commit such a loathsome act.

  What kind of beast had he become?

  He felt intense shame. Craving. Desire. His shaking fingers curled into a fist against her skin. He did not want to take her in anger. He wanted her eyes open, warm with laughter and shared passion, welcoming him into her body's sweet haven.

  The door to his chamber creaked open.

  Elizabeth jerked beneath him. Scowling, he raised his head to yell at whoever dared to come in without first asking his permission. He had warned the guards outside that he did not want to be interrupted, unless the matter was of vital importance.

  Veronique strolled out of the shadows. When she saw him lying with Elizabeth on the bed, she stiffened. Her eyes flared with shock and outrage, but quicker than he thought possible, her face eased into a smile.

  He expected her to curtsey, turn around, and leave. Instead, she walked toward him, her brocaded gown rustling with each of her controlled steps.

  Elizabeth squirmed beneath him. His lips thinned, and he wished he could have spared both women this moment of indignity. He glared at Veronique. "I told the guards I did not wish to be disturbed."

  The courtesan paused beside the bed. "So you did, milord."

  "Why do you ignore my orders?"

  Her smile turned cool. "I bring you a missive." She offered him the roll of wax-sealed parchment clasped in her fingers. "'Twas delivered by one of Lord Brackendale's pages. I knew you were awaiting a response to the ransom demand. I thought you would want to see it straight away."

  Exhaling a fierce sigh, Geoffrey released Elizabeth's hands. He rolled off her, got to his feet, and snatched the parchment from Veronique. Behind him, the bed ropes creaked. Elizabeth stumbled away from him, clutching at her ruined bliaut.

  Geoffrey broke the seal with his thumb and read the terse lines scribed on the parchment. He laughed. "Damsel, you are not as valuable to your sire as you might believe."

  "What do you mean?" Her fingers knotted into the green wool, holding the edges of the slashed fabric together.

  "Your father refused to surrender Wode."

  Pride and relief glowed in her eyes. "I told you he would never agree to your demands."

  "He has challenged me to a melee three days from now, in Moyden Wood."

  "A melee?" Elizabeth's face turned ashen, and she swayed on her feet.

  Her horror touched Geoffrey. Despite her pampered, sheltered upbringing, she knew of the savage mock battles that pitted one enemy against another, without the king's knowledge or consent. He had fought two with the Earl of Druentwode. In the fight's ensuing thrill and blood lust, few warriors heeded the rules of chivalry that governed tournaments. Even fewer considered their opponents' safety. Most weapons were not blunted, a fact, he expected, her father knew as well.

  Anticipation snaked down Geoffrey's spine. At long last, vengeance. If he were correct in guessing Brackendale's intentions, one lord would be killed. The other would stand as the dust settled on the maimed and the dead. He would be the rightful ruler of Wode.

  "You cannot," Elizabeth shrieked. "You cannot!"

  Geoffrey shrugged. "'Tis a fair challenge. May the mightiest lord win."

  Her eyes grew wide with fear. "My father is no match for you in armed combat. He will die."

  "Then he will die," Geoffrey said with cold finality.

  Elizabeth's hand flew to her mouth. She ran for the door.

  He let her go.

  * * *

  As the sound of Elizabeth's footsteps faded, Veronique turned to Geoffrey and grinned. "Tsk, Tsk. A spineless wench, is she not?"

  "'Tis no concern of yours," he snarled.

  Veronique arched an eyebrow. With his h
ands on his hips, and his lips pressed into a line, he looked less than satisfied with his encounter with the lady. She bit back a smug laugh. Served him right for dallying with another woman.

  Frustration and fury surrounded him like invisible armor. Excitement shivered through Veronique. Ah, she loved to soothe his anger. It took skill and patience to transform rage, such a volatile emotion, into unbridled passion.

  But she could.

  She cast him a teasing pout. With loose-hipped strides, she crossed to him and twirled her fingers into the fine hair at his nape. "You are not pleased I interrupted you, after all?" When he did not respond, she slid her flattened palms down his torso and shoved them up under his shirt.

  He cursed. With a teasing giggle, she crushed her body against his while her fingers glided over his bare skin. "Tell me, milord, that you are not angry with me."

  He growled. "You disobeyed me. The message could have waited."

  Veronique hid a scowl. If she had not entered the solar, he would have sampled another woman's body. She dug her nails into his flesh and covered her rage with a bold, slippery kiss that should have left him enticed and malleable. "Who would see to your needs then?" she murmured. "'Tis clear Brackendale's daughter could not."

  His fists snapped round her wrists, stopping her caresses.

  "I am no mood for your games," he said, his voice so iron hard, she shivered.

  As Veronique stared up into his face, half-masked by shadow, fear prickled in her veins. The night he had returned to bed after leaving her alone, he had not touched her. When she had tried to entice him, he had rolled onto his side and left her cold. Nor, over the past few days or nights, had he invited her to share his bed.

  Forcing a sultry grin, she stretched up on the tips of her toes. She would prove he was not immune to her seductions.

  He frowned and pushed her away. Turning his back to her, he reached for the wine jug on the side table.

  With rigid fingers, Veronique smoothed her gown's crushed sleeve. "A drink first then, to ease you?" she suggested, unable to keep the edge from her tone. Geoffrey must have heard it, too, for his hand froze on the pitcher's handle.

  "Go."

  "Milord?"

  "I wish you to leave, Veronique," he said without facing her. "Close the doors behind you."

  "You are dismissing me?" As she stared at the unyielding wall of his back, the significance of his rejections crashed down upon her like a crumbling wall. "Why?"

  He looked at her, his gaze shadowed with regret. His shoulders raised in a stiff shrug. "I do not feel for you as I once did. I do not want to lie with you. I am . . . sorry."

  His words stung. He did not need her. He did want her. Not now, mayhap never again.

  Beneath her powders and rouge, warmth drained from her face. He forced her away because he desired the lady.

  Elizabeth Brackendale was younger, more beautiful, and her noble bloodlines made her a far richer prize than a poor farmer's daughter turned courtesan.

  Veronique's jaw tightened with fury, and her voice shook. "I never expected you to choose Brackendale's daughter over me."

  Geoffrey looked at her over his wine goblet, his gaze hard with warning. "I asked you to leave. Do you ignore yet another of my orders?"

  Veronique forced a smile with lips that felt carved from stone. "Nay, milord." She dropped into a graceful curtsey. "I bid you good eve."

  She sensed his gaze upon her as she walked across the chamber. How she hated the ache that crushed her heart.

  As Veronique hastened down the passage to the musty antechamber she claimed as her private room, her bliaut lashed at her ankles. Her eyes burned, and not from the smoke spewing from the torches. What had happened was all her fault, that black-haired, blue-eyed wench's. Veronique remembered Elizabeth's pale limbs entwined with Geoffrey's, and spat an oath into the shadows.

  Veronique trembled with rage. Geoffrey was her lord. Her lover, her warrior. No one had ever challenged her position as his favorite until Lady Elizabeth Brackendale arrived at Branton.

  Staggering into the darkened chamber, Veronique slammed the door and leaned back against the splintered wood. She had followed Geoffrey across the continent to this vile, festering, run-down keep because he had ambitions of power and wealth.

  After spending two years of her life with him, she would not be denied her share of the riches, or the glory.

  She groped for a taper and lit it from the candle beside the straw pallet. Light glinted off the polished steel mirror lying on the bed. She picked it up and looked at her reflection.

  The taper flickered, illuminating the wicked smile on her blood-red lips.

  If Geoffrey intended to cast her aside, she would find a way to deny him his wealth. And vengeance.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Elizabeth paced her chamber, her slippers tapping on the floorboards. She must find a way to change what was inevitable. Frowning, she turned and walked back the ten steps she had counted out so many times before which brought her to the opposite wall. She had to think. Think!

  Worrying the end of her braid with her fingers, she spun on her heel. She had to stop the melee. The brutal battle might prove the victor's honor and his right to Wode, but also meant her father's death. She knew that without doubt. Why had he challenged de Lanceau to such a skirmish when he knew he could not defeat a crusading warrior? Why?

  Had he chosen the melee because 'twas an honorable death?

  She forced a painful swallow. Her gaze fell to the rose wool folded on the trestle table. The melee came about because of Geoffrey's desire for revenge, his quest to seek justice for his father's death.

  Geoffrey was not so heartless if he felt such anguish.

  He had loved his sire very much, mayhap as much as she loved hers. Even, as he had posed that afternoon on the wall walk, with the poignancy she felt for her mother's death. He, too, knew the anguish of loss. Elizabeth hugged her arms to her chest and blinked away tears. He, too, knew the fear of being alone.

  The afternoon sun faded to twilight, and when she next looked out the window, a crescent moon gleamed in the heavens, surrounded by a scattering of stars. An owl hooted in the darkness. Time was passing. Still, she had no answer.

  She must stop Geoffrey. She must save her father.

  Somehow.

  Elizabeth sighed. She could stand the futile pacing no longer. Marching to the door, she pounded on it with her fists and shouted for someone to come. The sentries outside waited until she was almost hoarse before the door opened.

  "'Avin a tantrum, are ye?" The guard eyed her as though he expected the water pitcher to be hurled at his head.

  "I must speak with Lord de Lanceau," she said.

  "If milord wished to see ye, he would have summoned ye," the sentry grumbled.

  "Ask him anyway." She softened her demand with a wide-eyed, plaintive, "Please."

  The door slammed in her face.

  Determined not to work herself into an anxious fit while she waited, Elizabeth washed, pulled on the rose wool, and loosened her hair so her curls cascaded down her back. As she smoothed a crease out of her bodice, the door opened. The sentry tipped his head and indicated she was to go with him.

  Elizabeth walked into the dark corridor. She prayed that since their encounter, Geoffrey's temper had cooled and also his desire to punish her. If she appealed to his sense of reason, his knight's code of honor, she could convince him there was no advantage to the melee.

  Oh, God, she had to convince him. Even if it meant risking his hands on her skin and more of his sinful kisses. Even if meant risking . . . her innocence.

  Lie with me, Elizabeth, he had whispered. Those terrifying, thrilling words had torn from him with raw honesty.

  Could she save her father's life, by giving herself to Geoffrey?

  The guard pushed open the solar door. She stepped in, and the door closed with a thud. The solar was shadowed and quiet, as she remembered. Drawing a shaky breath, Elizabeth started toward th
e hearth.

  Geoffrey sprawled in one of the chairs, swirling a goblet in one hand. He stared at the crackling fire, and did not glance up when she neared.

  His hair looked mussed. How ridiculous to wonder how many times he had dragged his fingers through it. She expected him to be gloating, basking in the battle victory so certain to be his, but his expression held wariness.

  "You dare venture into my chamber alone again?" His gruff voice seemed loud in the room's stillness. He tilted his head and looked at her, and his eyes glinted in the dim light.