She looked at Dominic. He shooed a pair of dogs out of his way, then walked toward the dais where Geoffrey sat polishing his eating dagger on a table linen. Dominic showed no signs of succumbing to the potion. Under her breath, she prayed the potent brew would not begin working until all the meals were served.
Stopping at a table near the dais, Elizabeth set down the ale pitchers.
Crockery shattered behind her.
She whirled around.
Dominic fell to his knees. The platter lay broken, the salt pork strewn across the rushes. Snapping, barking mongrels converged on the food. Dominic groaned, a sound so horrible, she went numb with fear. He doubled over, clutching his stomach. “Milord,” he choked out. “Ale . . . poisoned.”
A convulsion shook him. His eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he crumpled to the floor.
As though from a great distance, Elizabeth heard Mildred cry her name. A chair crashed against a wall. Without looking at the dais, she knew Geoffrey had leapt to his feet.
Panic shrilled inside her. She bolted for the stairwell.
Behind her, footfalls pounded.
Her pursuer grabbed her braid. Yanked her back by her hair’s roots.
She screamed.
Geoffrey spun her around, her hair twisted around his arm, his face contorted with rage. “What have you done?”
Words refused to form on her tongue.
He grabbed her arms and shook her. Hard. “Answer me!”
Elizabeth trembled. “I—”
“You poisoned the ale, aye?” he bellowed. “Aye?”
She could not deny him the truth. She nodded.
With an angry roar, he threw her to the waiting guards. He looked at the servants and men-at-arms who knelt beside Dominic’s motionless body, whispering and shaking their heads. His gaze narrowed on Mildred. “You”—Geoffrey pointed at her—“will care for him. You will watch over him day and night. You will do whatever is needed to ensure he lives. By God, he had better live, or you will rue the day you were brought to this keep.”
His head swiveled. He stared at Elizabeth, his gaze so bitter, so pitiless, she fought a sob. She struggled against the guards’ hold, but they pinned her arms to her sides.
“Take the lady to my solar. If she tries to escape, lock her in the dungeon.”
***
As the guards escorted Elizabeth from the hall, Geoffrey hurried to Dominic’s side. The circle of castle folk stepped back, parted, and gave him space to crouch down on the soiled rushes.
Dominic’s face looked as white as a shroud. His jaw hung slack. Thank God he still breathed.
Geoffrey bowed his head, and his eyes squeezed shut. Rage, guilt, and gut-wrenching fear boiled inside him in a violent tempest. How many times had he awakened in the hospital at Acre, to find Dominic sitting by his bed, a calming presence in Geoffrey’s world of physical torment and emotional anguish.
Dominic was the one person Geoffrey trusted with his life. He would not let Dominic die. He had not been able to save his father or his brother, but he would save his friend.
Shoving to his feet, he gestured to the men-at-arms awaiting orders. “Take him to his chamber. Make sure he is comfortable.”
Mildred fought the guards that restrained her. “Lady Elizabeth and I did not plan to hurt him or anyone else. You must believe me.”
A half-smile twisted Geoffrey’s mouth. “You are responsible for his life now, and your lady’s.”
Concern shivered across the matron’s face. “I will do what you ask. Please, milady—”
Geoffrey’s jaw clenched. Rage buzzed inside him with a vicious sting. He stared at the wooden staircase that led up to the landing and his solar.
He strode toward the stairs.
***
The silence in Geoffrey’s chamber dragged. Arms clasped to her chest, Elizabeth paced before the hearth, her strides breaking the sunshine and shadows playing across the floorboards.
Oh, God, the waiting was torture.
Any moment, Geoffrey would walk in and mete out her punishment, whatever that might be.
She glanced at the table between the two chairs. Gone were the wine, sweetmeats, and fine linens—the cultured trappings. Today, light gleamed on the scarred wood. Today, she did not doubt she would see the rough side of de Lanceau’s character, the part that fed his anger and his thirst for revenge.
Pushing her shoulders back, she resumed her fretful pacing. She must not lose courage. She would face whatever torment de Lanceau ordered for her with dignity and—
The fire popped. She jumped, and jumped again as the chamber doors crashed against the walls. Geoffrey stood outlined in the embrasure. The doors slammed, cloaking him in shadow.
Her trembling legs were as weighty as stone. They refused to move. She waited, frozen, as he stalked toward her. Closer. Closer. He halted a breath away, his eyes flashing pure fury.
He stared at her, his silence as frightening as lashing words. When he spoke, his voice was a cold, dangerous rasp. “What did you put in the ale?”
Elizabeth inhaled through tight lungs. “H—”
“Answer me!” He grabbed her, and his fingers dug into her arms.
“Herbs.” She gasped. “Chamomile, valerian, monkshood—”
“Monkshood? From the garden?”
Her head jerked in a nod.
“’Tis poisonous.” He sounded both incredulous and appalled. “You thought to kill Dominic?” His gaze sharpened. “Or did you wish to kill me?”
She shook her head. “We did not mean to harm anyone.”
“Then why poison the ale?”
A shuddered breath tore from her lips. “’Twas not poison. Mildred and I brewed a sleeping potion, which we poured into the jugs. We—”
“You planned to escape.”
“’Twas all we intended. I promise you.”
His gaze raked over her face, and searched her features with such merciless intensity she could not breathe. “What other trickery have you concocted?”
“None.”
“You lie!” he roared, his breath scorching her cheek.
She squirmed and fought his crushing hold. “I do not!”
With one hand, Geoffrey caught her chin and trapped her so she could not turn away. “I will know all of your deceit, and far more, by the time I am done with you.”
A tremor raked through her. “You will punish me . . . here?” Her gaze darted past him to the bed, streaked with sunlight.
His mouth curved into a brutal smile.
“Please—”
“One wicked deed deserves another, does it not?”
Panic shortened her breaths. “Y-you do not understand.”
“I understand all too well,” Geoffrey snarled. “The one person in this world that I love as my brother, that I trust above all others, lies unconscious and near death because of you. Did you once think of the consequences of your deceit? Did you consider the possible outcome? How much of your sleeping potion might be too much for a man or woman?”
“You dare to call me a murderess?”
“If Dominic dies, damsel, you will be.”
“How dare you accuse me of such a crime. You, a man who slaughters helpless children.”
“I do not kill children.” He answered with such quiet conviction she almost believed him.
“You killed Jeremy. Remember?” she said in a tight voice. “Or have you forgotten?”
“Jeremy?” His narrowed eyes lit with comprehension, and he smiled. “Ah. The boy at Wode. He did not die.”
Elizabeth choked a breath. “You told me—”
“Viscon caught him on his way back from your chamber, but he did not kill the lad. We locked him in a storage cupboard so he could not warn anyone else.”
Her belly hurt. Did Jeremy live? She hoped Geoffrey told her the truth, yet wariness overshadowed her relief. “I do not believe you,” she whispered.
“Believe what you will, but I speak the truth.” He released her chin, and his expression darkened. “Tell me, damsel. Did you not realize that even if your plan had worked, even if you had escaped, I would hunt you down? I would find you and make you pay for your audacity.”
“Nay.”
“Aye,” he muttered. “I will start now.”
The grim set of his jaw, the determination in his eyes, filled Elizabeth with dread. It gusted through her like a winter blizzard, threatening to destroy her last reserves of courage and send her whirling into sheer terror. “W-what do you intend?”
He released his grip on her arms. “Remove your clothes.”
“I will not!”
Geoffrey seemed to have anticipated that answer. He smiled.
The blade of a bone-handled dagger flashed in the sunlight.
Elizabeth shrieked and covered her face with her hands. She tensed, anticipating a sharp pain as the knife pierced her flesh. When cold, flat steel pressed against the side of her neck, she froze.
“When will you learn you cannot fight me and win,” Geoffrey murmured. He trailed the dagger’s icy tip across her skin, a touch that menaced but did not cut. The blade traced the leaping pulse in her neck, grazed the hollow of her collarbone, and fell to the front of her bliaut. His hand moved, once, and her gown and chemise slashed open to her waist.
Elizabeth gaped down at the rent. A deft, clean cut. The knife had left no marks on her skin, which looked as pale as snow against the green wool. Panic spiked inside her. She clutched the sides of the material, desperate to shield her exposed skin. Failing.
With a strangled cry, she ran for the door.
Before she had taken three steps, he caught her. His arm wrapped around her waist, and he threw her onto the pillow-strewn bed. Elizabeth landed on her back. Rolled over. Lunged for the opposite side. His hand snaked out and got her ankle. He hauled her back to him like a cat toying with a mouse.
Fear blinded her vision. She clawed. Struggled. Tried to free her leg and kicked out with her other foot. Her heel rammed into his stomach. Geoffrey grunted and his grip eased a fraction. With a second, well-aimed kick, she wrenched free. Breathing hard, she dove for the edge of the bed.
He was already there.
Geoffrey caught her wrists in one hand. She tried to jerk free, but he was far too strong, and far too determined that this time, she would not get away. Looming over her, he forced her back on the coverlet. He pinned her hands over her head and, with a triumphant grin, lowered his body onto hers.
Heat sparked where their bodies touched. “Get off me,” she spat.
“When I have you right where I want you? I think not.”
Elizabeth dug her nails into his skin. He cursed under his breath and exerted more pressure on her wrists, little by little, until with a gasp, she relented.
His breath warmed her temple, and he shifted his weight over her. His body fitted against her breasts, belly, and thighs in a manner that thrilled and alarmed her. His male smell flooded her nostrils. Tempted. A traitorous ache stirred low in her belly, and she shivered.
“Surrendering at last, damsel?”
“Never!” Ashamed by her weakness, she arched against him, writhed, and bucked to throw him sideways. She tossed her hair in his face like a weapon.
“I have had enough of your struggling. Cease.”
Thrashing, kicking, she got his shin twice, despite his strength and the ease with which he deflected her blows. When she continued to fight, he grabbed her hair. Twisted. Her tresses pulled taut. Panting, she fell back against the bed. Her ripped bodice gaped further open with each breath, and a whimper broke from her. “You are hurting me.”
He released her hair, but glared down at her in warning. “Lie still.”
“Let . . . me . . . go.” On the last word, her voice cracked. He planned to ravish her. He meant to shame and ruin her, and she could not stop him.
The rogue looked down at her . . . and smiled.
As his soft, skilled lips brushed the side of her neck, Elizabeth shut her eyes. Her breaths echoed in the stillness: harsh, painful gasps. How foolish she had been to imagine lying with him in a slow, tender dance of bliss. How foolish she had been to savor his kisses.
Somehow she had to sway him. Somehow, she had to touch his tormented soul and make him see how wrong his actions were.
His fingers skimmed down to her torn bodice, and her eyes flew open. She met his dark, glittering gaze with all the anguish inside her. “Please. Do not.”
“I will not have to force you,” he said against her cheek. “Your body is willing.”
“Then let go of my wrists.”
He laughed, and the chilling sound echoed deep inside her. “I will not, damsel. Not until I have finished with you.”
***
Lying over her, Geoffrey felt the violent shudder that rippled through Elizabeth’s body. For all of three heartbeats, he hesitated, and looked down into her proud, ashen face.
Admiration stirred in his soul. She was brave to try and thwart him, even when she knew he would not heed her pointless words. His mind filled with thoughts of how she had deceived him with the herbal potion, how she had harmed Dominic, and what her cruel father had done years ago, and Geoffrey’s wrath blazed like a wildfire.
He had every right to take what he desired.
His palm slid beneath her slashed bodice and cupped her full, warm breast. Her lips parted on a gasp. Did she, too, feel intense sensation when their skin touched? He had never before felt such exquisite torment. No woman had held such power over his senses, thoughts, and desires. No woman had come so close to touching his soul. Fury and need roared inside Geoffrey, tinged with . . . guilt.
He shoved the unwelcome emotions from his mind. The lady was his hostage. His pawn. He would do with her as he wished.
His fingers skimmed lower, toward her stomach’s curve. Her flesh tensed beneath his fingertips. She turned her face away and buried her cheek in the braided tangle of her hair. Her blue eyes glittered. She blinked, but could not hide from him the watery shimmer of tears.
A ragged breath tore from him.
She lay still and silent, resigned to her fate. Her eyes were closed now, and he guessed she blocked out the experience with whatever means were left to her. He had tried to do the same when he lay in the desert hospital. Though he had battled the horrific memories with a mental sword, ’twas a far more difficult fight than he had ever imagined.
She would learn that, soon enough.
Her dark lashes fanned against her cheek. He sensed her fear. Helplessness. The shattered pride of a woman forced to compromise when she did not want to yield.
Her lips quivered.
Her desperate plea echoed in his mind. Please. Do not.
Revulsion unfurled in him with shocking force. He had never hurt a woman. He had never coerced a virgin to his bed. Never in the lowest moments of his existence had he wanted to commit such a loathsome act.
What kind of beast had he become?
He felt intense shame. Craving. Desire. His shaking fingers curled into a fist against her skin. He did not want to take her in anger. He wanted her eyes open, warm with laughter and shared passion, as she welcomed him into her body’s sweet haven.
The door to his chamber creaked open.
Elizabeth jerked beneath him. Scowling, he raised his head to yell at whoever dared to come in without first asking his permission. He had warned the guards outside that he did not want to be interrupted, unless the matter was of vital importance.
Veronique strolled out of the shadows. When she saw him lying with Elizabeth on the bed, she stiffened. Her eyes flared with shock and outrage, but quicker than he thought possible, her face eased into a smile.
He expected her to curtsey, turn around, and leave. Instead, she walked toward him, her brocaded gown rustling with each of her controlled steps.
Elizabeth squirmed beneath him. His lips th
inned, and he wished he could have spared both women this moment of indignity. He glared at Veronique. “I told the guards I did not wish to be disturbed.”
The courtesan paused beside the bed. “So you did, milord.”
“Why do you ignore my orders?”
Her smile turned cool. “I bring you a missive.” She offered him the roll of wax-sealed parchment clasped in her fingers. “’Twas delivered by one of Lord Brackendale’s pages. I knew you were awaiting a response to the ransom demand. I thought you would want to see it straight away.”
Medieval Rogues Page 21
