Cursing, she struck out with her arms and legs. The men grabbed her wrists and restrained her.
Mildred panted. “Tell your idiots to release me, de Lanceau, or I shall scream.”
“Do not waste your breath. I would regret ordering the guards to knock you senseless. Yet, I will, if you try to scream or refuse to do as I bid.”
“Harrumph! You do not frighten me.” She inhaled.
Geoffrey softened his voice to a lethal murmur. “Do you wish harm to come to your lady?”
His theatrics had the desired effect. The color drained from Mildred’s face. “You . . . you monster. I will never let you harm Lady Elizabeth.”
“She is far more valuable to me alive and well.”
Mildred’s lips pursed. “Pah! You would tell me all kinds of lies to get your way, you thick-skulled, swine-bellied—”
Geoffrey walked out the door. “Bring her.”
***
Her breathing ragged, Elizabeth stumbled to a halt and pressed her hand against her pinched side. Footfalls echoed in the passageway behind her, and she wondered if they belonged to her servants, or de Lanceau’s cohorts.
Wraithlike shadows, surrounded by torchlight, grew across the walls behind her. She imagined the men’s jeers and coarse laughter when they trapped her.
A man who burned the harvest had no mercy.
De Lanceau would not show compassion for his enemy’s daughter.
A scream burned Elizabeth’s throat, but she swallowed the cry. She must not yield to fear. Her father and the castle folk depended on her.
She must not allow de Lanceau victory.
Forcing herself back into motion, she ran into an adjoining corridor. Through the wall torch’s hazy smoke, she spied the entry to the stairwell. Relief washed through her like a spring rain. When she reached the inner bailey, she could shout the alarm. The door was at the bottom of the stairs.
As she entered the stairwell, her mantle’s brush became amplified to a whisper. The tap of her slippers echoed. The earthy scent of damp stone enveloped her. Her mind roused images of hideous, fanged ghouls slithering out of the cracks in the mortar. Shuddering, she squashed her imaginings and pressed on.
Darkness descended with her. The torches further down had gone out. Biting her lip, Elizabeth reached out to find the wall, and her palm skidded across mildewed stone.
Had her father not ordered the servants to keep the stairwells lit at all times?
For a panicked moment, she started to turn back.
She could not. She must secure the keep.
Her foot slid down to the next step. Almost there.
Only a few more steps to go.
A scuffling sound came from behind her.
She froze. Someone else had entered the stairwell.
She held her breath. Waited. Listened.
Whoever followed tried to be quiet, but had difficulty judging the stairs’ width.
A hand bumped her shoulder.
Elizabeth shrieked and bolted forward into the darkness. Her pursuer swore. Her right foot slipped out from beneath her, and she fell. Her head and right arm slammed against the wall.
Dazed, she struggled to stand. She righted herself.
Her pursuer grabbed for her again.
She must reach the bailey.
Her ankle twisted on an uneven stair. Her legs crumpled. She cried out, felt the weightlessness of air beneath her, and landed at the bottom of the stairs.
Elizabeth moaned and struggled to sit up. The stairwell filled with light, voices, and the rasp of drawn weapons. She pushed the mantle’s hood from her eyes. Squinting in the brightness, she saw armed men walking in from the adjoining corridors. She did not recognize any of them.
Dread screamed through her. She scrambled to her feet.
A tall man strode toward her.
She gasped, for she would never forget his handsome face. Memories of his embrace and wicked words had lived on in her illicit daydreams since the day he had saved her life. “You!”
“Geoffrey de Lanceau.” He smiled and took her hand. “At last, Lady Elizabeth, we have the pleasure of a proper introduction.”
***
Geoffrey watched the emotions play across her pale face: shock, anger, and fear. Her hand, clinging to his, shook before she wrenched her fingers free. He let her go. He allowed her the momentary illusion of freedom, as a falconer would indulge his favorite bird before calling it back to his arm and slipping the hood over its bright eyes.
She held his stare, and he steeled himself against her beauty. He had remembered her eyes were blue, but now, offset by the dark mantle cloaking her head and body, they were the color of a summer sky.
Her cheeks pinkened, and her gaze narrowed to a frosty glare. All hint of vulnerability had gone. Again, he looked upon the composed woman he had rescued days ago.
“I regret I could not reveal my identity at the market,” he murmured. “I could not risk you telling your sire.”
Rage glittered in her eyes. “A wise choice, since I would have done so. Where is my father? What have you done with him?”
A smug grin tilted Geoffrey’s mouth. “He is on his way to Tillenham, I believe.”
“To capture you. You set the fires, did you not? He accepted your challenge.” Her eyebrow arched. “Were you afraid to fight him, after all?”
Fury snapped inside Geoffrey like a cracking whip. She called him a coward. Years of anguish and resentment rammed against the wall of control around his heart and threatened to shatter it into thousands of pieces.
He balled his hands into fists. He would be foolish to lose his calm now, as she well knew. She had insulted his pride and prowess in front of his men, no doubt to provoke him into rash action. How clever of her, but futile. “Your father and I will fight soon, milady. When we do, I shall win.”
Her expression shadowed with wariness. Geoffrey anticipated a biting reply that her sire would trample his bones into the ground. Yet, at that moment, crimson liquid dripped onto her shoulder. Blood?
He frowned. “Dominic, a torch.”
Elizabeth jerked her head to the side, but Geoffrey was faster with the light. The curls at her brow covered a scrape that bled down her hairline and gleamed on the rise of her strong cheekbones. She would need a healer. He stifled a pang of remorse, and wondered if she had any other injuries.
The mercenary at her back snickered, and Geoffrey shot him a foul look. Viscon had rushed the lady down the stairwell, an unnecessary risk since she could not escape, and she was wounded. He would not receive all of the coin promised to him as payment.
Geoffrey handed the burning reed back to Dominic. “I did not intend for you to be hurt, milady.”
She snorted, a sound of disgust.
“You may think me many things, but I am not a brute.” Geoffrey reached for the dagger at his belt. She flinched, but to his surprise, did not retreat. He lifted his wool tunic, took his shirt’s hem, and slashed a strip of linen. After sheathing the knife, he reached up to dab her temple.
“Do not touch me.”
The venom in her voice drew his gaze to her mouth. Her lips were so near. Lush. How would she react if he tipped up her chin and kissed her, as he had teased that day at the market?
Was he mad?
He lowered his hand and gestured to the dirt-smudged mantle. “My shirt is cleaner than your garments. Take the cloth.”
She shook her head. “I do not want your pity.”
He believed her. Hatred sparked in the air between them like invisible lighting. As grunts and mutters echoed from the opposite end of the passage, and the two guards hauled Mildred forward, he shoved the linen at Elizabeth. “Tend to the wound, or I shall do it for you.”
She looked at him, hard, then snatched up the cloth. She wiped her face. The linen stained crimson.
Mildred shrieked. “Oh, milady. You are wounded.”
“’Tis only a scratch,” El
izabeth called back.
Geoffrey watched, unable to tear his gaze away, as with stiff movements, she pulled back the mantle’s hood. She eased her hair free. Lustrous as black silk, it tumbled over her shoulders and fell to her waist in a riot of curls.
He caught the scent of flowers. Desire thickened his loins.
Curse her!
He turned away, angered by the appalling weakness of his flesh. “We shall tend your injury later. Dominic, bring her.”
“I go nowhere with you.”
Geoffrey halted. He had anticipated a struggle, but not a refusal spoken without the slightest tremor. He spun on his heel and faced her. She swallowed and, while she held his gaze, she clasped her hands together.
So she was afraid of him, after all.
“You will come.” He growled. “Now.”
“My father’s servants are loyal. They will not allow you to take me from this keep against my will.”
“Indeed?” Geoffrey chuckled. “’Tis astonishing what a few bits of silver can accomplish when placed in the right hands.”
“Bribery!”
Her indignant cry sent satisfaction tingling through him. He resisted the urge to taunt her more. Later, he would have all the time he wished to toy with her. He looked at his men, drew a breath to give the order to move out.
Her laughter stopped him. “Are you not aware we were forewarned of your arrival? By now, the captain of the guard and all the men-at-arms will know of your intrusion.” She smoothed her mantle with casual disdain. “You are probably surrounded.”
Geoffrey frowned. Did she speak true?
Then he remembered the boy. “You cling to foolish hope.”
Her irritating smile did not waver. “I do not think so, Lord de Lanceau.”
Her mocking use of his proper title scratched down his back like claws. “If you refer to the boy, Viscon captured him on his way back from your chamber. The lad will not be warning anyone of our presence here.”
Her smile vanished. Desperation shimmered beneath her lashes. Her pulse beat hard against her throat’s milky skin. “What have you done to Jeremy? Did you . . . kill him?” Revulsion darkened her voice.
Geoffrey’s gut tightened. At last, he had found leverage to make her obey. As long as she believed him capable of such a deed, she might comply. For that reason, he did not answer her.
“You killed a defenseless child?”
He shuddered inside and forced the words through his lips. “Killing is a consequence of war, is it not?”
“How could you? Jeremy was only eleven years old.”
Before Geoffrey could step away, her right arm moved. Her fist flew toward his face.
He trapped her hand in mid-air. The smack of skin against skin echoed like a thunderclap.
He locked his fingers through hers, crushing the bloodstained scrap of linen between their palms. She gasped, and her face drained of color. He held her arm immobile. She tugged. Swore. He waited until the blazing intent faded from her eyes, before he lowered her hand to her side. When he released her, the linen dropped to the floor.
She stumbled back, cradling her arm to her chest.
“Remember the boy, before you are as rash again.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Will you kill me as well?”
***
As soon as she had spoken the words, Elizabeth regretted them. Her stomach clenched with a pain worse than her bleeding head or hurt arm.
The man standing behind her shifted. Mildred screeched.
Tension buzzed in the smoky air.
If only she could take back what she had said. Yet, she would not back down from de Lanceau’s glare. His eyes had darkened to the hue of a winter storm.
He stood so near she could reach out and run her fingers over his jaw’s day-old stubble. His scent taunted her, a blend of leather, horse, and a masculine essence all his own.
“I have never harmed or killed a woman,” he said, his breath hot on her forehead. “Nor would I find any pleasure in doing so. But I warn you, do not force me to prove it.” He turned to his men, strode toward them, and gestured to the man named Dominic. “Take the matron to the wagon. We will escort the lady.”
Armed men moved toward Mildred.
Elizabeth exhaled on a trembling rush. She had to stop de Lanceau. Whatever plan he had for her, she would not be a part of it.
She fought her wounds’ discomfort and looked around. A pock-faced oaf blocked the stairwell behind her. She recognized him. Gareth Viscon. A mercenary. A soldier who had once fought for the king and would now lend his sword arm to any man who paid him. Her father had once hired him to ferret out a band of murderous outlaws living in a nearby wood.
Viscon grinned and picked at his dirty fingernail with a knife, and she looked away. She would never get past him. Her gaze shifted to the men with drawn swords standing in the corridor to the left. She could not bolt past them, either.
The bailey door was just yards away.
She must reach it.
She glanced at Mildred, now surrounded by guards and struggling to wrench free of her captors. Elizabeth tipped her head to the door. Mildred’s eyes widened. She winked before beginning to fight in earnest.
“Swine! I demand you release my arms at once. Ouch! I shall have bruises upon my flesh on the morrow.” She huffed. “If you do not stop, I shall—”
Elizabeth ran. Her fingers tensed, ready to yank open the door. She would scream with such force, her mother and sister would hear her in heaven.
De Lanceau still had his back to her.
She shoved past two startled guards. Her feet pounded on the stone.
“Milord,” a man yelled.
De Lanceau spun around.
In one smooth lunge, he blocked her path.
She skidded to a halt, an instant before their bodies would have collided. Her mantle and shift swirled about her legs. Her breath rasped between her teeth, and in desperation, she looked toward the door.
“You will not escape, milady,” he said.
Faint voices emanated from the stairwell: two women talking. Servants checking the torches, Elizabeth realized with a burst of hope.
In hushed tones, de Lanceau snapped orders. A man yanked open the bailey door. The scream flared in Elizabeth’s throat, but before it broke free, Viscon grabbed her from behind. His arm slammed around her and knocked the air from her lungs. His scarred hand clamped over her mouth.
She clawed and kicked, but her clothing twisted around her legs. Her foot hit his shin. He grunted, grabbed her injured arm, and wrenched it behind her back. Pain shot up into her shoulder, and the passage around her blurred. As she slumped against him, Viscon dragged her through the doorway.
The cool air, as startling as river water, snapped her agony-fogged mind alert. Dawn’s golden haze had not yet warmed the sky, and the inner bailey was blanketed in darkness. She squirmed, jerked her head from side to side to dislodge Viscon’s hand, and dug her heels into the dirt. Viscon hauled her toward a horse-drawn wagon waiting near the kitchens.
Men pushed Mildred up into the wagon. The matron shivered, hugged her arms across her bosom, and crouched in the far corner.
Viscon released Elizabeth’s arm. Before he took his hand from her mouth, he grabbed her hair and jerked her head back. He waved his dagger under her nose. “Ye make so much as a whimper, milady, and I will slit yer throat. Understand?”
He sounded so savage, Elizabeth nodded.
From somewhere behind her, de Lanceau muttered a curse. “Easy. Put the knife away. Get her in the wagon.”
The mercenary spat an oath. He released Elizabeth and shoved her up into the wooden cart. Clutching her mantle to her shaking body, she staggered to her feet.
She would yell for the guards.
The wagon rocked, and Viscon leapt up behind her. He must have guessed her intent, for his eyes glinted. He looked from her to Mildred, unsheathed his knife, and pushed it
up inside his sleeve.
He strode closer, and Elizabeth’s mouth went dry. The shrill cry refused to emerge.
His hand closed on her shoulder, and he shoved her down to the floor. He squatted beside Mildred, the knife’s leather-bound hilt visible.
De Lanceau’s low voice came from nearby. “I will ride up front with the driver. Dominic, keep watch on the women.”
Medieval Rogues Page 4
