“Did one of the servants offend you?” His tone sharpened. “Did Elena speak amiss when I sent her to you this morning?”
“Nay.”
“Why do you not welcome me with your eyes?” His voice dropped to a purr and he brushed the petals against her cheek. “Did you miss me?”
She answered with an indignant snort.
Geoffrey chuckled. “Ah. You are annoyed because I spent the day away from my bed. And you.”
“Cease!” Elizabeth stood and threw the trapping into a heap on the chair.
Geoffrey’s eyes hardened. He did not look at all guilty, curse him. Annoyed, confused, and tired beneath the smudges of dust on his face, but not ashamed.
He set the flower on the side table. “I thought that after what we shared last night, you would have softened a little.”
“You expect too much.”
“Why?”
How well he portrayed his innocence. His cool gray eyes hid a lie well. Elizabeth thought of him pressing Veronique’s naked body down in a patch of meadow grass, his hot mouth on her skin, and fought a furious shriek. “You should not ask me why. You wished to spend your day with someone else.”
“If you mean Dominic, aye, he came with me to the fields, but he always does.”
“I do not mean Dominic,” Elizabeth bit out.
“Then whom?” He sounded annoyed and frustrated.
“Who else?” Hurt ripped into her. “The woman who throws herself at your feet.”
“Veronique?”
“Do not sound surprised.”
He frowned. “I have not seen her all day.”
“Nor have I.”
For a moment, wariness shadowed his features. “She did not attend the midday meal?”
“Please,” Elizabeth muttered. “You need not spare my feelings. I am not naïve. I realize last night was no more than a meaningless—”
Geoffrey’s look of pure fury stopped her. “You know naught. ’Tis not your place to question me, but I swear to you, I did not spend my day with Veronique.”
He turned to Dominic, who stood near a trestle table and looked baffled. It seemed the knight had not known of her and Geoffrey’s liaison before now. “Find Veronique,” Geoffrey said with a growl.
“She ’as gone ta market,” piped up one of the kitchen maids, who was carrying in a wooden board laden with roasted hare.
“What?” Geoffrey’s gaze fell upon the small, dark-haired woman who looked about to collapse in a faint. She dropped the board on the nearest table, scattering the dogs at her feet with the loud clatter, and curtsied.
“She left early this mornin’, she did. Ta buy rosewater.”
“Veronique did not send a servant to fetch it for her?” His stern, disbelieving tone sent the maid into another curtsey.
“’Twas such a foin day, milord, she decided ta go ’erself. I also overheard ’er the other week sayin’ that the merchant in Branton sold ’er bad oils. She told me she wanted ta ride to the fair in ’averly ta see if she could buy better there.”
“Haverly is a day’s ride from here,” said Geoffrey.
“Aye, milord.” The maid straightened.
“She went alone?”
“Nay. Viscon went with ’er.”
Geoffrey’s expression darkened. “She knows I despise the man. Why would she—”
“Veronique also knows the roads are too dangerous for a woman to travel alone,” Dominic said. “Who better to protect her from thieves and bandits than a skilled mercenary?”
“I do not like it.” Geoffrey raked his fingers through his hair. “’Tis not usual.”
“Today, much is not usual,” Dominic said with a wry smile. Elizabeth did not mistake his meaning, and flushed.
“Veronique knows not to test my temper.” Geoffrey paced the floorboards. Rushes crackled under his boots. “When she returns to the keep, send her to me.”
Dominic bowed. “Of course, milord.”
As Geoffrey swung back to face her, Elizabeth stiffened.
“Your jealousy is ill placed, damsel.”
She plucked a silver thread from her sleeve. “’Tis ridiculous for me to be concerned with such matters.”
“Because of the melee?”
“Because you are my enemy.”
A crooked smile teased his lips. “Did you ever stop to think, damsel, I might never let you go?”
Elizabeth forced a laugh. “You jest.”
An indefinable emotion flashed in his eyes and vanished on his next blink. “Come, I am starving.” He held his hand out to her. The dark-haired maidservant hurried past and set the roasted meat, steaming bowls of cabbage pottage, and wine on the lord’s table.
Elizabeth looked at his fingers, upturned in invitation. She could refuse, but she did not. She did not want to. His hand closed around hers, and he led her toward the dais.
The warmth of his touch coursed through her.
Bliss . . .
***
Arthur glared at Veronique sitting on the opposite side of the tent, which the men-at-arms had erected in haste by the side of the road.
The woman was as cunning as she was beautiful. She had refused to divulge even a scrap of information until she sat in a comfortable chair, ate a decent meal, and drank a goblet of his finest French wine to quench her thirst.
Even Viscon indulged like nobility, though Arthur had denied the scum the privilege of dining in a private tent.
Bees hummed in the clover outside, making Arthur even more aware of the silence within, a silence the wench controlled. Veronique met Arthur’s gaze. Her lips spread into a knowing smile, and she ran her tongue along the edge of the silver goblet, catching a drop of wine.
Arthur’s patience snapped. He lunged to his feet and almost charged into the corpulent, wheezing knight who staggered through the tent’s flap.
“Baron Sedgewick,” Arthur said, startled. “I expected to meet you and your army at Moyden Wood. My message—”
“Was delivered as you ordered.” The baron grasped his chain-mailed side as though to relieve a cramp. Footsteps sounded outside, and Aldwin appeared through the flap with a wine jug and goblets. “Ah, good. I knew I could count on you, squire.”
Arthur frowned. “How—”
Sedgewick poured and guzzled wine with alarming speed. “When the messenger told me of my dear betrothed’s plight”—he belched—“and the ransom demand, I followed him to you post haste.” He brushed sweat from the end of his bulbous nose and rolls of fat jiggled at his wrist. “Poor, dear Lady Elizabeth.”
“So this is the thwarted groom,” Veronique drawled.
“Thwarted?” Arthur swung back to face her. “Explain.”
“Who is she?” The baron’s small, glittering eyes wandered up and down Veronique’s figure. She had shed the mantle, revealing voluptuous curves encased in silk. A fresh sheen shimmered on the baron’s brow.
“Veronique,” Arthur said through his teeth. “She is de Lanceau’s courtesan.”
“Was,” she corrected with a smooth toss of her chestnut curls. “Another has taken my place.”
“I care not for trivialities.” Arthur took a determined step closer. “I have given you food and drink. I wish to hear of my daughter. Without delay. Or I shall have the information flogged out of you.”
Apprehension flickered across her painted features, but was repressed by sheer malice. “Be warned, milord. You will not like what I am about to say.”
“Tell me.”
“Very well. The wench Geoffrey de Lanceau has taken to his bed is your daughter, Elizabeth.”
Arthur’s breath exploded from his lips. The baron looked about to topple over, but Aldwin reached out and steadied him. The squire looked shocked.
“Why do you test me with falsehoods?” Arthur snarled. Spittle flew from his mouth with the force of his words.
With vexing calm, Veronique sipped her wine. “’Tis not a
falsehood.”
“Liar! Lady Elizabeth would never lie with de Lanceau,” Aldwin shouted, his reddened face taut with indignation. “She is a woman of virtue and beauty.”
Veronique’s angry gaze fixed upon the squire. “You believe he gave her a choice?”
“God’s blood!” moaned Sedgewick. “My dear betrothed, suffering such brutality.” He gulped wine, half of it running down his chin and onto his mail and spattering on the ground.
“I witnessed his cruelty with my own eyes,” Veronique said. “She wept and screamed and begged him for mercy. He showed her none.”
Aldwin gripped the hilt of his sword with such violence, his knuckles snapped. “I will kill him!”
Veronique rose from the chair, her bliaut rustling. She glided toward Arthur, and he tensed. The wench was not finished with what she had come to say. She halted a hand’s span away, her sweet fragrance cloying in the confines of the tent.
“I bring you this terrible news,” she said, looking up into his face, “because I know Geoffrey de Lanceau. I know how he thinks and what he intends for Wode. I can get you past Branton Keep’s gates.”
Arthur scowled. Why would she offer to help him? She owed him no loyalty. Indeed, he saw not the slightest hint of integrity in her gaze. “You can get my men inside the bailey?”
She nodded. “’Twill be far quicker than a melee. By attacking de Lanceau without warning—with his hose down, if you pardon the crude phrase—your victory is guaranteed.”
“I have already issued my challenge,” muttered Arthur. “’Twould be dishonorable not to fulfill the terms of that arrangement.”
Her laughter mocked him. “Qualms, milord? You treat de Lanceau with honor when he showed you none? After he deceived you and raped your daughter?”
Rage surged inside Arthur like a battle cry. “You are so willing to betray him?”
“For the right cause.”
“A price, you mean.”
She smiled.
Arthur’s mouth curled in disgust. Devious wench. Still, her plan held merit, providing he could ensure she did not deceive him as well.
He motioned to Aldwin. Shaking his head, the squire stormed out of the tent and returned with a small wooden chest. He sprung the lock and raised the lid, revealing hundreds of silver coins bearing the stamped, curly-haired visage of Henry II.
Veronique’s eyes gleamed.
“Is it enough?” Arthur asked. With immense effort, he resisted the urge to shake the greedy grin from her lips.
“Aye,” she murmured. “I believe ’tis.”
Chapter Eighteen
“Your move, milady.”
Elizabeth looked down at the beautiful inlaid leather chessboard Dominic had loaned her earlier that evening. She had not played the game in months and felt much out of practice. Despite Mildred’s claim to possess an old and addled brain, she would win this one for certain.
Sighing, Elizabeth propped her elbow on the trestle table, rested her cheek on her palm, and studied the carved chess pieces. Geoffrey lounged at the lord’s table though the meal had ended some time ago. She sensed his gaze wandering over her. Again. He watched her like a ravenous hawk.
“Good man.” He gestured to the coppery-haired musician who sat near the hearth, playing a lute. “Play something merry.”
The lutenist chuckled. “Merry, milord?”
Geoffrey banged his goblet on the table, startling Elizabeth and the mongrel curled at her feet. “A song to lift my spirits and ease my loneliness.”
Curiosity nagged at her. Elizabeth cast him a sidelong glance. Geoffrey caught her gaze and stared at her with such scorching heat, she blushed. Did he hope to resume their intimacy this evening? She shook the enticing, wanton thought from her mind and brought her attention back to the game.
The musician’s fingers flew over the strings of the pear-shaped instrument and plucked a familiar melody. Elizabeth recognized the song. Her mother had loved to dance to it. Her feet had flown over the floor as if she were weightless.
Sadness weighed upon Elizabeth. Once she had returned to Wode, she must make sure the orphans’ gowns were embroidered and delivered as soon as possible, in honor of her mother’s passing.
“You seem leagues away, damsel.” Geoffrey’s voice came from nearby. As he sat down beside her, the bench shifted and squeaked. He leaned forward and his shoulder brushed hers in silent, physical communication.
“’Tis the music. It reminded me of long ago.”
“Your mother favored this song, if my memory is correct,” Mildred said with a smug grin. Elizabeth shot her a warning glare. Without fail, the matron’s tongue wagged after too much wine.
“Harrumph! Do not scowl at me, milady. I do not intend to become besotted from this rogue’s drink.”
“I did not mean to remind you of your mother,” Geoffrey said, his words soft with apology. His hand closed over Elizabeth’s, and together, they moved a pawn forward into an empty square. As they did so she wondered what had become of her mother’s brooch. Would he return it to her now, if she asked?
He stroked his thumb along the sensitive curve between her thumb and finger, and the thought blurred. “Tonight, we shall celebrate some of the joys of life,” he murmured. “Will you join us?”
She wet her lips. “Milord—”
He released her hand and snapped his fingers. The lutenist began a new song. A few of the servants started to dance. They linked hands, formed a ring, and stepped and turned. The lute player quickened the pace and pounded out the rhythm with his foot, while another musician joined him and drummed the beat on a tabor.
Dominic approached from a far table. “Will one of you beauties accompany me?”
Elizabeth shook her head.
Mildred pouted and took a big gulp of wine. “I am old enough to have birthed you. I know you do not wish to dance with a crotchety old woman.”
“Age brings experience,” Dominic said with a crooked grin. “Come, Mildred. Let us show them how ’tis done.”
The matron cackled. “You are a charmer.” Smiling, she struggled up from the bench, took the arm he offered, and they strolled toward the dancers. When the clasped hands of the revelers parted, Mildred and Dominic joined the ring.
Geoffrey propped one leg up on the bench and leaned sideways against the table’s edge. “You do not enjoy dancing, damsel?”
“’Tis not right to celebrate.” Elizabeth sipped her wine, as dark and red as blood.
“’Tis foolish to dwell on events that may never happen, or ones you cannot prevent.”
He spoke of the melee. Refusing to meet his gaze, to let him see her uncertainty, she watched Dominic and Mildred twirl and dance. The matron’s wrinkled face glowed with the effects of wine and good cheer.
“Dance with me, Elizabeth,” Geoffrey whispered.
The decision was made for her. At that moment, the dancers separated and Mildred whirled toward the table. She grabbed Elizabeth’s hand and pulled her toward the ring.
“Mildred, nay.”
“Please, milady. ’Tis most enjoyable.”
As the dancers turned and stepped in exact time, Elizabeth found herself drawn into the momentum. The music quickened even more, but she sensed the rhythm and kept pace. The melody hummed in her blood.
She dipped and turned, her bliaut billowing at her ankles. She stomped on herbs strewn in with the rushes, and the blended tang of rosemary, thyme, and meadowsweet rose up from the floor. Her braid came loose and hair tumbled thick and wild about her face. Caught up in the swell of music and emotion, she felt more alive than at any other moment in her life.
Mildred grinned, and Elizabeth laughed. The dance quickened again. Faster. Faster she turned, whirling around in a blur of hair. She dipped, turned, and spun . . . until strong arms pried her from the ring and drew her into the stairwell’s shadows.
With a raw groan, Geoffrey pressed her against the cool stone wall. His breath
gusted against her brow.
“Ah, damsel. What you do to me.” His lips crushed hers in a kiss so intense, Elizabeth’s knees buckled.
“I must go back,” she whispered, even as she kissed him with equal fever.
“Nay.” Geoffrey lifted her into his arms and took the stairs to the solar two at a time. Striding to the bed, he sat her on the edge, yanked off her slippers, and slid her bliaut over her head in one fluid motion. He kissed her until her she gasped and quivered.
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