Mildred’s gaze narrowed. “I warn you, de Lanceau. You had best keep your stinger where it belongs—in your hose.”
He smiled, turned, and sauntered back toward the gate.
***
Her fingers curled at her sides, Elizabeth watched Geoffrey stride away, light and shadow slanting over his lithe body. Through his taunting, he had admitted his desire for her. He had no right to accuse her of seducing him, when, from what little she knew of such matters, a man gripped by desire did not need further enticing.
He was far more of a threat than she realized.
Mildred touched Elizabeth’s arm. “Do not look so grim. He is leaving.”
Geoffrey disappeared behind a clump of bushes that stretched out over the path, and a moment later, Elizabeth heard the gate close. She sighed and flexed her hands.
“The sooner we leave Branton Keep, the better, I warrant,” Mildred said. She walked over to the basket and removed the linen cloth, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted. “There is wine, bread, and cheese. Here, milady, have a drink. Put color back in your cheeks.” As the matron poured wine into a mug and handed it to Elizabeth, she asked, “Were you injured when you fell?”
Elizabeth looked down into the shimmering red wine. “I may have a bruise on the morrow, but ’tis all.”
With her foot, Mildred nudged aside the creeper that been so difficult to pull out. She paused, then squatted and fingered the patch of upturned earth and roots. Her face glowed with excitement, and she pointed to the slender plant that had grown in the vine’s shade. “Milady, look.”
Sipping her drink, Elizabeth moved closer.
The matron gently blew dirt from the plant’s waxy dark green leaves and purplish flowers. The pretty blossoms were shaped like a mantle’s deep hood.
“Another herb?” Elizabeth asked.
Mildred shook her head. “Monkshood. It might be our way to escape.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Tell me about the monkshood,” Elizabeth whispered, and pushed her needle into the trapping draped across her lap.
Looking down at her hands, the matron cleared her throat and shifted the hose she was mending. Mayhap to get better light. Mayhap to ease a twinging muscle.
Mayhap in warning.
After the evening meal, Geoffrey had sent them to sit near the hearth. They were not alone. Daring to raise her lashes, Elizabeth looked at the trestle table drawn near the fire, where Dominic and Geoffrey sat hunched over a game of chess. Dominic’s fingers hovered over the carved walrus ivory pieces as he pondered his move, his brow creased in concentration. The rogue sat with his chin on one hand, drumming his fingers on the table.
Geoffrey glanced up. His fingers stilled. His keen gaze skimmed over her, and his mouth curved into a little smile. He had looked at her that way when they passed in the stairwell, as the guards brought her in from the gardens. Exhausted beyond words, she had staggered into her chamber to find a bath waiting, an unexpected courtesy he must have arranged and for which her weary muscles were grateful.
Yet, she did not for one moment believe the kindness was an apology for his ribald teasing. Nor did she intend to apologize for calling him a wasp.
Dominic slid his rook into the middle of the board, a move which left his queen unprotected. Geoffrey shook his head and looked back at the game.
Elizabeth released her held breath.
“He watches you,” Mildred said in hushed tones.
“I know. Keep your voice down, and do not look up.”
“Harrumph! ’Tis hard to do, when I feel the weight of those gray eyes upon me.”
“I know.” Elizabeth sighed and brushed a loose thread from her rose wool gown.
Leaning forward, Mildred dipped the hose toward the firelight and pretended to tackle the split seam. “Monkshood is very poisonous,” she murmured. “’Tis safest used as a root, ground up with fragrant oils like lavender and rosemary to rub into aching joints and to dull pain. Yet, I have, on occasion, mixed a small amount with wine and honey and made an excellent sleeping potion.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, intrigued. “Sleeping potion?”
“A few swallows will make a grown man doze like a babe.”
Keeping her movements languid, Elizabeth swept a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. Holding up a chess piece, Geoffrey met her gaze. She looked down and resumed her embroidery. “That is all well and good,” she said quietly, “but how do we get the rogue to drink it?”
The matron chuckled, the soft sound masked by the hiss and crackle of the fire. “’Twill be easier than you think.”
“We cannot tip it into his ale before a meal. In the hall, he never lets us out of his sight, unless we are watched by guards.”
“If we get to the kitchens,” Mildred said, “we could add it to the jugs to be brought to the tables.”
Elizabeth’s pulse jolted. “Every grown man and woman in the keep, apart from the few guards patrolling the wall walk, will fall into a slumber.”
“Correct.”
She envisioned de Lanceau’s eyes snapping shut and him slumping face first into a trencher of stew, and smothered a grin. The thought was even more appealing when she imagined his fury at being tricked by two women and a few drops of sleeping potion brewed from plants from his own garden.
Caution nibbled the edge off her excitement. “How long does the slumber last? I would never forgive myself if aught happened to Roydon or the other children while their parents were oblivious.”
“That is my worry too, though I expect the older ones would look after the younger.” Mildred shook her head. “I wish I could remember how long the potion works. I cannot even recall how much monkshood to use, for at Wode, I follow a receipt written out in one of my treatises.” Her nose wrinkled. “Pah! If only my brain were twenty years younger.”
Elizabeth examined her row of stitches. “We have no choice but to improvise. We must escape.”
“’Tis unwise to guess when using poison.” Mildred knotted her thread, her voice lowering to a whisper. “I dare not think what might occur if we get the proportions wrong.”
Laughter erupted at the chess table.
“’Twould not be so awful to tinker with the mighty lord’s constitution,” Elizabeth muttered. “He might feel better for it.”
The matron’s hand flew to her mouth to smother a laugh, but not fast enough.
Had Geoffrey and Dominic heard the cackle?
Elizabeth held up a section of silk and cast the men a sidelong glance. Her fears dissolved like honey in hot wine. Tense and flushed, Dominic complained of foul play while Geoffrey crossed his arms, grinned from ear to ear, and boasted the arrogance of a barnyard rooster.
“There is one obstacle we must overcome,” Mildred said.
Elizabeth’s gaze flew back to the matron. “Aye?” With gentle strokes, she smoothed the silk with her palm before starting another neat line of stitches.
“We must get access to the kitchens. I cannot brew the potion without a fire.”
“Leave that to me.”
“Milady?” Trepidation sharpened the matron’s voice.
Mildred had a right to be worried. They both did, but with escape near, they must focus on achieving it. Elizabeth winked. “I will stir the rogue’s ire, and shall win us scullery work by tomorrow morning.”
Excitement tingled over Elizabeth’s skin like tiny, melting snowflakes. Her mind half-tuned to the men debating the chess game, she settled back in the chair, tucked her legs underneath her, and concentrated on the silver thread bobbing in and out of the silk. As tired as she was from the day’s labor, she no longer minded her discomfort.
Soon she would be free. Her imprisonment at Branton Keep would be no more than an unpleasant memory.
Soon she would foil the rogue’s plot for revenge and be reunited with her father.
Soon she would face the baron again and the prospect of wedding him. Yet, s
he would confront those difficult days when she had to.
A muffled snore disturbed her concentration, and her fingers paused in mid-stitch. Mildred had fallen asleep. Her head lolled to one side, her mouth drooped open, and the hose lay in a rumpled heap over her stomach. With a tender smile, Elizabeth reached over and pried the needle and hose from Mildred’s fingers, and set the garment on the side table.
As Elizabeth rearranged the saddle trapping in her lap, she yawned. Fragrant logs snapped in the hearth, the sound and heat as comforting as a winter blanket. Fatigue dulled her senses as well as any sleeping potion.
Much later, she sensed the trapping being lifted from her hands. Muscled arms gathered her to a chest that smelled of leather, soap, and summer air. She tried to open her eyes, to rouse her groggy mind, but the effort proved too great.
Her bed ropes creaked as she was laid upon it. A callused hand smoothed away the hair that had fallen over her face, with a touch that seemed almost gentle.
She sighed and a deep slumber claimed her.
Chapter Fourteen
Elizabeth opened her eyes and blinked up at the sunlit beams above her bed. Rolling onto her side, she winced. Her shoulders ached. Her legs hurt. Her back twinged when she so much as lifted a finger. Moreover, all her fingernails were split and had a line of dirt underneath them, and her hands bore little resemblance to the smooth, unblemished, lily white ones she had possessed only yesterday.
When she levered up on one elbow, she discovered she had fallen asleep without changing into her night shift. She had slept in her gown, on top of the bedcovers.
Confusion and embarrassment raced through her. She did not remember going to bed. She could not even recall leaving the great hall.
Where was Elena this morning?
Determined to stagger to the jug of water and wash her face, Elizabeth pushed herself up to sitting. She groaned. Somehow, she would walk the five paces to the table.
As she sat with her calves dangling over the bed’s edge, summoning the willpower to step onto the cold floorboards, the door swung open. Geoffrey strode in. He looked refreshed and handsome in his black hose and knee-length russet wool tunic.
The rogue had come to take her to the gardens.
She shot him a mutinous glare.
He grinned. “Good morning.”
“Go away.”
Geoffrey chuckled, walked to the window, and drew back the shutters, admitting light and gust of cool air. “Elena will be along soon. You slept late, but ’tis a fine morning. The sky is clear, the sun hovers over the distant hills. A perfect day for weeding the garden.”
“Must I?” Elizabeth grumbled, too weary for a show of spirit.
“I gave you two days.”
Her patience smarting as much as her strained muscles, she stood. “How long must we continue this wretched charade?”
“Charade?” He raised his eyebrows.
“This . . . this mockery of making me work like one of your servants.” She plowed her hand through her mussed hair. “You have made your point. Now leave me be.”
His mouth tightened. “I cannot.”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “You could, if you wished.”
“Nay, damsel. I have not finished with you.”
Her indrawn breath snagged in her lungs. He stared at her as he had last night in the hall: with a sinful hunger.
Fear, anticipation, and sheer curiosity fought to govern her. Forcing her limbs into motion, she crossed to the table, aware of his gaze upon her. Aware of the forbidden thrill snaking through her. Aware of how alone they were in this chamber.
She fumbled with the water pitcher. “Where is Mildred?”
He stepped nearer. “Dominic is escorting her to the garden, where you will soon be.”
Water splashed into the earthenware bowl. “If I refuse?”
“You will serve me in my bed.”
Her head jerked up. The jug banged down on the table. “What?!”
Geoffrey reached out and caught one of her glossy curls. His gaze scorched her like flame. “I see I must speak plainer, since you are an innocent.”
Heat seared her cheeks and throat. Gripping the edge of the table, she faced him. “I understand your coarse words, milord. I will never—”
“Never?” With the barest touch, he trailed his fingers down her cheekbone toward her lips. Her skin throbbed.
She shoved his hand away. “Do not touch me.”
Anger and remorse darkened his expression. “I am shocked by the notion too. Yet, ’tis the one way I will be free of you.”
An icy tremor raked through her to the soles of her feet. “Let me go. When I am gone, you will forget—”
He shook his head. His eyes gleamed like oiled steel. “You claim I am the annoying hornet, but you never give me a moment’s peace. You are in my thoughts every moment of every day. You taunt me with the memory of your lips. Your skin. Your scent. I do not want you there, yet you persist. I try to ignore you, but I cannot. When I fall asleep at night, you emerge in my dreams, teasing, challenging, your eyes as bright as the stars in the heavens.”
His awkward words flew from his lips like a swarm of wasps. Elizabeth’s belly tightened. He haunted her in the same way.
“Let me go,” she whispered, her tone desperate.
“And forfeit Wode? Never.”
“You do not know what you say.” Her fingers, locked onto the table, trembled with strain.
Geoffrey laughed, a sound of agony. “I rave like a mad man.”
“You are my enemy.”
Torment warred in his gaze, and the same emotion clashed within her. Elizabeth’s mind flooded with memories of his kiss, touch, and taste. She fought the rush of illicit sensations, and willed her indignant fury to return. Like dry wood added to a dwindling fire, it would refuel her determination to fight him.
The rage did not come.
In its place, came hollowness. Emptiness.
Yearning.
“I cannot change the past, Elizabeth,” he rasped.
Her arms ached to curl around him. Her body cried out for his embrace and touch, but she forced a denial between her teeth. “I will not lie with you.”
“You did not find the idea so repulsive the other evening.”
She sighed. “I did not try to seduce you. Will you ever get that into your addled skull?”
His lips twisted into a knowing smile. “While you scorn me with your tongue, your body weeps for my touch.”
“It does not!”
“I will prove it.” Before she could dart away, Geoffrey captured her wrists and yanked her against him. Cursing, sobbing, she fought him, but his fingers pushed into her hair, cupped the back of her head, and held her still. His lips covered hers. She pummeled her fists against his chest, but he did not let her go, and he did not relent.
His rough kisses claimed her mouth, as though to prove him right and her wrong. Pleasure surged. Elizabeth gasped, the sound muffled against his lips. He tasted of blackberries. As her arms slid around him, and her lips melded to his, she despaired of her own weakness.
As her resistance melted, his touch gentled. His fingers, splayed at the small of her back, slid down and cupped her bottom. With a low groan, a helpless sound torn from him, he pulled her flush against his thighs. She moaned at the intimate contact. Tongue to tongue. Chest to chest. Steel to softness.
His breathing ragged, he broke the kiss. With his thumbs, he touched her swollen mouth. “Why do you fight what we both want?” His words shimmered in the air between them, and bound her thoughts and desires to his like a silk ribbon.
She gazed up at him. Spellbound. Tempted.
A breeze cooled her arms. Voices floated up from the bailey. Cold reality snuffed the raging need inside her.
How could she desire the rogue who would destroy her father?
She moistened her lips and tasted blackberries. The sweetness soured in her mouth. M
ildred was right. His revenge included taking her virginity and returning her to her father ruined, with a de Lanceau bastard in her womb. Her willing deflowering would make his vengeance all the more insulting.
His hands had again settled on her buttocks. She squirmed against his hold. “Release me.”
His breath fanned over her cheek and warmed her lips. “Lie with me, Elizabeth.”
“I would rather . . .” She swallowed hard. “I would rather toil in the kitchens all day.”
Medieval Rogues Page 19
