Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  “By the saints.” Dominic picked it up and held it at his eye level. Sunlight gleamed off the delicate design. “Where did you get it?”

  “Lady Elizabeth.”

  Dominic whistled and weighed the gold in his palm. “Worth a fair price, I vow.”

  Geoffrey grinned. “Enough to pay several more mercenaries.”

  “The brooch seems of an older style.”

  “It belonged to the lady’s mother. When the lady first asked after it, I thought she missed a pretty trinket. Then I looked into her eyes, and—”

  Dominic eyed him with fascination. Did he expect some kind of profound confession?

  Geoffrey snapped his jaw shut. He would not admit compassion for her. “I do not care if ’tis important to her. Now, it belongs to me.”

  “You should return it.” Dominic’s fingers brushed over the design. “If you kill Brackendale and seize his lands, she will have naught. The coin from selling this brooch would provide her an income for several years, at least until she finds a husband.”

  “She is betrothed to the baron. He will provide for her.”

  Dominic’s mirthless laughter cut into Geoffrey’s thoughts. “I doubt Sedgewick will still want her, when she no longer comes with a large dowry.”

  Geoffrey resisted a stab of guilt. He would not care for the damsel, or cripple his ambitions with concerns for her welfare. Not when revenge was so close.

  Over the crackling fire, he heard the patter of footsteps. He glanced up, and saw Elena. She looked tired and flustered, and he realized she had come from Elizabeth’s chamber.

  He beckoned Elena over to the table.

  She curtsied. “M-milord?” Her face looked pale.

  “How is the lady?”

  “She would not eat.” Elena stared down at her fingers, linked tightly together. “She refused. S-she said she cared not for lumpy gruel.”

  Geoffrey downed the last of his ale and dried his mouth with his hand. “You left the fare with her?”

  “Aye, but I do not think she will eat it.” Elena’s hands shook. “I helped her dress in the clothes you sent for her, but she almost ripped them to shreds. She shouted and cursed like a wild woman.”

  He remembered well the heat of his captive’s eyes, and her stinging words. “What did she say?”

  The maid drew a breath. “She . . . well, she did not respect your generosity, milord.”

  “Go on.”

  “She said you provided the gown of a strumpet.”

  Geoffrey chuckled. Dominic hooted and slapped his palms on the table, and Elena jumped, her gaze as wide as a startled hare’s.

  “Did you borrow from fair Veronique’s wardrobe?” Dominic asked.

  “I dared not risk her wrath. I took a spare gown from one of the maids.” Geoffrey dried his eyes with his cuff, yet Elena did not curtsey and take her leave. “There was more?” he said.

  She looked about to wilt in fright.

  “For God’s sake,” Geoffrey snapped. “What?”

  “She . . . she . . .”

  “Tell me!” He did not mean to shout, but from Elena’s demeanor, he guessed the lady made another demand on his patience. She rankled him more than he ever imagined possible for one of the fairer sex, who had been in his company for less than a full turn of the sun.

  “She demands . . . a bath,” the maid squeaked.

  “Demands?” Dominic sounded astonished.

  Geoffrey scowled. “Does she, now?”

  “I told her she needed your permission, milord, for the water must be heated and brought up from the kitchens, but she insisted.”

  Biting back his fury, Geoffrey jerked his head in dismissal. “I will deal with the lady. Tend to Mildred, then help prepare the evening meal.”

  Elena dropped into a quick curtsy and scurried away.

  “The next few days will be full of adventure, milord,” Dominic said with a grin.

  “I do not think so.” Geoffrey shoved his chair back with such force it crashed to the floorboards. He stepped off the dais and stormed across the hall, dried rushes and herbs crunching under his boots. The sleeping dogs scrambled to their feet and darted under a table.

  As he climbed the stairs to her chamber, his blood boiled.

  The damsel would learn her lesson.

  Chapter Seven

  Pacing the floor of her tiny chamber, Elizabeth brushed her hand over the gown Elena had helped her into, a plain garment fit for a serving wench, not a noblewoman. “Knave,” she muttered as she walked. When she next saw de Lanceau, she would ask why he deliberately insulted her by sending her common clothing.

  Her irritated gaze settled on the rough-hewn wooden door warmed by morning sunlight. If he had chosen the garment to torment her, or bend her to his will, he would soon learn she would not be manipulated or coerced.

  She spun on her heel, and her leg pinched. With gentle fingers, she massaged the spot, and winced, for every muscle in her body screamed from yesterday’s horseback ride. Her limbs were as stiff as a wooden doll’s.

  Reaching her arms over her head, she stretched and groaned.

  A soak in steaming water perfumed with rose petals, lavender, and herbs, like the splendid baths Mildred arranged for her at Wode, would remedy the aches and pains.

  Yet, de Lanceau did not seem a man to care about a prisoner’s wishes. Most of all hers.

  Worry gnawed at Elizabeth. She wondered what had happened to Mildred. She hoped the matron was all right, and being shown the courtesies due a woman of her aging years.

  When asked about Mildred, Elena had refused to answer. De Lanceau must have forewarned her not to divulge any details, and it seemed she took her duty to her lord with utmost seriousness. Elizabeth’s attempts to chat with the maid had won her a shy, guarded “aye” or “nay,” and no more. The conversation had dwindled to tense silence.

  When asked to relay the request for a bath, Elena had looked about to faint. “I will ask, milady,” she whispered, and had sped from the room as though chased by a feral boar.

  What kind of demon was de Lanceau to instill such fear in his maidservants? Uncertainty shivered through Elizabeth, but she swept it aside. Since she had not seen him since Sister Margaret’s visit, she could not have communicated her wishes except through Elena.

  A bath was not such an onerous demand.

  Elena had opened the shutters, and a breeze blew in the window and stirred Elizabeth’s unbound hair. She walked forward, drawn by voices and the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer from the bailey below. Sunshine spilled over the stone embrasure and cast the grille’s pattern onto the marred floorboards.

  Elizabeth linked her fingers around the wrought iron. The sun’s warmth felt wonderful, and she leaned forward to soak in all she could.

  Beyond the fortress’s curtain wall, a river meandered through wheat fields. At its deepest, the water looked as blue as her favorite bliaut. Giant oaks with gnarled roots lined the water’s edge. Swallows lifted from the boughs of one of the trees, looped and danced in the breeze, then disappeared in the direction of the distant, mist shrouded, blue-gray hills.

  Elizabeth dropped her brow to the cool metal. What she would give to be a bird, with the freedom to soar wherever she desired. She would spread her wings, slip through the grille, and fly to a place where fear, death, and the past could never touch her.

  Somewhere beyond the hills, her father and Aldwin rode toward Tillenham. They would reach it soon. Worry nagged at her again, and her fingers curled tighter around the bars. Did they know of her abduction? Did they know she was imprisoned at Branton?

  If only there were some way to get a message to them.

  Or escape.

  A pair of robins hurtled past the window. They dove into the bailey and over the curtain wall, then raced back past her window. She laughed, wriggled her hand through the grille, and stretched out her fingers. One of the birds alighted on the ledge outside and studied her
with its head cocked to one side.

  At that moment, the door to her chamber opened. She glanced over her shoulder. De Lanceau stood in the doorway.

  The robin flew away.

  Withdrawing her hand, she faced him.

  His expression was controlled, almost bland, but she sensed his seething rage. His gaze raked over her, from her hair to her bliaut’s hem that grazed her calves, and his lips curled in a faint grin.

  He strode forward, slamming the door behind him.

  Anxiety settled in Elizabeth’s belly like a lump of ice.

  She was alone with him.

  He halted near her, leaned one hip against the side table, and folded his arms across his jerkin. “You are well?” he asked, his words crisp yet polite.

  “As well as I may be, under such conditions.” A silent groan burned inside her, for her frazzled nerves had betrayed her. While she had wished to convey her outrage and disdain, she did not want to infuriate him. Then he might never grant her a bath.

  She also had no wish to repeat their earlier confrontation. Her skin still tingled where he had touched her.

  “You feel mistreated?” His eyes darkened to the color of wet slate, and his gaze shifted to the bandaged wound at her temple. “How so?”

  Unease ran through her, but she squared her shoulders and met his stare. “For a start, I am not used to being attended by a stranger. Mildred is my lady-in-waiting, and has been since I was a girl.”

  “Elena is skilled.”

  “She is, but I prefer Mildred’s help.”

  He shrugged. “You cannot have it.”

  Anger and concern thickened Elizabeth’s tone. “How do I know she is all right? If you dare mistreat her—”

  “No one has harmed her. She is being held in another part of the keep, and is fine.”

  Elizabeth crossed her arms to stop them from shaking. “If I could see her for myself, my worries would be appeased.”

  He leaned farther back on the table, into a bright splash of sunlight. “You will see her soon enough.”

  “When? The day my father batters through the gates and rescues me?”

  De Lanceau’s jaw hardened, as though she tested the frayed boundaries of his temper. “The day my demands are met and I choose to release you, if not before then.”

  A defiant reminder of her father’s military might sizzled on her tongue, but before she could say one word, de Lanceau shook his head. “I will not discuss your freedom. I was told you had grievances. Is your concern for Mildred the sum of them?”

  Elizabeth shot him a glare. “Not at all. Elena tried her best, but could do naught with my hair. She could not even run a comb through it, ’tis so matted with grime. The jug of water provided me is enough to wash my face and hands, but no more, so I cannot complete my morning bath.” She sucked in a breath. “My bed linens also smell sour, and the dust in this room is thicker than mud in a pigpen.”

  “I see.” His words held menace. Yet, in her ramblings, she had outlined good reasons why he should allow her a bath. She must persist until she had his answer.

  “I am sure you will agree that my well being would be improved by a hot bath. I trust Elena relayed my request to you”—Elizabeth sweetened her tone in a deliberate show of respect—“my lord?”

  His gaze sharpened. “She did.”

  “And?”

  “And, milady, you have no right to make demands of my servants.”

  What sort of answer was that? He had not agreed to the bath, but he had also not refused her one.

  She waited for him to continue. Drummed her fingers on her arms. Swept hair from her shoulder. When he still did not reply, but watched her movements like a hungry hawk, she sighed and threw up her hands. “Well? What is your answer?”

  “I am considering your request.” He glanced at his fingernails, then back at her. “Elena mentioned to me you had another matter of concern. The gown?”

  Elizabeth pressed her lips together. How clever of him to change the subject without agreeing. Well, she would ask him again, before their talk was done. “You have given me peasant’s clothes, milord.”

  Did the light playing over his face trick her, or did his eyes spark with mirth?

  “I feel a draught at my ankles.” She gave her skirts a brisk shake. “The sleeves do not cover my arms. You know as well as I that only a strumpet would bare this much flesh for all to see. ’Tis appalling.”

  “I find the bliaut most fetching.”

  Heat scalded Elizabeth’s cheeks. The rogue tried to appease her with flattery. Yet, she could not suppress the thrill that coursed through her, right down to her toes.

  Shame crushed the pleasure. She should not savor the honeyed words of her father’s sworn enemy. “If you like this gown,” she bit out, “’tis all the more reason for me to hate it.”

  His smile faded. “Milady.” Warning hummed in his voice.

  She ignored an inner prick of caution and welcomed a rush of scorn. “You insisted before on courtesy and honor, yet you dishonor me with this gown. ’Tis clear you do not respect me. I shall never respect you, you despicable rogue!”

  His face darkened with a lethal scowl. He straightened away from the table. “Beware. I may exact an immediate apology from your lips.”

  Elizabeth thrust up her chin, even though her insides had turned as soft as pudding. She should not have insulted him, and let her pride and embarrassment overrule her common sense.

  Tiny shivers started in her belly. De Lanceau was lord and master of Branton Keep. As his hostage, she had no rights or privileges. Naught stopped him from beating her if he so desired. He could throw her on the rack, have her tortured with hot irons, or lock her in a small, lightless cell without food or water for days.

  He could rape her here in this room.

  No one would stop him.

  He took a step toward her. His boots creaked.

  Elizabeth’s pulse lurched.

  “So, you dislike my choice of garments.” The dangerous silk of his voice wrapped around her, threatened to ensnare her, and she fought the urge to step away.

  Her nervous gaze dropped to his jerkin, the color of fine Bordeaux. She doubted even her father could afford such magnificent material that looked as soft to the touch as lamb’s wool. “You picked this gown on purpose. You intended to humiliate me.”

  His heel scraped on the floor as he took another step forward. “Would you prefer to go without clothing?”

  “Of course not.” She did not like his nearness, but she also would not show cowardice and retreat.

  “You should be satisfied with what I have given you. Grateful, even.”

  “Grateful?”

  He nodded. His hair, curving past the edge of his collar, gleamed like polished oak. “When I came to Branton, I found it in disrepair. ’Twill take months to bring it to the standard to which a spoiled lady, like you, is accustomed.”

  Chills rippled through her.

  “Vast structural repairs must be done or this keep will crumble into a heap of stones and mortar. I need a full retainer of servants, which I do not have. There are far too many tasks for a few hands, yet I still provided you and your lady-in-waiting with a warm bed, clean clothing, food, and drink.” His lips drew back from his teeth. “I even paid a healer with my own coin, little that I have, to tend your wounds.”

  “W-why are you telling me this?”

  Promise smoldered in his gaze. Promise of . . . what?

  He smiled, but warmth did not touch his eyes. “Mayhap I should have sent you to the dungeon instead. ’Tis a foul place, the perfect home for spiders, rats, and vermin.” His tongue curled around the word and Elizabeth shuddered. “’Tis damp and cold even in the heat of summer. Unlike this chamber, which you hold in such contempt.”

  De Lanceau took one last step and halted in front of her. His gaze raked up the front of her bliaut. “Aye, you have much to be grateful for. Most of all, that I have
not unleashed my fury and sought your body to appease me.”

  Elizabeth gasped. She stumbled back, but his hand caught her left wrist and held her firm. She struggled, but he pulled her toward him until her breasts brushed his jerkin. Fabric whispered where their bodies touched.

  He smelled of bitter, earthy ale. Of man.