Elizabeth sucked in a trembling breath and smoothed her veil with her fingers. She could not believe seven months had passed since Geoffrey was wounded. That terrible episode was all in the past now. The injury had almost healed over, leaving but a deep, pitted scar similar to the other one marring his chest. With Dominic’s persistence, Geoffrey had regained much of his former strength, though ’twould be many more months before he would be able to lift anything heavier than a chair.
In that time, Aldwin had come before Geoffrey to answer to the charge of attempted murder. She had stood nearby while Geoffrey listened to the squire’s tearful explanation and apology. When finished, Geoffrey had informed Aldwin that his penance would be to swear fealty to him for the rest of his life. ’Twas a decision never once regretted. Aldwin threw himself into his duties and excelled for his new lord.
Elizabeth nibbled her bottom lip. She wished matters had resolved as well with Sedgewick and Veronique. Accompanied by an armed escort, they were sent to the king’s dungeons to await trial and punishment, but had somehow escaped. Neither had been seen or heard from since. Elizabeth resisted the urge to worry, for she doubted the baron or Veronique posed any threat to her and Geoffrey’s future happiness.
Sidestepping a muddy puddle, Elizabeth looked up at Geoffrey. She loved him more than she had ever thought possible, cherished even the simplest of his gestures, like the way he raked his fingers through his hair and with lithe grace, strode back to the priest.
Over the past months, he had proven his devotion to her with his hard work to secure their future. His first shipment of two thousand sheep had arrived at Branton. He left his bed every morning to supervise the construction of a fuller’s shop in preparation for the carding and drying of the first shearing of wool that summer. He had also received his share of the returns from the Venetian silk shipments, a profit more than three times his expectations. The coin had not been in Branton’s coffers two days before he had spent it to upgrade Branton “to a level of luxury suitable for my beloved wife and babe,” he had told her with a tender kiss. Geoffrey had even paid for the modern convenience of piped water.
He seemed to sense her stare upon him now, for he glanced up. His gaze locked with hers. Still, after all this time, one heated look from him could make her limbs go weak.
The crowd parted with murmurs of awe. Among those gathered, she saw Dominic, Elena, and Roydon, waving to her as she approached the portico. She laughed and waved back.
Geoffrey’s eyes traveled over her, and his mouth slid into a roguish grin. Elizabeth smiled too, for she saw in his expression all facets of him—the rogue, the confidant, the gentle lover—and knew without doubt she loved them all.
As the priest stepped forward with the gold rings and spoke the first words of the wedding ceremony, Elizabeth also recognized the promise in Geoffrey’s smoldering gaze, to cherish her and their children today, tomorrow, and forever.
—The End—
Read more about Dominic, Aldwin, Veronique, and the rest of the characters in A Knight’s Vengeance in the following books in the series:
A Knight’s Reward (Knight’s Series Book 2)
A Knight’s Temptation (Knight’s Series Book 3)
A Knight’s Persuasion (Knight’s Series Book 4)
Available soon… A Knight’s Seduction (Knight’s Series Book 5)
My Lady’s Treasure
Dedication
For Megan. You are an exceptional treasure.
I’m so very proud to be your mother.
***
Acknowledgments
Many times over, I must thank my wonderful critique partners—Nancy Robards Thompson, Elizabeth Grainger, and Teresa Elliott Brown—who helped me forge the rough metal of my words into gold. Your friendship is very special to me.
And, as always, I thank my husband, Mike. My hero.
Chapter One
England, Early December, 1192
The kidnapper had not yet come.
Had something unforeseen happened?
Oh, God. Oh, God.
With trembling hands, Lady Faye Rivellaux pulled her hooded mantle closer about her body. Still, the afternoon gale, hissing over the gray, mist-wreathed lake before her, slipped icy fingers inside the garment. Even the skeletal trees at the water’s edge shuddered.
Faye hugged her arms to her chest, for the cold seeped beyond flesh and blood into the aching place in her soul. Oh, please. She couldn’t bear this waiting. Any longer, and the strain would shatter her from the inside out.
Her pulse gave a sudden jolt. Was she waiting at the wrong lakeshore? Nay. There was only one lake in this county with a string of rocks rising out of its depths like a mythical serpent. She had made no mistake.
Faye forced herself to inhale and then slowly exhale. The cold didn’t matter, nor did her tattered nerves.
Naught mattered, except Angeline.
The little girl was only eighteen months old. How cruel the circumstances that her life depended upon the outcome of today’s meeting.
Faye shivered again, for the moment of exchange loomed with all the menace of the gathering storm clouds which smothered any last glimmers of sunlight.
If she failed to sway Angeline’s abductor—
Faye’s jaw tightened. She must not.
She would not.
Her numb fingers brushed over the lump beneath her mantle. Thank the saints the object hadn’t come untied from her belt during her journey from Caldstowe Keep to the meeting site. Something about the bold, controlled handwriting of the missive, delivered to her two days past, warned that she dealt with ruffians who would never yield—or would do Angeline grave harm—unless Faye met their demands.
With a shaky sigh, she walked nearer the inky water. In the buffeting wind she caught the tang of impending rain. Behind her, the wind moaned through jagged boulders, the sound so eerily human, her belly twisted.
And then she saw him.
The rider, garbed in a flowing black cloak, sat astride a huge black destrier. He approached from the brush-fringed trees several yards away.
An iron helm, of the older Norman style with a broad nasal guard, covered his head. Not only did it secure his cloak’s hood against the buffeting wind, but it hid his hair and a good portion of his face. A deliberate attempt to conceal his features.
He gripped his mount’s reins in one hand. His other hand rested upon his sword’s pommel, the weapon revealed by swept-back folds of his cloak. The horse’s bridle chimed like a handful of coins as the animal clopped toward her.
Faye felt the man’s gaze raking over her, from her mantle’s voluminous hood to its hem brushing her ankles. Thorough, deliberate, his assessing stare told her he was well aware of the painful emotions tangling up inside her, but he would run this meeting as he wished.
Despite the gale, the thud of the approaching horse’s hooves seemed terribly loud. Her hand flew to her throat. Sleepless nights, along with days of worrying about Angeline and being unable to swallow even one mouthful of food, weighed upon her like a stone blanket. The lake blurred before Faye’s eyes. Blinking hard, she fought the urge to swoon.
Never would she reveal her fear to this knave. Fear, she’d once been told, was a sign of weakness. Courage would steel her like armor, for she mustn’t fail to secure the child’s freedom. She would never forget her tearful vow, pledged to Angeline’s dying mother, to protect the little girl.
Forcing her hand down to her side, Faye looked at the approaching rider. “Where is Angeline?”
He didn’t answer. His head tilted with undisguised arrogance. Then, she sensed his attention shifting from her to the rocks and trees behind her. Her bay mare, she remembered, was tethered there in the shelter of a gnarled willow.
Mayhap he suspected she hadn’t come alone, as the missive ordered. The boulders were large enough for men to crouch behind. The clumps of brush, too, grew thick enough to conceal assailants. As though attune
d to her perilous thoughts, his fingers slid down to his sword’s grip, preparing to draw the weapon from its scabbard if he sensed a threat.
Panic raced through Faye. She’d done as the missive demanded. After she’d read it, anguish had almost convinced her to ignore the note’s warnings. She’d longed to run to Torr, show him the parchment, and beg for a contingent of men-at-arms to arrest his daughter’s kidnapper at the arranged meeting. However, concern for Angeline’s well-being had stopped Faye like iron chains clamped around her ankles.
Worry again sluiced through her, but she fought the urge to raise pleading hands and swear she had obeyed his demands. This man would think such desperation foolish. Amusing, even.
Through chattering teeth, Faye said, “Where is she?” Despite the hood protecting her face, the wind snatched the words from her lips, but she refused to be deterred. “Why is Angeline not with you? The missive said she would be.”
The man halted his destrier barely an arm’s length away. The scents of leather and horse wafted to Faye. The lathered animal snorted a breath of white mist as the rider looked down at her.
This close, she saw dark brown hair had worked free of his hood. The strands were long enough to brush his neck. His lips were wide and full, his chin slightly squared. His taut jaw embellished her impression of angular features, as did the scar slashing across his right cheek. Her gaze traveled upward, to lock with eyes so cold and blue, she gasped. By the meeting’s end, would she see compassion in his gaze or the ruthlessness of a murderer?
He seemed to enjoy her scrutiny, for his lips curled up at the corner.
“Answer me,” she choked out. “Where is Angeline?”
“First, the silver.”
His voice sounded deep and velvety, akin to the softened ripple of thunder. Although he didn’t raise his voice, each word rang with command. From the roiling clouds overhead came an answering rumble, as if to warn her she must do as he bade.
Faye fought the desperate rage clawing up inside her. Of course such a knave would disregard the rules he’d written in black ink. He didn’t care for the welfare of children, only his payment. Revulsion flooded her mouth with a vile taste as she bit out, “I have no silver.”
“Nay?” The hard smile that tilted his mouth vanished. “Why did you come, then?”
“Because—”
“Do not think to sway me with your beauty, woman’s charms, or tears. The agreement was clear. You chose not to obey it. No silver,” he growled, “no child.”
His tone held the frozen chill of a January blizzard. How ruthless he sounded. Images of such heartlessness had slipped into her dreams, transforming her snatched moments of slumber into nightmares. To think of Angeline held captive by such a man . . .
Lightning sizzled overhead, followed by thunder. The first drops of rain spattered on the lake’s surface as Faye’s fingers curled into fists. Equally vile to imprisoning a child, this knave thought she might ply her “woman’s charms” on him. She would rather eat mud.
The bridle chimed as the rider pulled on the horse’s reins, turning it to ride away. “Farewell, milady.”
“Wait!” Blood pounded hard at her temples. “We have not finished.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “Indeed, we have.”
“You have, mayhap,” she said, proud of her strong voice, “but I have not.”
A laugh broke from him. He sounded astonished by her audacity. As her hands slid down to her waist, parting the edges of her mantle to expose her green woolen gown beneath, his laughter darkened with distrust. “I warned you, I will not be swayed by charms or tears—”
“—and I offer none.” With stiff fingers, she unfastened the cord tied to her belt, and the stem of the gold cup melded into her palm.
Arching an eyebrow, she raised the vessel into the grayed light. “I do not have silver, but gold.”
***
Brant Meslarches fought to hold back a startled cry. Gold?
Of all the outcomes he’d anticipated from the meeting, he had never imagined this one.
Fighting the misgiving that knotted his gut, scrambling to decide how to proceed, he swung his mount back to face her.
As he did so, his meeting with Lord Torr Lorvais two days ago in the snarl of woods by The Spitting Hen Tavern raced through his mind. Pulling a shriveled leaf from a tree branch, Torr had told him, “Lady Faye Rivellaux is a penniless widow. Her husband died and after the sale of his estate and settling of debts, there was naught left. Since she had nowhere to go, I let her stay at Caldstowe Keep. I know she has no silver to bring.”
Brant had frowned. Since his return to England a few months ago, he’d deliberately stayed away from Torr’s controlling grasp. Using battle skills honed on crusade, which had seen him knighted on the desert sands by King Richard himself, he had competed in county fair archery contests and jousting tournaments to feed himself, his destrier, and his dog. Not rich living, but his life was his own.
Until the rainy morning when he’d raised his drunken head from a tavern table to receive Elayne’s letter. It had taken the messenger a week to find him.
Instantly sober, Brant had ridden to Caldstowe, only to learn she had died. Whatever Torr’s wife had wanted to tell Brant remained a secret.
Regret, splintered by fragments of forbidden longing for Elayne, had still pained Brant, but he’d forced the emotions aside. Holding Torr’s gaze, he’d said, “I do not understand. If Lady Rivellaux is penniless, why send the missive to her?”
Torr had laughed as if Brant had told a ridiculous jest. “You are to frighten her. Scare her. Bring her to screaming tears, if need be. Then you will ride away.”
Torr had spoken of deceiving the lady as though he discussed the lack of clouds in the wintry sky. With effort, Brant had suppressed a surge of temper. “Who is this Angeline who has been kidnapped?” Torr had a young daughter of that name, borne to him and Elayne. Yet, despite Torr’s eccentricities, no father would abduct his own child.
Torr had waved a lazy hand. “Angeline is someone Faye knows.”
A vague, deceptive answer. “A relative? Friend?”
An irritated scowl had twisted Torr’s brow. “It does not matter. You know what to do.” His mouth had eased into a thin, smug smile. “You will not refuse.”
All warmth had suddenly vanished from the unseasonably mild day. Threaded through Torr’s words was the blatant reminder of what had transpired on crusade.
The murder.
The vow had Brant had choked out while, wracked with horror and guilt, he’d stood by his brother Royce’s body, the bloody knife still in his hand.
The lie that had long ago strangled the life from Brant’s soul and bound him for the remainder of his hellish existence into Torr’s service.
A shudder, as cold as death, rippled down Brant’s spine as he drew near the lady. Hardening his jaw, he halted his destrier, so close to her that his scuffed boot almost touched her raised hands.
He stared down at her holding up the gold vessel like it offered salvation. Triumph gleamed in her green eyes the color of spring leaves. The wind had tugged her hood back a fraction, revealing her pale brow swept with coppery red hair. High cheekbones, more pronounced than he liked in his women, framed her slim face. His gaze slid down to her mouth. A captivating innocence defined the curve of her lips, although Torr had named her a widow.
Widow or not, she was a beauty. With the right smile, she could enchant any man.
Raindrops pelted Brant. A blunt reminder that here, now, he must do Torr’s bidding.
Sweat beaded on Brant’s forehead, chilling where his skin pressed against the metal helm. He ignored the urge to yank off the helm and wipe away the discomfort, for to do so would fully reveal his face. In this disgraceful mission, he wanted a measure of anonymity. “Where did you come upon this gold, milady?”
Her victorious smile wavered. “A friend . . . found it.”
“You mean,
stole it. From whom?”
As she wiped rainwater from her cheek, her lips flattened. “’Tis not stolen. ’Twas a gift . . . from the earth.”
He snorted. “A likely tale.”
“I speak true.” Her determined gaze didn’t waver. Not a trace of pricking conscience clouded her eyes, even when he folded his arms across his chest.
The droplets clinging to her damp hood shimmered like pearls. How luminous her skin looked against the drab gray wool better suited for a matron than a young woman. She must have interpreted his silence as disbelief, for she said, “I do not lie.” She turned the vessel in her slender fingers. “See? There is the dent where it lay crushed against a rock.”
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