Troy slid down from the roan and led it through the crowd toward the stables. She struggled to calm her pulse. What would happen to her now? The boisterous chatter around her swelled, and she laced her clammy fingers together over her lap. She must keep her wits about her. Any man who tried to harm her would learn she was the daughter of a powerful lord, and would regret his actions.
As Troy slowed the mount near the stables, the noise seemed to rise again. She glanced over her shoulder. De Lanceau had dismounted and stood watching her, his gaze as keen as a predatory hawk’s.
He handed his destrier’s reins to a stable hand. “Will you need help getting down from the horse, milady?”
His words hummed with challenge. She shoved back the soaked hood, and, ignoring the icy rainwater trickling down her arms, shot him the frostiest stare she could muster. “Not from you.”
She stretched her stiff legs and prayed for ladylike grace as she drew one leg over the front of the saddle. Despite her bravado, she winced.
De Lanceau muttered under his breath. He shrugged out of his wet cloak and drab tunic, tossed them to a servant, and headed toward her. The sea of men around him parted.
A tremor shook her. He could not mean to help her himself. The thought of his hands upon her—
She should not stare at him. ’Twas not proper. But, she could not seem to wrench her gaze away. His common garments had concealed a black tunic, a garment that rivaled even her father’s costliest clothes. The damp cloth molded to de Lanceau’s chest, outlining broad swells of muscle. Exquisite filigree embroidery accented the tunic’s collar and cuffs. Light glittered off the gold thread. How he captivated.
As he neared, his jaw taut with purpose, she jolted her exhausted body into motion.
“Lady Elizabeth!” Troy cried. “Wait.”
She held the edge of the saddle, turned, and slid down.
The instant her slippers touched the slick, hard-packed ground, her legs collapsed. She clawed for the saddle. “Oh!”
Arms swooped around her from behind. De Lanceau’s embroidered cuff brushed against her wrist. He drew her back against him, supporting her weight with his. Her bottom pressed against his thighs. Her cloak tangled about his legs.
Awareness hurtled through her. She squirmed, tried to pull away, but dizziness thwarted her. She sucked in a breath, ripe with the scents of man and sweaty horse, and fought to clear her whirling mind.
Potent, invisible tension unfurled in her belly.
His breath stirred her hair. “Can you stand?” Next to her ear, his voice sounded unsteady.
She nodded.
He pushed her away, and turned her to face him.
“Does your arm still pain you? What of your forehead?” Concern glinted in his eyes.
Drawing herself up to her full height, Elizabeth refused to acknowledge the slightest gratitude for his compassion. He had abducted her as part of his plan for vengeance, and no doubt intended to use her as leverage against her father.
De Lanceau did not care for her well-being.
“I am fine,” she said.
His laughter grated. His eyes darkened to steel gray.
Elizabeth gnawed her lip. He knew she lied, but if it took every last bit of her strength, she would not admit weakness.
“For a moment,” he drawled, “I thought you looked pale and unwell.” His smile turned lazy and, as his gaze traveled over her sodden cloak, her breath settled like a rock between her ribs. “I would hate to think my prize had been damaged during the day’s journey. Your value to me might be lessened, Lady Elizabeth, if that were so.”
She swallowed. She scrambled to find words with which to battle, scathing remarks to wound and scar.
Yet, she was so very, very tired.
Darkness beckoned. She closed her eyes, unable to resist.
The bailey’s noise faded to a drone.
A hand caught her elbow. Steadied her, though she did not realize, until then, how close she had been to collapsing.
“Troy, escort her to her chamber.”
When Elizabeth opened her eyes, de Lanceau had gone. He stood across the bailey, speaking to an old woman drawing water from the well. Elizabeth strained to see past the stable hands crowded around the other riders, to see what had become of Mildred, but Troy set his hand in the small of her back and urged her toward the keep’s forebuilding.
She stepped inside. The dank air smelled of cheap tallow candles and a century of secrets.
Her strides stiffened. De Lanceau intended to throw her in his dungeon. A shiver rippled through her, and she steeled herself to face rats and iron shackles. Yet, Troy led her up into a cramped, winding stairwell. At the end of three flights of stairs they came to a chamber. A short, plump maidservant with wide brown eyes and hair the color of honey stood inside. She turned as they approached. After setting down a stoneware pitcher, she dipped in a timid curtsey and hurried out.
Troy motioned for Elizabeth to enter.
She paused on the threshold, held back by a sense of misgiving. “Whose chamber is this? Why have you brought me here? Tell de Lanceau I—”
Mumbling an apology, Troy shoved her forward. The door thumped closed. A key grated in the lock.
“Troy!”
Elizabeth fisted her hands and hammered on the door. He did not answer. She yanked on the iron handle, twisted and turned it, but the metal refused to budge.
With a furious sigh, she spun away from the door. Her fingers shook, yet she managed to shed the cloak. It slapped into a heap on the floorboards. She ignored the ache of bruised muscles and stalked around the chamber. If there were a way to escape, she would find it.
She threw open the window’s wooden shutters. A wrought iron grille barred the opening, and held firm when she gave it a good tug. She slammed the shutters closed.
Turning on her heel, she crossed to the high oak bed near the door. The worn sheets had been patched in places, as had the woolen blankets. They would not hold up if she ripped them to shreds and braided them into a rope. Desperate laughter bubbled in her throat. Since she could not squeeze past the grille, that plan had no merit anyway.
Her belly did an anxious turn, and, steadying herself, Elizabeth leaned against one of the bedposts. Her palm brushed rough wood. Glancing down, she saw the post had once splintered. The clumsy repair was the work of an apprentice rather than a skilled carpenter. She smiled. If she exerted enough pressure, mayhap she could snap the post again. She could use it to batter down the door, or, if that failed, knock senseless whoever next came into the chamber.
Linking her hands around the mended wood, she pulled, hard. The joint held firm.
Defeat wailed inside her. Refusing to listen, she crossed to the dust-covered trestle table and the bedside table set with candles. Neither held items that might aid her escape. Not even a book to hurl at a guard and distract him, while she dashed for the door.
De Lanceau had planned well.
Elizabeth slumped on the bed’s edge. The ropes squeaked and sagged. Her eyes burned and she bit back a defeated sob.
She would not cry.
Lying on her side, her cheek pressed to the pillow, she stared at the opposite wall. She should remove her garments before she got a chill or soaked her blankets. Yet, all strength had drained from her body.
Her eyelids drooped. Wretched de Lanceau. He had not sent a bath to ease her aching muscles, wash her wounds, and scrub away the wagon’s filth. He had not offered her a meal, lumpy or not. She wrinkled her nose. The pillowcase smelled sour, no doubt stored before it had dried, and the linen scratched her skin.
Her eyes closed. Elizabeth fought the ever-present dizziness. She must not rest. She must not sleep.
She must find a way to escape.
***
Geoffrey stood in the chamber doorway and listened to Elizabeth’s rhythmic breathing. Hers was a sleep of sheer exhaustion, free, for now, of emotional distress and memories that gnaw
ed at one’s soul until it bled.
How he envied her.
His leather boots creaked as he crossed the threshold. Moonlight slipped in through the cracks in the shutters and painted the room in an ethereal, silvery light. The maidservant Elena had left a candle burning beside the bed, but he did not need its light to see. Still, he did not snuff the flame.
Softening his strides, he approached the bed. He stared down at Elizabeth. Studied the beauty he had snared.
Willful damsel. She had surprised him today with her defiance, but in the end she had only made the journey more difficult for herself.
She lay on her back, her hair tangled across the pillow, the bedding tucked about her shoulders. She had not stayed awake long enough for Elena to bring food or water to wash. The damsel had not even roused when the damp clothes were stripped from her body. When Elena had applied the last of the healing salve he had saved from the hospital at Acre to Elizabeth’s temple, she had moaned, but not awakened. Not once.
His gaze skimmed over her cheek, brushed by moonlight. Did his eyes trick him, or did she look ill? Frowning, Geoffrey bent over her. Her lids were the color of cream above the dark fans of her lashes. Her mouth formed a gentle pout, innocent of the biting words she hurled at him at every opportunity. Elena said the lady had no fever, but he set his hand on her forehead to see for himself. Her flesh was warm, pulsing with life, but not hot.
She stirred. Sighed.
He jerked back, and his face stung. He hoped he had not woken her. What would he say?
If he tried to leave the chamber now, he would wake her for certain.
Still as a tombstone, he counted his throbbing heartbeats. Waited. Her head drifted to one side, and her breathing slowed.
Relief whooshed through his body. He should leave and tend to the other matters demanding his attention this evening.
Yet, the delicious warmth of her skin shimmered on his palm.
He longed to touch her again.
Caution blazed through him. Still, his traitorous fingers trailed a feather-light path down the side of her face. How smooth her skin felt against his, and as soft as the silk hawked in the crowded Venetian markets.
Her warmth curled up his hand. Reminded him, with arousing potency, of how good she had felt in his arms.
He ground his teeth and drew away from the bedside.
She had found a weakness in him. How he hated her for it.
The candle extinguished on his coarse oath. He could not afford weakness. Not when years of anguish and rage had led him to this pivotal point, and victory was so near.
This beauty was his enemy. He admired her boldness, but he would not let her weaken him. Not through desire.
He turned and strode to the door.
Lady Elizabeth Brackendale would never touch his soul.
Chapter Six
Through a sleepy haze, Elizabeth became aware of two people speaking. The man’s voice seemed familiar, but she did not recognize the woman’s.
“Milord, the head wound does not appear deep,” the woman said in hushed tones. “’Twill be clearer once I wash away the dirt and blood.”
Elizabeth’s groggy mind stirred. Who had been injured?
“Troy told me she faded in and out of consciousness.”
Concern poked at the fog smothering Elizabeth’s thoughts. Troy? She recognized the name, but could not remember from where. Why did her thoughts seem as dense as cabbage pottage?
“Poor dove. She will have a mark on her brow for a few days, I vow.”
The man sighed with displeasure. “What of her arm?”
“’Tis not broken, but the bruises may cause her discomfort.”
A breeze wafted against Elizabeth’s cheeks. Fabric rustled. She dragged up the strength to raise her lashes.
A warm, wet cloth pressed against her temple.
Pain!
She gasped. Her eyes flew open.
“Do not fret, my child.” An old woman hovered at the bedside. Her black habit and white wimple enhanced her round face wizened by sun-bronzed wrinkles. Her smile offered trust.
Elizabeth licked her dry lips. “Who—”
“Lie still. Let Sister Margaret finish her work.”
The rumbled command swept the last slumberous cobwebs from Elizabeth’s mind. Memories of the previous day flooded back to her, and her stomach tightened.
She turned her head on the pillow. Geoffrey de Lanceau leaned against the doorway, his leather-booted legs crossed at the ankle. He wore a burgundy wool jerkin and black hose, and looked refreshed and clean despite their long journey but a short time ago. He had even shaved. With his squared jaw bare of stubble, he looked even more arrogant.
Her gaze flew back to Sister Margaret. Did the nun know that de Lanceau was a kidnapper? It seemed not. Sister Margaret’s gentle smile did not waver as she rinsed the bloody cloth in a bowl on the side table, and dabbed again at the wound.
“Ouch!” Ignoring a wave of nausea and dizziness, Elizabeth pushed herself up to sitting. Yet, she did not lie atop the bedding as she remembered, but was snug inside it.
The linen sheet slid from her shoulders. A draft cooled her throat. Her bare throat.
Someone had removed her shift.
She squeaked and snatched at the bedding.
De Lanceau chuckled. With lazy strides, he strode to her, his boots thudding on the floorboards.
The nun glanced at Elizabeth. Puzzlement shone in the woman’s eyes before she shook her head and picked up the bowl. “I must fetch clean water. I shall return in a moment.”
As the door clicked shut behind the nun, Elizabeth clutched the blankets to her naked flesh.
“What ails you, damsel?”
A blush stung her face. “How dare you.”
“Dare I what?” He dropped down on the edge of the bed. The ropes creaked and groaned, and she bobbed up and down like a child’s ball. With effortless grace, he crossed one muscled thigh over the other and seemed oblivious to her frantic attempts to keep hold of the bedding, though she guessed from the mischievous glint in his eyes that he knew of her predicament.
She shot him an icy glare. “Where is my shift?”
His grin, a slash of straight, white teeth, made her belly flip-flop. “Ah, I remember now. That filthy, ripped bit of linen? The one you wore yesterday?”
“Aye,” she snapped.
“I told Elena, the maidservant, to send it to one of the town peasants. He could use it for scraps.”
“You what?”
De Lanceau’s brow furrowed into a frown. “Should I ask Sister Margaret to treat your hearing too?”
“I hear as well as you.” Elizabeth choked back a shriek. “My shift could have been mended with a needle and thread. You had no right to give it away.”
De Lanceau flicked a speck of lint from his hose. His gaze locked with hers. “’Twas not worth salvaging. The esteemed Lord Arthur Brackendale would not want his daughter to be seen wearing such an inferior garment.”
Anguish lanced through her, but she stifled the hurt. She would not stoop to his challenge and fight to defend her father. Her sire was a brave, loyal, noble man, and when he learned of her abduction, he would lead his army to Branton and squash de Lanceau like an annoying bug.
“By your own admission, you are a thief as well as a rogue,” she said in a cold voice. “’Twill cost you many coins to replace my shift with one of equal quality. Yet, you will, since you are responsible for its ruin.”
His brows arched. “Am I?”
“You are.”
He laughed. A warning. He flattened one hand on the bedding and leaned on his extended arm, bringing his broad torso nearer to hers.
She shivered, but refused to shrink back from him. She would not be threatened by his nearness. His mocking words had failed to defeat her. His intimidation would not either.
His tanned fingers splayed on the patched blankets. His hands were beaut
iful. Callused, weathered, yet nobly formed. She remembered his fingers closing around her mother’s brooch, and resentment swirled within her like a gathering tempest.
Had he taken the ornament to sell it? The gold would fetch a good price, more than most merchants earned in a year. With its proceeds, he could hire an army to fight her father.
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