Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  Behind her, the door creaked most of the way closed.

  It did not shut.

  Excitement glimmered inside Elizabeth like rekindled embers, and she wiped her fingers on her gown. If she were quick, she could dart by Elena, throw open the door, and run past the startled guards outside.

  She must escape, for she would not be held captive to de Lanceau’s sensual wickedness.

  Elena crossed to the trestle table, and Elizabeth ran.

  “Milady, stop!”

  Two steps. Three. Elizabeth grabbed for the iron handle.

  The door slammed. The lock clicked.

  “Nay!” She pounded her fists against the wood. A frustrated sob welled inside her. Laughter and male voices rumbled in the corridor beyond, and then faded.

  Blinking hard, Elizabeth whirled away from the door.

  Her fingers knotted together, Elena stood by the food set on the table, her gaze fixed on the floorboards. “Please. You will feel better once you have eaten.”

  Elizabeth scowled. She would feel better when she was free.

  The overcooked quail did not look at all appetizing.

  Storming back to the water bowl, she said, “Return the fare to the kitchens. A hungry child may have my portion.” Twisting her hair into a coil, she lifted it atop her head and splashed water down her flushed throat.

  “Lord de Lanceau ensures all the keep’s children are well fed.” Elena sounded worried. “’Tis foolish not to eat.”

  Elizabeth sighed. She did not care to argue. “Very well. Leave it.”

  The maid nodded and hurried across the chamber. Glancing over her shoulder, she rapped on the door. It opened a fraction, and a guard grunted his consent before Elena slipped out and the door shut.

  Elizabeth poured a mug of wine, slumped on the bed’s edge, and pulled at a frayed bit of blanket. De Lanceau must know sheer boredom was a form of torture. At Wode, she never sat idle. If she were there now, she would be overseeing the servants and making sure the daily tasks were done. In quiet moments, she would embroider one of the orphans’ chemises or shirts.

  Resentment burned inside her. De Lanceau prevented her from finishing her task, and she had never once failed to do as she promised.

  She sipped her drink and wrinkled her nose at the poorly-aged wine. Her temple throbbed. Setting aside the mug, she lay back on the bed. If only she could have one of Mildred’s poppy tonics and enjoy the oblivion of sleep.

  Her eyelids grew heavy. Yet, when she closed her eyes, she saw de Lanceau looming over her. His gaze smoldered with the thrilling intensity she had witnessed before he had kissed her.

  Her lips tingled.

  Rolling onto her side, she pressed her face against the scratchy pillowcase.

  The next time she attempted escape, she would succeed.

  ***

  A sliver of moon gleamed like an ivory tusk in the night sky beyond the window when Geoffrey disentangled his limbs from Veronique’s and rose from the bed. She stirred, mumbled a few incoherent words, and then turned over with a rustle of bedding.

  Standing in the shadows, he stared down at the satiny curve of her arm draped atop the coverlet. At last, she slept. He had not made love to her. While fury blazed in her eyes, he had explained he was more tired from the previous day’s ride than he had first thought.

  “You speak false, milord?” she had asked, her voice tight.

  “I do not.” Exhaustion ached in every bone and muscle in his body. Of that, he spoke true. After a silence, her anger had diffused to grudging acceptance and she had allowed him to take her in his arms. He had coaxed her under the coverlet and had lain with her, his clothed body nestled behind hers.

  He watched the steady rise and fall of her shoulder. Guilt tore through him as his lust stirred anew, the urge to drive hard and fast into her voluptuous body.

  Would she deny him now, if he asked her to make love? He doubted so. After wringing a gasped apology from his lips, she would take him inside her with the eagerness he had come to enjoy, anticipate, and expect.

  For the first time in years, that was not enough.

  He muttered a soft oath into the darkness. The lady had addled his brain. She had interfered with his lovemaking, and now she influenced his judgment.

  The moonlight’s pale glow revealed his boots lying beside the bed, and he bent to retrieve them. In all his years, he had never encountered a woman quite like Elizabeth Brackendale. Why did she intrigue him?

  Elizabeth lacked the sophistication of a wench who knew the power of her own beauty, but she held a power over him just the same. Veronique used her fingers, tongue, and body to stir him to passion. Elizabeth had but to challenge him with the toss of her hair and barbed words, and his blood ignited like liquid fire.

  Tension tightened his gut. Such comparisons were pointless. The lady was a temporary burden. No more.

  Taking care to prevent the leather from creaking, Geoffrey pulled on his boots and then quit the solar, drawing the door closed behind him with a faint click. His footsteps echoed in the stairwell and when he stepped out into the torch lit bailey, he breathed in deep to clear his mind.

  He would not lose sight of his purpose.

  As he exhaled, his breath formed a white cloud. Change was in the air. The cool summer night foreshadowed winter’s chill.

  The wind gusted and tangled his hair like an invisible hand as Geoffrey began to walk the bailey’s perimeter. A guard on the wall walk hailed him, and Geoffrey called out a gruff greeting.

  He turned to retrace his steps across the uneven ground. A sound, the scrape of a boot heel, warned him he was not alone. Someone concealed in the dark shadows, where light from the flickering torches did not reach, watched him.

  His disquiet shifted into warrior alertness. “Reveal yourself,” he ordered.

  Dominic materialized, garbed in a brown wool cloak. His mouth eased into a sheepish smile. “Good evening, milord.”

  Geoffrey massaged stiffness from his neck. He wondered how long Dominic had watched his pacing, and how much his clever friend had gleaned from it.

  “I am surprised to find you here, milord. I thought you would be enjoying the warmth of your bed and fair Veronique.”

  “I could not sleep.”

  “Ah. Lady Elizabeth.”

  “’Tis not so,” Geoffrey snapped.

  Dominic winged an eyebrow. Geoffrey wished that by some miracle, the breeze would blow, snuff out the torches, cloak the bailey in darkness, and shield him from his friend’s scrutiny.

  “May I point out that the lady came into our care yesterday morning? Since that time, you have acted like a demented boar.”

  Geoffrey snorted. “Far better a boar than a weasel.”

  “I was not spying on you, but looking at the moon. I drank one too many mugs of wine with the evening meal, and fresh air is known to calm the temperament.” His tone lightened. “Which is why you are here.”

  Setting his hands on his hips, Geoffrey half-turned and stared up at the moon’s bluish outline. He would not be snared into admitting his idiotic yearning for the lady.

  He sensed Dominic’s gaze sweeping over his profile, and turned his face away.

  Dominic chuckled. “The lady causes this restlessness?”

  “The lady,” Geoffrey said between his teeth. “When I am in her presence, I wish to throttle her.”

  “You desire her. She is stubborn and spirited, aye, but also quite lovely.”

  “She is Brackendale’s daughter.”

  Dominic shrugged. “Unfortunate for her, but not her fault.”

  With stiff fingers, Geoffrey flicked wind-tousled hair from his brow. “Lady Elizabeth is a pawn, a means to win my revenge. In a few days, she will no longer plague me.”

  Burying his hands into his cloak, Dominic tilted his head to one side. “Tell me, milord. Do you suffer any guilt?”

  Geoffrey laughed. The sound vanished on a blast of cold
air. He should not feel remorse for the way he had treated Elizabeth. Nor would he regret one mean-spirited word he had spoken to her, or forcing her to kiss him. Not when his father’s death demanded retribution from Lord Brackendale.

  “I suffer no guilt,” Geoffrey said. His voice caught and betrayed him.

  He thrust his face into the wind, even though it stung his cheeks and eyes. His heart throbbed, and he welcomed the familiar anguish. He would win the loyalty of the people who once paid homage to Edouard de Lanceau. He would rule the lands that by birthright he should have inherited. He would build the cloth empire of which he had dreamed, and set the once-revered de Lanceau name on the tongue of every noble and fat-pursed burgess in England.

  Then, they would not call him the son of a traitor.

  The lady would not stand in his way.

  Dominic sighed, and the sound was echoed in the wind’s hiss. “Mayhap you should reconsider your relationship with her.”

  Suspicion lanced through Geoffrey, nurtured by his friend’s mischievous smile. “Dominic—”

  “Why not treat her as the titled lady she is? Show her courtesy, instead of trampling her wounded pride.”

  Geoffrey choked on his indrawn breath. “What?!”

  “That would be too difficult?”

  “I should be civil to her?” Geoffrey spluttered. “I am not the one who—”

  “Aye?” Dominic’s eyes glowed.

  “She is a prisoner, not a guest,” Geoffrey snarled. “What will you suggest next? Five maidservants to see to her whims? Jugglers and dancing bears to alleviate her boredom?”

  Dominic shook his head. “The servants have sworn allegiance to you, and know the lady is your hostage. She and Mildred cannot escape. ’Twould be generous of you to let her out of her chamber.”

  “You are mad!”

  “It could do no harm.”

  “No good can come of it either.” Geoffrey kicked at a stone, and it rattled into the shadows near the curtain wall.

  “If she must stay confined, give her entertainments—books, games, or a lute. She has naught to help her pass the days but visits from you and Elena. Her only solace is to plot escape and invent new insults to hurl at you.”

  “I will think on what you said. Now, I wish to return to my bed. Unless you have more weepy tales of the lady’s plight?”

  Dominic smiled his knowing smile. “Nay, that is all.”

  ***

  As the solar door closed, Veronique dug her fingernails into the coverlet. Anger burned her mouth dry. In all the years she had loved Geoffrey, he had never deserted her late in the evening.

  Tonight he had rejected her seduction.

  Tonight he had abandoned her.

  Kicking aside the bedding, she flung herself onto her back and stared up at the darkened ceiling. Cool air swept over her bare skin, another reminder that Geoffrey was not there to warm her.

  She remembered two nights ago, when he had stood naked and aroused before her, his body a rippling length of toned, corded muscle. He had wanted her then. Veronique smiled and shuddered at the memory of his body straining over hers. Of his hoarse cry as his seed had pulsed into her. Of his satisfied kiss.

  She would not allow him to cast her aside.

  Geoffrey de Lanceau was hers.

  With a husky laugh, Veronique stretched her arms over her head and curled her toes into the feather-filled mattress. She would sob, sulk, and seduce, whatever she must to keep him hers.

  She would stand at his side when he ruled Wode.

  She would share his power, fame, and the profits from his cloth empire.

  For all the nights she had spread her thighs for him, she deserved a share of his wealth.

  Much later, footsteps thudded outside the door. Veronique pulled the bedding under her chin, curled onto her side, and closed her eyes. The door creaked open. Fabric rustled, boots and garments dropped onto the floorboards. As Geoffrey climbed in beside her, the mattress sagged.

  “Mmm,” she moaned. Feigning a sleepy stir, she rolled over to snuggle against him. By sheer force of will, she resisted a smug smile.

  Geoffrey de Lanceau was hers.

  Chapter Nine

  “He what?”

  “Milord asks that you join him for the midday meal.”

  Elizabeth turned from the window, where she had been watching the robins glide on the breeze, and stared at Dominic. A gust of wind blew hair into her eyes and she tucked the ringlets behind her ear, wondering as she did so why de Lanceau would ask her to dine with him.

  By now, Elena and the guards must have informed him of her attempted escape yesterday, which made his request even more suspect.

  Frowning, she studied Dominic. His soft brown eyes were the same hue as his straight, silky hair. She steeled herself against his compassionate smile and the overwhelming burst of hope she might be allowed out of this dreary room. Her gaze traveled over his brown wool tunic, hose, and scuffed boots caked with mud, mayhap from a morning of swordplay near the river. If she had hoped to discern a motive for the invitation, she found none.

  “You will pardon my suspicion,” Elizabeth said, “but I cannot believe your lord wishes for more of my company.”

  Dominic’s pleasant smile did not waver. “My role is to bring the message, milady. Yet, the idea must have more appeal than being locked in this tiny room all day. Alone.”

  He sounded eager for her to accept. Did she really have a choice in the matter?

  What a perplexing predicament.

  The green wool gown swirled as she moved to the trestle table and pointed to the bread and cheese Elena had brought earlier. “If I were hungry, I would have eaten the food your lord sent to me.”

  “Ah, but ’tis more than a meal.” Dominic spread his hands wide. “He has made a concession. A truce, if you will.”

  “A truce? How ridiculous.” She crossed her arms and cast him what she hoped was a lofty dismissal.

  He chuckled. “Milady, he asked me to be sure to convey the full extent of his message.”

  “Mmm?”

  “If you dine with him, he will grant you the bath you desire.”

  Elizabeth’s hands fell to her sides, and elation welled up inside her. She had washed her skin and hair as best she could with the jug of water, but a bath would be wondrous.

  If she kept her wits about her during the meal, she might also discover a way to escape. “I accept.”

  Dominic grinned. “Good. Now, if you will please come with me, milord awaits.”

  As Elizabeth crossed to the door, memories of her last encounter with de Lanceau flitted through her mind, and she hesitated. She had no way of knowing if his intentions today were honorable, and did not trust him as far as she could spit.

  Anxiety smothered her excitement like a blanket tossed over a fire. He had roused sinful sensations in her body with his kiss. Mayhap he meant to deceive and then seduce her, as part of his cruel revenge.

  A chaperone, however, would ensure he kept his hands on his food.

  His fist raised to rap on the door, Dominic glanced back at her. “Milady?”

  “I will not dine without Mildred.”

  His gaze shadowed. “Milord did not include your lady-in-waiting in his invitation.”

  “Then tell your lord I refuse. I shall indulge in a bath after my prompt and efficient rescue.”

  She pivoted and marched back to the window.

  A groan came from Dominic. “No wonder milord has behaved like a mad boar.”

  Elizabeth blinked. A mad boar? The image that filled her mind was too delicious to ignore. She pressed her hand to her lips and giggled.

  A muffled sound erupted behind her, and she looked at Dominic. He was laughing too.

  “Very well, milady. I shall send Mildred to join you, though milord will not be pleased with me.”

  “Thank you.”

  After a brisk nod, he knocked twice on the door. The key r
asped in the lock, the wooden panel swung open, and he motioned for her to follow.

  She walked out into the dank corridor. Two broad-shouldered guards armed with swords and daggers moved away from their posts outside, and fell into step behind her.

  Their boots rapped on the floor. The sound mirrored her heart pounding against her ribs. Elizabeth held her head high, walked with years of tutored poise, and pretended she took no interest in her surroundings. She prayed the guards did not suspect she was memorizing as much detail as possible and counting the number of paces and turns in the passage. The details might be crucial when she escaped.