Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  Trembling, she stared up at the seductive fullness of his lips. “Milord.”

  “You think to apologize?” His breath fanned against her forehead. “Too late, milady. You have taxed my restraint once too often with your waspish tongue.”

  With a strangled cry, Elizabeth broke free of his grip. She whirled and bolted toward the trestle table.

  De Lanceau’s laughter chased her. Pace by pace, he stalked her down the table. She scooted ahead of him, her bottom pressed against the table’s edge. Her hands skidded on the dusty surface. She tried to dart past him, but he thwarted her escape.

  Her fingertips scraped against stone, and, with a horrified jolt, she realized she was against the far wall.

  Trapped.

  A wicked smirk on his lips, de Lanceau towered over her. He crowded her back into the corner.

  His palms slammed on the wall either side of her head.

  “Tell me,” he murmured against her hair. “Are your only assets the lands you bring to marriage, damsel? Or, are there other reasons for Sedgewick to covet you as his betrothed?”

  “I do not know what you mean.” She flattened back against the cold stone, one hip squeezed against the end of the table.

  “You will.”

  “Please, let me go.”

  His fingers tangled into her hair. “You should not have provoked me. Any woman with any sense would have realized I am not a kind or patient man.”

  His thumb tilted up her chin.

  He meant to kiss her.

  Elizabeth jerked her face away. With gentle but firm movements, he twisted her hair around his hand until she had no choice but to look at him. “Nay,” she choked. “N—”

  His mouth crushed down over hers.

  The kiss tasted of anger. His lips branded hers with the essence of ale. His tongue lashed. In all her years, no man had ever kissed her.

  No one had dared.

  She shrieked and clawed and scratched at his jerkin. The fabric softened her blows. Grinding his hips against hers, he pinned her flush against the wall. Where they touched, the heat of his body scorched.

  Elizabeth squeezed her lashes shut. His scent enveloped her, and her head reeled. Somehow she must endure this torture. She must maintain a prudent detachment until he lost interest or she wriggled free. With a strangled sob, she let her hands fall to her sides.

  She sensed tension warring within him, the desire to crush her spirit with his strength. Yet, he did not. His kisses slowed, gentled, and as his tongue flicked into the corner of her mouth, she gasped. The skin across her chest tingled, a similar sensation to when he had kissed her hand in the market.

  An unfamiliar ache blossomed inside her.

  He nibbled her bottom lip. Taunted. Coaxed. Dared her, with the glide of his mouth and tongue, to meet his sensual challenge.

  A muzzy haze clouded her thoughts. In her mind, she wept in self-reproach. He knew of the tremors running through her body.

  Tremors not due to fear.

  She moaned. Her lips parted. Despite the warning shrilling inside her, she began to kiss him back.

  He growled. The pleasured sound stirred a primitive hunger. Molten heat flooded through her like sunlit water surging across glistening sand, slowing to a swirling eddy, and then returning a moment later on another cresting tide. His tongue slid into her mouth, and she sighed.

  He released her hair. His fingers caressed her neck, and then slipped down her shoulder blade.

  His palm brushed her breast.

  She stiffened. Shock slashed through the haze of wondrous sensation, then indignation. De Lanceau meant to do more than kiss her.

  As he had no doubt planned, she had melted under his onslaught like a lusty tavern wench. He could not conquer her will, so he would subdue her body instead.

  This man was her sworn enemy.

  She betrayed her father by wanting de Lanceau’s touch.

  Resentment drowned her last glimmerings of pleasure. De Lanceau hesitated. He lifted his lips from hers and stared down into her face, his heavy-lidded gaze intense.

  Protecting her bruised arm, she braced her palm against his chest and shoved with all her might. She kicked his shins and scratched with her nails. He swore, yelped, and she broke free.

  Elizabeth darted behind the bed. “You rogue!” With the back of her wrist, she scrubbed her mouth, desperate to erase the taste and feel of him.

  “I did not hear you protesting a moment ago.” He dragged a hand through his mussed hair and glared at her.

  “You will pay for your boldness. My father will see you punished.”

  De Lanceau’s eyes glinted like steel. “Consider what happened fair warning, damsel. Next time, you will not escape unscathed.”

  Chapter Eight

  Geoffrey strode into the hall, his clipped strides shattering the near silence.

  Dominic glanced up from where he sat by the hearth. “The first adventure, milord?”

  With a savage roar, Geoffrey slammed his fist down on a trestle table. Stoneware mugs bounced into the air with a dissonant clink. The scullery maids setting out bread for the evening meal shrieked and glanced at one another. He scowled in their direction, and, after frantic curtsies, they disappeared into the stairwell.

  Aware of Dominic’s grin, refusing to acknowledge it, Geoffrey grabbed a mug, sloshed in some ale, and downed it in one gulp. The drink cooled his burning throat.

  Every muscle in his body felt as taut as a drawn bowstring.

  Because of her.

  Dominic rose from a carved oak chair. He raised an eyebrow and his gaze dropped to the scratch marks on Geoffrey’s jerkin.

  “What happened?”

  Geoffrey swore. He did not use the vulgar oath often, but he embellished it with other expletives.

  Chuckling, Dominic shook his head. “Send the ransom demand now. If the lady is that much trouble, you are best rid of her.”

  A silent bellow exploded inside Geoffrey. He wished the solution were that simple. His blood pounded with a need that only a woman could assuage. In the musty hall, tempered by the tang of old rushes and smoke, he still smelled Elizabeth’s perfume that clung to her skin and hair.

  He had gone to her chamber intending to frighten her and subdue her into respect for his authority. The moment he strode in and saw her gilded by sunlight, he longed to kiss her. She was stunning, a woman who would tempt him wearing naught but rags.

  His fingers had itched to plow into her hair and feel its silk. Her bewitching blue eyes had challenged him to taste her, woo her, and coax back the radiant smile which had faded when she turned from the window and saw him.

  He should never have given in to the urge to taste her lips. He should have guessed the experience would be as frustrating as her sharp tongue.

  She was the daughter of his enemy, the man responsible for his father’s death. Forbidden.

  He was a fool to crave her.

  Geoffrey released his breath on a hiss.

  “Take my recommendation,” Dominic insisted. “Send—”

  “We keep to the original plan.” Shrugging tension from between his shoulders, Geoffrey stalked toward the solitude of the hearth. He sprawled in one of the chairs facing the fire and cursed; his carelessness with the mug had caused a slosh of ale, which soaked his thigh.

  He did not glance up when Dominic sat in the other chair. Logs had recently been added to the blaze, and the flames crackled and shot sparks across the tiled hearth. Geoffrey leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and stretched his legs toward the inviting warmth.

  Ah, for a moment of quiet.

  In the space of three heartbeats, he sensed a powerful feminine presence stroll into the gap between the chairs.

  The rustle of silk identified her, along with the scent of rosewater. Veronique. He would never mistake the signature fragrance of the vixen who had shared his bed for the past two years. She wore only the attar of the prized Damask r
ose brought into England by Crusaders on their return from the East. She considered any other oil inferior.

  Veronique strolled past and a heady waft of perfume filled his nostrils. The scent teased, aroused a host of wanton memories. He raised his eyelids a fraction and watched the enticing sway of her hips. Yestereve, he had heard the maids whispering of the rosewater baths she ordered at least three times a week, and how she slapped servants for pouring water too hot or too cold.

  One merchant in the town of Branton stocked oils to her exclusive standards, and a few weeks ago, she had wanted him flogged for sending fragrance she did not like. Geoffrey had refused. She, in a pique, had brushed the oil into her chestnut tresses and then tormented him with the sleek strands late into the evening.

  That he permitted such extravagance was almost beyond reason. That he gave her a firm hand in his household was almost beyond belief.

  Almost.

  As his gaze traveled up Veronique’s curvaceous figure, outlined by a scandalous bliaut of red silk, he understood.

  “Good day to you, Veronique,” Dominic said.

  Her voice husky, she answered, “Dominic.” Pausing at the hearth, she stretched her hands toward the warmth. “Milord.”

  Firelight played over the expensive fabric and her long hair, worn loose as Geoffrey preferred. Turning her head, she met his stare. Her eyes narrowed in a bold perusal of his body, and his desire flared.

  Ah, she was a beauty. Her dark brows were slim and arched, her nose small and rounded, her mouth painted crimson. Yet, he did not mistake the cunning that glittered in her amber eyes. Sometimes, when her gaze settled on his face, Geoffrey felt she could read every thought that flashed through his mind.

  He experienced that sensation now as Veronique smiled. His flesh remembered her skilled touch, and he flinched.

  “Veronique,” he murmured.

  “I saw Jenna in the kitchen. She thought you might have need of me.” Her words were smooth and heady, intoxicating as a strong liqueur. “I pray, milord, Jenna was not mistaken.” She turned, enough to silhouette her body against the firelight and display her bosom stretched taut beneath the silk.

  Geoffrey dragged in a breath. The invitation could not have been clearer if she had written it on the floor in blood.

  Did she realize how his body craved release?

  “Jenna spoke true,” he rasped.

  Triumph glimmered in Veronique’s eyes, as bright as the blaze behind her. She dropped to her knees before him and trailed slender fingers up his right calf. He shivered. With artful strokes, she caressed his corded leg muscles through his hose. After easing his knees apart with her body, she ran her palm up to his thigh.

  Dominic cleared his throat and took a noisy sip of his ale, a reminder that what took place in the hall was public spectacle.

  Geoffrey caught Veronique’s hand, stilling the movement.

  Her lashes flickered down, concealing a glimmer of disappointment. “Milord? What—”

  Setting aside his ale, he linked his fingers through hers. He drew her to her feet, and grinned at the flush of anticipation that warmed the chalky layer of flour dusted over her face. With a curt goodbye to Dominic, he led Veronique up the wooden staircase to his solar.

  Sunlight fingered over the coverlet on the massive bed set against the wall. Without breaking his stride, Geoffrey led her across the room and pushed her down on the mattress, crushing her body beneath his. His limbs tangled with hers, a passionate contrast of black and red. He kissed her with fierce hunger.

  He had to unleash his need, or it would devour him from the inside out.

  “Geoffrey,” Veronique moaned against his lips. “Ah, Geoffrey.”

  Elizabeth had made a similar sound. With stunning clarity, he remembered the moment she had surrendered and opened herself to him. When, with hesitant thrusts of her tongue, she had begun to kiss him in return.

  Confusion muddied his desire. He shoved thoughts of Elizabeth from his mind and brushed his lips down Veronique’s perfumed throat. She would assuage his need. She always rendered him weak, gasping, and slick with sweat, the last time the night before he had left for Wode.

  From their first tryst in a farmer’s field outside the fair at Bruges, with stars glimmering in silent witness, Veronique had proved herself mistress of his body. She, unlike other wenches, had not cringed at the sight of the hideous, puckered scar that ran down the side of his chest, a permanent reminder of the battle wound that had almost killed him. Lusty, creative, she had given him pleasure, and he had offered her a life far richer than that of a poor cotter’s daughter.

  His jaw tightened on a shudder. He wanted Veronique to shatter him with pleasure now, to vanquish the tension coiling in the pit of his stomach.

  With feverish urgency, Veronique guided his hands to the ties that fastened her bliaut. Between one slippery kiss and the next, the red silk slid to a pool beside the bed, followed by her chemise. Breathing hard, Geoffrey pulled Veronique into his lap. She straddled his legs. He smothered her gasps with his lips and buried his hands in her hair.

  Skeins curled between his fingers and around his wrists. Her hair felt coarser, heavier, than Elizabeth’s tresses. He inhaled and savored the scents of rosewater and willing woman.

  Elizabeth’s fragrance had been as arousing.

  Why did the damsel plague him so? Why?

  She meant naught to him.

  Closing his eyes, he willed himself to recapture his need for Veronique.

  Her throaty laughter blew over his ear. Squirming against him, she skimmed her hand down between their bodies. She lifted his tunic’s hem.

  Before she could release the points of his hose, he shoved her back and caught her hands.

  “You are in a mood to dally?” she purred. “Pray tell, how do you wish me to tease you?”

  “Nay,” he muttered.

  Veronique’s lashes lowered on a delighted smile. “You shall tease me.” Pressing her palms flat, she arched back and lowered herself to the coverlet. She spread her hair across the bed, into the gleam of sunlight. “Come.” She dragged her toes along his thigh. “I await ravishment.”

  Forcing Elizabeth from his mind, Geoffrey leaned forward and trailed his fingers over Veronique’s smooth, naked belly.

  He shook. Cursing, he balled his fingers into a fist. He rose from the bed and strode to the window, his ragged breaths echoing in the silence.

  “You do not want to couple with me, milord?”

  Geoffrey heard incredulity in Veronique’s tone, underscored by anger. Self-condemnation and disgust seared his throat and threatened to choke him. He well understood her scorn.

  Indeed, he could not explain his thoughts.

  He could never tell Veronique that when he looked into her face, the eyes staring back at him were sapphire blue, not amber.

  And the hair splayed across his coverlet in wild abandon shimmered like black silk.

  ***

  Elizabeth stood resolute until the door banged shut, and then flung herself on her knees beside the bed. She clasped her trembling hands together. Bowing her head, she recited an urgent prayer for forgiveness.

  She should not have allowed de Lanceau to kiss her. He was a villain, a rogue without honor. The astonishing sensations she had felt were no more than clever manipulations by a man familiar with a woman’s body.

  Of her own free will, she had kissed the knave who had kidnapped her, imprisoned her, and who no doubt intended to barter her for Wode.

  Even worse, she had enjoyed it.

  “How could you?” she whispered. No one must ever learn of her weakness moments ago, most of all her father. She imagined his expression when he realized her betrayal, for that is how he would see the kiss, and her vision blurred with tears.

  She would not allow de Lanceau to kiss her again.

  Drying her eyes with her sleeve, Elizabeth stood. Her gaze fell upon the water jug and earthenware bowl on the si
de table. Her mouth still felt swollen from de Lanceau’s wretched kisses. After pouring a little water into the bowl, she scrubbed her face and lips with her fingers, and then rinsed her mouth to wash away the lingering taste of his ale.

  A soft knock sounded on the door. The key scraped in the lock and the door opened, admitting Elena.

  “Milady.” The maid bobbed in a shy curtsy and offered a trencher laden with bread and roasted quail, a mug, and a jug of wine.