“I did not mean to frighten you.” He picked up the candle on the table, then walked to the wall sconce and lit the tapers and the candles beside his bed. The shadows dissipated into a golden haze. “Better?”
She managed a nod.
“I do not normally light all the candles in the solar,” he said, implying he had seen a question in her gaze. “I find the firelight adequate, and the darkness calming after a long day.” He crossed back to the table. “I forgot how forbidding the solar can be to those who have not been here before.”
His tone was pleasant, but his mild words mocked her fretful thoughts. She would know why he had ordered her here. “Lord de Lanceau—”
“I just came from the hall. As I expected, you did an excellent repair on the tunic.”
Elizabeth smothered a startled, pleased smile.
He flicked his hand. “Come. Sit. I promise there are no monsters or ghouls lurking in the shadows.” He did not wait for her to reply, or protest, but rounded the nearest chair, lowered himself into it, and stretched his legs toward the hearth.
An uneasy sigh broke from Elizabeth. She did not agree with his comments about monsters and ghouls, but for now, she would do as instructed. She perched on the chair’s edge, smoothed the rose wool over her legs, and clasped her hands about her knees. The loose curl sprang back into her eyes and she swatted it away, aware he watched the movement of her hand.
“The gown is to your liking?” His voice sounded husky against the fire’s muted roar.
She nodded. “Lord de Lanceau, I must ask. Why—”
“Geoffrey.”
“What?”
His mouth twitched. “My given name is Geoffrey. Yours is Elizabeth.”
Her hands dampened. “I know milord, but—”
“For this one night, why do we not address one another by our given names? Pretend that we stand on equal ground.”
She choked down a gasp. She would never consider a rogue who intended to destroy her father her equal. Yet, until she knew what de Lanceau had planned for her, she would feign ignorance and play along. “Very well . . . Geoffrey.”
He smiled. “Now, you were saying?”
Pointing to her bliaut, Elizabeth said, “I do not understand why Veronique was so generous.”
“Veronique? Ah, of course. She will miss such a bliaut from her wardrobe.”
Elizabeth frowned. Mischief gleamed in his eyes, but she did not understand why. “’Tis a fine bliaut, sewn from quality wool. The chemise is silk rather than linen.” She glanced at the logs snapping in the hearth, and her voice lowered. “I am surprised she would lend me such garments after . . .”
“After her scorn this afternoon,” he provided.
Elizabeth shifted in her chair and pulled the gown’s hem over her slippered toes. “Aye.”
“Do not let the matter trouble you.” Geoffrey reached over and picked up the stoneware jug. “Wine?”
“Nay, thank you.” One mug of wine already tingled inside her, and she must not dull her wits. Yet, he had already poured a goblet full and offered it to her. As she took the vessel, her fingers brushed his, but he did not seem to notice.
She curled her fingers against her skirt and sipped. The wine tasted sweet, far nicer than what she drank earlier. She took a large sip. Before she remembered to caution herself, she had downed half. Geoffrey watched her over the rim of his goblet, but looked away when a log fell and sparks flew up like tiny, dancing butterflies.
The fire’s warmth lulled. Soothed. An odd, companionable silence settled. Beneath lowered lashes, she stole a glance at Geoffrey. Her gaze traveled over his legs outlined by the snug-fitting hose. Horn buttons lined his shirt, and the cloth stretched taut over his wide chest. His muscled physique, sculpted and honed to peak efficiency, revealed his skill as a battle hardened fighter.
A formidable opponent for her father.
Her belly clenched. She sipped more wine, and her gaze shifted up to Geoffrey’s angular profile. A day’s growth of beard darkened his jaw. Warmth coiled up inside her. He might be a seasoned warrior, but his stubbled jaw proved he was still just a man, formed of flesh and blood. She wondered how his skin would feel beneath her fingertips.
“You are quiet tonight.” Geoffrey’s voice cut into her musings like a knife through soft cheese.
Elizabeth found his intent gaze upon her. She looked down into the liquid ruby depths of her wine and fought a blush. “I-I was thinking.”
“I see.” His tone held a trace of humor. Had he noticed her study of him?
“I want to know why you brought me here,” she blurted, wishing her voice did not waver. “’Tis not usual for a betrothed lady to meet a man alone in his private quarters.” She met his gaze. “I will know your intentions, milord. If you will not answer me, then I wish to return to my chamber.”
Geoffrey’s fingers tightened around his goblet’s stem. A smile flickered across his lips. “You missed the evening meal. I thought you might like something to eat.”
Glancing at the food on the table, she said, “That is all?”
He laughed, a rough, dangerous sound. “Not all.”
Elizabeth rose to her feet. “Why, then, did you summon me here?” She banged the vessel on the table. Wine sloshed over the rim and stained the pristine white linen . . . and the room swam before her eyes.
“Oh!” She made a frantic grab for the table, and touched Geoffrey’s arm.
“The chair is behind you,” he said, his voice near her ear. He stood in front of her, she realized through a dizzy blur. As he leaned close and eased her back down to sitting, his earthy, masculine smell filled her nostrils. His prickly jaw grazed her brow. She tried to sit up straight and regain her poise, but her head reeled in a perplexing manner.
“Too much wine,” she moaned.
Geoffrey pushed the plate of honeyed figs into her hands. “Here. Eat. You drank on an empty stomach. ’Tis no wonder the floor moves under your feet.”
“Sorry.” She hated how pathetic she sounded.
He grunted at her apology and sat down. She picked up a fig and bit into it, and found the combination of sweetness and spice delicious. Honey drizzled down her chin. She brushed it away with sticky fingers until Geoffrey sighed and pressed a linen napkin into her hand. Within moments, she finished the plate, and he handed her a bowl of gingered custard and a spoon.
He did not indulge himself, but watched her devour the food. He seemed fascinated. She meant to challenge his stare and the wry grin tugging at his mouth, but first, she would satisfy her hunger. The creamy custard, a little overcooked, dissolved on her tongue and she scooped more onto the spoon, taking care to run it along the bowl’s edge to glean every sweet bit.
When she had almost finished, he rubbed his thumb over his mouth. “I suppose I do owe you an explanation.”
Elizabeth swallowed her mouthful. Thank God, her head had almost stopped whirling.
“I wanted to satisfy my curiosity.”
Wariness crept into her thoughts. “How?”
He looked at her spoon poised over the custard bowl, then at her. “Why did you help Elena this afternoon?”
Elizabeth rubbed her lips together. She had not expected this question. Cupping the bowl between her hands, she said, “Elena was upset because she had many other duties to attend. The embroidery was a simple task for me.”
“Elena is a servant,” he said in a biting tone.
“What of it?”
His gaze darkened. “She is duty bound to work as long and as hard as I wish. That is her way of life. She was born a villein and worked the demesne fields with her husband until he died in a storm last month.”
“How terrible.”
Geoffrey stared at the flames. “A tree fell on their cottage and crushed him while he slept.”
“I did not know,” Elizabeth whispered. At last, she understood the woman’s timidity.
“I took pity on Elena and
her son Roydon and offered her work in the keep. Yet, she is still a servant. Far below your noble caste.”
A cold sweat dampened Elizabeth’s brow and she shrugged. “I consider her a friend. She has shown me kindness and compassion, and I was glad to help her in return.”
His eyes glowed as bright as the candle flame. “Ah. Elena wins greater respect than, say, a gallant stranger who saved your life at the market?”
Elizabeth’s stomach did a sluggish turn. Too late, she sensed his carefully laid trap. She set the custard bowl on the table and snatched up her wine goblet. “’Tis not a fair comparison, milord. As well you know.”
“Do I?”
Words tumbled from her lips. “You insulted me. You took advantage of your chivalry and demanded a kiss.”
“I demanded naught. Even so, ’twas not much to ask considering I had saved your life.” He paused and set his goblet on his thigh. “Tell me, would you have given it?”
A shivered breath caught in her throat. “A kiss?”
“A kiss.”
Her gaze darted to his mouth. She could not halt the sinful memories. His lips gliding over hers. His warmth. His taste. “I . . . I cannot say. I did not know you were a lord.”
He scowled. Setting down his wine, he steepled his fingers together. “Let us pretend you never discovered my identity. Would you have condemned me to Wode’s dungeon because you objected to my harmless jest? Because I teased you about what is natural between a man and a woman?”
Warmth drained from Elizabeth. That morning at the market, he had shocked her with his boldness, and she had spoken without forethought. She felt his verbal snare tighten. “You provoked my anger and—”
“You avoid the heart of the issue,” he growled. “Aye or nay?”
“N-nay.”
His breath roared through his lips. She could not tell if he were glad of her answer, or even more furious.
Elizabeth’s hands shook. “Is there a point to your questioning, milord?”
“The point, damsel, is I find you puzzling. You flaunt your privileged birthright with annoying haughtiness, yet you also show compassion for a servant who is not of your household, which implies a tender nature. Which is the true Lady Elizabeth Brackendale?”
She stared down at her white-knuckled fingers, locked around the goblet as though the silver could lend her strength. “Does it matter?”
“I find it does.” Torment and loneliness threaded through his words. A place deep inside her cried out, and she steeled herself against the foolish empathy.
“I had no reason to withhold my help from Elena,” she said, “and would do the same for any servant at Wode. I was taught that lords and ladies should show equal measures of kindness and discipline toward their subjects. Otherwise, they will never win their subjects’ best work, respect, or loyalty.”
Geoffrey nodded. “Wise words.”
“My father’s words,” she said with pride.
Geoffrey’s expression darkened. The poignant intimacy vanished like a wisp of smoke. “Your father’s.” He spat the words like a curse.
Desperate to convince him, to make him see past his hatred, she said, “My father is not the cruel lord you mistake him to be. He is a man of honor and justice.”
Menace blazed in Geoffrey’s eyes. “With his own sword, your father murdered my sire. I will never forget. Or forgive.”
A furious sigh burst from her. “You do not know for certain he cut your sire’s mortal wounds. How can you recall what happened eighteen years ago? You were a frightened child, in the midst of a battle.”
“Lord Brackendale besieged Wode. He commanded the attack. He gave the orders. The responsibility falls on his head.”
“The king’s orders!” Her worn patience frayed, about to snap. “My father could not refuse a command issued by the crown. To do so would be treason.”
Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. “Your devotion to your father is admirable, but misplaced. He should have determined, before he led the attack, that my father remained loyal to King Henry and did not support his intransigent son.”
“If there were no justification,” she said, her voice as taut as the knot around her heart, “why did the king order the siege?”
“My father was betrayed.”
“A theory without proof.”
Geoffrey’s face, gilded by firelight, hardened with anger. “My father was a powerful lord. His estates covered half of the county of Moydenshire, and he had great prominence in the previous sovereign’s reign. I have often wondered if King Henry feared my father’s influence.”
“If so, that is another reason why my sire is not to blame,” Elizabeth said.
Geoffrey’s lip curled back from his teeth. “You refer to honor and a lord’s duty to the crown. What of greed? I vow like most of the lords in this land, your father wanted his share of the spoils. He would do whatever King Henry asked, including murder an innocent man, to get it.”
Elizabeth pushed her empty goblet onto the table. A scream shrilled up inside her. Terrible anguish crushed her hopes of persuading Geoffrey of the truth. How could she reason with a man so embittered, so convinced he was right?
“’Tis senseless to seek revenge for what happened years ago,” she choked out. “You cannot change the past. Why can you not find peace within yourself, and forget about Wode?”
Geoffrey lunged with such speed, Elizabeth shrieked. She slammed against the back of the chair, her blood hammering in her veins. He gripped the chair’s arms. Ensnared her. Loomed over her. Tremendous anger poured from him.
His breath hissed between his teeth and her forehead burned with the heat of it. “Forget?” he bellowed. “How dare you ask that of me? You were not there, trying to stop the blood gushing from his chest. You were not there when he drew his last breath. You did not have to listen as he coughed and gasped and struggled for air. My father was a great man. A man of integrity.” Geoffrey’s voice cracked. “He was no traitor, and did not deserve to die as one.”
“I do not doubt he was a great man,” she whispered.
He jerked back a fraction, clearly startled by her agreement, and glared down at her. She braced herself for more lashing words. Yet, his gaze softened. His lips formed a smile tinged with remorse. “Then you understand, milady, why I will take what is rightfully mine. Why I will avenge my father.”
Geoffrey’s hands fell away from the chair, and he straightened. He crossed to the hearth, braced one hand against the stone wall, and looked down into the fire. Shadows played over his face. He looked tortured, haggard, and . . . human.
“King Richard will never accept your siege of Wode,” she said in a hushed tone.
Geoffrey did not stir.
“What you intend is suicide. My father has the favor of the king. Your attack will be viewed as an act of treason. The crown will send an army to Wode and reclaim the keep, and you will die in dishonor like your father.”
Geoffrey’s head tilted. Hair slid down over his brow as he met her gaze. “King Richard has not returned from Crusade. He may be dead. If that is true, his brother John will inherit the throne. The dawn of a new king is the perfect opportunity to secure what is mine.” Brutal determination rang in his voice.
“You will seek the favor of John Lackland?”
“I will earn it. I have much to offer in exchange.”
“You jest. What can you offer a king that is beyond his sovereign power?”
“Cloth.”
Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. “Cloth?”
Nodding, Geoffrey faced her. “You think me a fool. What if I turned half of Wode’s farmlands into pasture?”
“Your villeins would starve.” When his lips curved in a disbelieving smile, she snapped, “You have forgotten drought, disease, and plagues of insects. In good years, they threaten the harvests and lessen what is stored for the cold months. In the worst . . .” She remembered the harsh winter seven years ago.
“Then, there is naught, for lord or peasant alike.”
His smile widened. “Shrewd thoughts, milady, yet I vow I would become a rich man. With that much pastureland, I could raise thousands of sheep. Some would be killed for mutton, but the rest would provide wool. Wool woven into the finest, most sought after cloth in all of England.” His eyes glinted. “For a portion of the profits, I vow John Lackland would recognize my birthright to a keep ruled by de Lanceaus for over a hundred years. Well before your father wrested it from us.”
“You cannot earn your riches, milord, if you have no means to market the wool.”
Medieval Rogues Page 16
