Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  Heat skittered across Elizabeth’s skin, spiraled through her arm, and pooled in her belly. The odd sensation was both exciting and frightening.

  She yanked her fingers free, and he smiled.

  “Until we meet again, milady.” Without the slightest attempt at a bow, he turned and strode into the crowd.

  A hand clutched Elizabeth’s arm. “By the blessed Virgin,” Mildred said, wide-eyed, her wrinkled fingers at her throat. “Are you all right?”

  Elizabeth nodded. Her flesh still tingled, as though his mouth continued to ply its sensual wickedness upon her.

  Indeed, her whole body tingled.

  “The man who saved you—”

  “A rogue.” Elizabeth glared at her guards. “Find him.”

  Drawing his sword, one of the men-at-arms hurried off in pursuit. The other bellowed for the throng to disperse.

  As Elizabeth forced her breath to slow and fought the heat in her cheeks, the stranger’s parting words spun through her mind.

  Until we meet again, milady.

  Were the words a promise? Or a threat?

  ***

  Geoffrey de Lanceau leaned against the mildewed wattle-and-daub wall of Totter’s Ale House, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze on the lady. He had easily eluded the guard. In his childhood, Geoffrey had scampered through Wode’s narrow streets and alleys many times, and he had not forgotten them.

  The matron fussed over her charge like a hen clucking at a chick. The lady’s hands clenched into fists, her chin thrust up, and even from a distance, he saw the spark of her eyes. A willful damsel. She did not like to be scolded, even if she deserved a tongue-wagging.

  He cursed under his breath, for his palms still burned where they had pressed against her slender waist, holding her, so she would not crumple into the offal at her feet. Her honeyed scent clung to him, as damning as the scorn in her voice.

  Of all the things he had expected this morning, it was not she. He had come to Wode to study his enemy, to learn from the folk who frequented the market, to find Lord Brackendale’s weakness. He had not anticipated that weakness would fall into his arms in the form of a fragrant, tempting woman, whose blue eyes, lush mouth, and beauty could tempt the most pious man to commit sin.

  He dismissed his ridiculous interest. She was the daughter of the man responsible for his father’s death.

  He intended to destroy Lord Arthur Brackendale.

  A shuffling sound came from behind him.

  Geoffrey’s senses snapped alert. Warning hummed in his veins. He grabbed the dagger in his belt and whipped around.

  His friend and fellow knight, Dominic de Terre, stumbled out of the shadows of an open doorway. His chestnut brown hair, cut short at the nape, looked damp and tousled. His cheeks were ruddy, and he grinned like a besotted fool.

  Geoffrey blew a breath and lowered the knife. “Dominic.”

  “A bloody Turk could have charged up behind you, and you would not have heard,” Dominic said with a good-natured chuckle. With his hand, he stifled a belch.

  A flush burned Geoffrey’s cheekbones. Surely he had not been that engrossed in watching her. He shrugged off the sting of embarrassment and sheathed the dagger. “I heard you well enough. Still, I am glad ’twas you, and not a drunken brute.”

  “Aye.” Dominic’s gaze darted to the putrefying piles of vegetables and manure beside him as if they might suddenly transform into fly-covered demons. “’Tis common knowledge back alleys hide the worst thieves, pickpockets, cutthroats . . . even vengeful lords plotting to claim keeps.” When Geoffrey frowned, Dominic laughed. “Milord, what had you so captivated?”

  Geoffrey snorted. “I was not captivated.”

  “Ha! You stared into the market as though you spied a chest full of silver. Or a wench eager for a tumble.”

  “Wrong on both accounts.”

  “Not a wench?” Dominic’s brown eyes widened. “Mayhap I do not know you as well as I thought. You once boasted quite a reputation with the fair sex.”

  “Enough! Tell me, what did you learn?” Geoffrey glanced back at the market, in time to see a scrawny urchin snatch a joint of meat from the butcher’s stall.

  Dominic plucked straw from his tunic’s cuff. “It seems you visit Wode at a fortuitous time. The men in the alehouse were most willing to chat once we had shared a few rounds of brown ale. The miller complained of all the sacks of grain he must grind so the castle’s chief cook can prepare the wedding feast—”

  The butcher’s roar carried above the buzz of voices. The boy fled, clutching his prize to his chest, and vanished into the crowd. Elizabeth turned, a look of surprise on her face. Sunlight played over the black curls at her brow and wove highlights into the glossy braid falling to her waist.

  Geoffrey remembered the soft brush of her hair on his sleeve. He shoved the thought from his mind. “Wedding?”

  “Brackendale’s daughter’s. She is betrothed to the notorious Baron Sedgewick. They are to be married on the town church’s portico in seven days.”

  Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. So there was a suitor. As he watched, unable to wrest his gaze away, she halted the butcher’s angry pursuit of the urchin. With a smile and a few words, she put something into the butcher’s hand. Coins.

  The lady had a heart, unlike her father. How ironic that a lord who could cut down a man in front of his young son could sire such a compassionate daughter.

  Clenching his jaw against the foolish and unwelcome sympathy, Geoffrey said, “The marriage will never happen.”

  “’Tis a clever union. Brackendale’s estates border Sedgewick’s. If either lord should die, the marriage allows the holdings to merge and create the largest estate in all of Moydenshire.” Dominic waved a hand in the air. “Yet, even more important, Brackendale gains a powerful ally.”

  A growl burned Geoffrey’s throat. The sound echoed in the wounded reaches of his soul, the place that would only heal when he had vengeance. “As I said, ’twill never happen.”

  Dominic arched an eyebrow. “King Richard rewarded you well for your valor in the Crusades, but surely you do not expect your small estate or your new position as lord of Branton Keep to have any influence upon this wedding.”

  “You underestimate me.”

  Dominic shook his head, as though he reasoned with a stubborn child. “Milord, you have lived at Branton for only two months. The fortress is in disrepair. Your wealth and position are insignificant compared to Brackendale’s or Sedgewick’s, and you have neither the money nor the armies to challenge them to battle.” His mouth eased into a wry grin. “Admit it. Until Pietro sends the profits from the silk trade in Venice, you must watch how you spend every bit of silver.”

  “’Twill not cost me one bit,” Geoffrey murmured, shoving away from the tavern wall, “if we have the right pawn.”

  “Pawn? Now we speak of chess? I thought—”

  “I mean the daughter.”

  Geoffrey tilted his head toward the market. Dominic scanned the throng until, at Geoffrey’s nod, his gaze alighted on Elizabeth. She stood peering down at the wagon-churned dirt. She seemed to be searching for a lost treasure. Her ribbon?

  Followed by her guard and lady-in-waiting, she walked on a few paces, her strides fluid and graceful.

  Dominic whistled. “’Twas a wench, after all.”

  Geoffrey dragged a hand over his jaw. He tore his gaze from the shimmer of pale silk at her ankle.

  “A rare beauty, is she not?”

  A rough laugh burst from Geoffrey. “The lady is a spoiled, haughty little—”

  “For the spawn of Lord Brackendale, I believe that is a compliment.” Dominic’s eyes sparkled.

  “’Twould not matter if she were buck-toothed, bow-legged, or as ugly as sin.” Geoffrey clenched his fists against seething bitterness and anguish. “She is Brackendale’s flesh and blood. I vow he would move heaven and hell to ensure her safety.”

  The mirt
h vanished from Dominic’s features. “Milord?”

  “Wode will be mine, but without unnecessary expense or bloodshed.” Geoffrey swallowed the vile taste flooding his mouth. Over the course of a lifetime, he had witnessed more killing than any sane man could bear. He would never forget the slaughter—of innocents and warriors alike—that had stained the ground at Acre crimson with blood. He would not forget his brother’s sacrifice.

  Nor would he forget the last, strangled breath that marked his father’s passing, or forgive his dishonorable death.

  An armed man elbowed his way toward the lady. The second guard. Soon, word of the morning’s mishap would reach Brackendale, and if he cared half as much about his daughter as Geoffrey suspected, the town would be swarming with men-at-arms. He must not be captured.

  Not now, when revenge would soon be within his grasp.

  “What do you intend?” Dominic asked.

  Silent laughter swirled up inside Geoffrey. “By this afternoon, Brackendale will receive word of fires in the village of Tillenham. Devastating blazes, rumored to be set by my hand.”

  Dominic scratched his chin, a nervous sound. “A ruse, I trust?”

  Geoffrey nodded. “A diversion.”

  “And the daughter?”

  She had abandoned her search for the ribbon, and her entourage was urging her to leave. She shook her head and pointed across the market. As she walked, sunlight and shadow skimmed over her, outlining her slender figure, her swaying hips, and her bottom’s fetching curve.

  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.”