"Chattel
"As lord of Branton Keep, I command all who live within these walls, including you. My blood is as noble as yours, milady. I will speak to you with respect, and, in turn, you will address me with the honor I am due."
Stunned laughter bubbled up inside her. Honor? He was a thief, a rogue, and a traitor's son. "Never."
"Tsk, tsk. You will not win my favor with that answer."
Her breath exploded from her lungs. "Your favor? You arrogant, thick headed—"
He lunged. Before she could scoot sideways, he caught her chin. She shook her head, tried to jerk free, but he pulled her forward until their noses almost touched.
His glittering gaze bored into hers. Where his fingertips touched, her skin tingled. Burned.
Her pulse thundered.
Awareness hummed. He was her avowed enemy, but also a man. A bold, handsome, determined man.
Why had she taunted him?
His eyes lightened with the barest smile. "Now, I ask you again. Will you show me due courtesy?"
By sheer willpower, she said, "Nay."
"I can make you say 'my lord'."
His thumb traced her jawline. Oh, God, that one, gentle touch was enough. Her skin throbbed. Her body began to wilt like a parched flower, like a besotted maiden's in the chivalric tales. His touch devastated like a lover's kiss.
Nay, his kiss would shatter her.
He seemed to sense her thoughts, for he looked at her mouth. He stared as though her lips were a feast, and he was starved.
She fisted her hands into the bedding. "Release me."
"Why? You have not done as I bade." His thumb paused, then started to caress her neck with light strokes.
"Stop."
"Say 'my lord.' Two simple words. Then, I will cease this sweet torture."
"You cannot sway me." Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed for fortitude. "You are knave, a rogue, a criminal. I will never show you the respect that—Ohhh!"
His chuckle rumbled like a cat's purr. "Aye?"
A moan burned for release. Would she have to yield?
Three knocks sounded on the door before it creaked open.
Relief flooded through Elizabeth.
Shuffled footsteps echoed, then a gasp. "Lord de Lanceau?" Sister Margaret's voice quavered. "Shall I wait outside? I. . . I do not mean to intrude, but soon, I must return to the abbey to settle the accounts and—"
De Lanceau growled under his breath. "I will hear you say it, damsel." His hand dropped away. "Come, Sister."
He uncrossed his legs and rose from the bed.
The ropes shifted, settled, and Elizabeth exhaled. She had won a reprieve. For now. She slumped back against the pillows, cocooning herself in the bedding.
In quiet tones, he spoke with the nun. She appeared bewildered and a little frightened, but as he continued, gesturing with his hands, the worry left her eyes. She nodded.
Elizabeth scowled. Whatever he said, he had gilded the truth to suit his purpose.
De Lanceau smoothed the front of his jerkin. "Milady, Sister Margaret will finish tending your wounds now."
"'Tis a pity you must leave," Elizabeth said. Hope sparked within her like a greedy flame. If he quit the chamber, she could tell the nun of the kidnapping. Mayhap Sister Margaret would even relay a message to—
De Lanceau's laughter prowled into her thoughts. "I will wait here until she is done. I will not have you delaying her work, or telling delusional tales. A knock to the head can cause all manner of imaginings."
As Sister Margaret strolled to the bed, Elizabeth pursed her lips and stared at the mortared wall. He might have thwarted her for now, but she would not yield to defeat.
Not now. .
Not ever.
* * *
Geoffrey escorted the nun out of the chamber, shut the door behind him, and guided her down to the great hall. He ordered a maidservant to fetch the wooden chest from his solar. Once she returned, he withdrew a small bag and pressed it into the nun's hands. "Thank you. I pray my donation is welcome."
Her fingers closed around the bag and the coins inside clinked. Her eyes widened. "Milord, 'tis too much."
Geoffrey shook his head. "The sisters do good work in this land. I vow the abbey has need of the coin, as you have started feeding the children who beg in Branton's market."
A smile spread across the nun's face. She bowed her head, patted his arm, and then shuffled off toward the forebuilding.
He tucked the chest under one arm and watched her leave, an odd sensation warming his belly. He had indeed been generous, more so than he could afford. Yet, when he had sent a messenger to the abbey, seeking a healer, she had come right
away and had not plied him with awkward questions.
Blowing a sigh, he glanced across the smoky hall to the leather bound ledger, quill and ink he had left earlier on the lords table. He skirted the dogs curled up near the hearth, stepped onto the dais, and dropped into his high-backed chair. He pushed the chest aside. The shy maidservant set a jug of ale before him. He nodded in thanks, then opened the ledger.
The crisp pages, marked with lines of black ink, whispered as he fingered through them. In the blended scents of cured parchment, ale, and smoke from the fire, he caught a memory of Elizabeth's fragrance. His brow creased into a scowl. He flattened his lips and glanced over the rows of numbers, accounting of the recent purchases of wine, spices, grain . . .
He wondered what Lady Elizabeth was doing now. Did she march about the chamber, damning his name? Had she wrapped herself in her blankets, one hand holding them together while she paced and plotted her next verbal battle? What a glorious sight she was when her eyes blazed blue fire.
He tapped the ledger's edge. By now, Elena should have delivered the lady's meal and clean clothes. A laugh tickled the back of his throat. He wished he could have seen the lady's face when she spied her new garments. Ah, wickedness.
He blinked, and the ledger came back into focus. Sunlight slanted further across the scratched oak table. The day passed. Once he had settled the accounts, he must ensure he and his men were prepared to confront a furious Lord Brackendale.
That day would come. Soon.
Geoffrey snatched up the quill, braced an arm on the table, and leaned his head on his hand. He began to add a row of numbers. Anger simmered. He should not waste moments thinking of her, when vital details demanded his focus. He was not starved for a woman's attentions. The lady was no more than a means to change fate and, at last, avenge that night years ago.
"Milord." Dominic stood at the opposite side of the table, his hair snarled and coated with dust, his tunic damp across the chest. No doubt he had been in the tiltyards.
Geoffrey lifted his cheek from his numb hand. How had he not heard Dominic approach? Pointing to the chair beside him, he said, "Come. Sit."
A wry smile tilted Dominic's mouth. After scraping the chair back, he sat. "You looked leagues away. You were not mulling over the accounts."
"Nay," Geoffrey muttered.
Dominic's gaze shadowed. He linked his hands together and rested them on the table. "Do you have doubts?"
"Of course not. Our plot is unfolding the way I had hoped."
"Then what troubles you?"
"Naught." Geoffrey sipped his ale and swirled the lukewarm, bitter liquid on his tongue. He would not be coaxed into revealing his musings on the lady. He picked up the ale jug and offered Dominic a drink, but his friend shook his head and chuckled, an all-too-familiar, knowing sound.
The jug landed back on the table with a clunk.
"Milord, I have known you long enough to know your moods"—Dominic grinned like a well-fed cat—"and when you speak false."
A groan dragged up from deep within Geoffrey. What had he done this time to give himself away? Hold his mouth at an angle? Squish his eyebrows together?
"Will you tell me what weighs upon your mind, or must I resort to more devious measures?"
Despite his friend's good-natured
teasing, fury heated Geoffrey's blood. He resisted a snide reply. Loyal, trusted Dominic did not deserve his scorn. "If you must know, my thoughts were of no consequence."
Dominic snorted. "You insult me. Do you believe that after visiting your hospital bed every day for months and months, and coaxing you back to the world of the living, I have no idea what eats at your soul?"
The residual ale soured in Geoffrey's mouth. "You visited me because you expected me to die. You felt obliged to offer me succor until my spirit left my body."
"There were other reasons, as well you know."
Geoffrey's words emerged as a growl. "As I told you long ago, and many times since, you are not indebted to me for saving your life at Acre."
"Not once, but twice. I do owe you. That is why I worry about your well-being."
Geoffrey gave a brittle laugh. "It seems you are the one with doubts, my friend."
To his surprise, Dominic did not refute the statement with a jest and a lopsided grin, but nodded. "Rage is a dangerous ally. I hope in the coming days you will not act with rashness, and will consider the conséquences of your vengeance. You are a good man. I have no desire to see you lose your head."
"My father was a good man. He should not have died a traitor. Thomas, too, did not deserve his fate." Geoffrey's fingers tightened around his earthenware mug. "My brother deserved to be a scholar, as he dreamed."
Geoffrey downed a long draught of ale. The anguish had not dimmed, even after eighteen years. The invisible wound hurt ten times worse than the Saracen blade which had plunged deep into his chest and left as proof a brutal scar.
"You cannot change the past," Dominic said, "but—"
"You believe I am mad to return to England and seek what is mine. I should release the helpless, suffering Lady Elizabeth, forget revenge, take Veronique to Venice, and earn a fortune from the silk trade."
"Eloquent words. In part, they are true." Dominic smiled. "Yet the lady does not seem helpless or suffering. She is a woman of astounding courage."
Geoffrey's rage flared, and became so intense, he almost choked. "I look into her haughty eyes and know all the luxuries she enjoyed because of my father's sacrifice. Father bled to death in a stable. A stable! I owe it to him to demand revenge."
Regret softened Dominic's gaze. "Milord—"
"Brackendale will soon learn his daughter is missing. He will receive my ransom note, and demand my head. If he and the baron attempt a siege or challenge me to a battle, my men must be prepared."
"Sedgewick may have ridden with Brackendale to Tillenham. He may not yet know of his betrothed's abduction."
Geoffrey spat an oath. "Sedgewick could not find the sharp end of a sword if it poked him in the arse."
Dominic laughed, the sound vibrant in the quiet hall. "Still, he has the power to rouse a formidable army. His and Brackendale's forces will outnumber yours."
Wiping a drop of ale from the side of his mug, Geoffrey nodded. "I have not forgotten. I am not afraid."
Uncertainty clouded Dominic's gaze. "You asked me to scribe the ransom missive."
"If you will. Your letters are far more patient than mine. I will not have Brackendale misinterpret my demands." Geoffrey paused. "Yet if you would rather not—"
"I will write it. When do you wish to send it?"
Geoffrey leaned back in his chair and stretched out his booted legs. "In a few days. First, I want Brackendale to agonize over his daughter's fate. Then, in exchange for her return, I shall demand my rightful inheritance as Edouard de Lanceau's first born son."
With his finger, Dominic traced a deep mar in the tabletop. "Will you ask for Brackendale's life, too?"
"I shall not have to. When he raises his sword to me in combat, I will not spare him." Geoffrey imagined drawing his sword in that delicious moment, and his fingers curled and uncurled. His palm warmed with the imagined rub of leather, and the weapon's slashing weight.
'Twould be a sweet victory.
Dominic frowned. His gaze shifted to the ledger. "There is also the matter of Viscon. Will you pay him to fight for you? He has already demanded a high fee for his part in the abduction and, I might add, has bedded down with one of the maidservants and made no move to leave."
Geoffrey waved away Dominic's disapproval. "I do not like the man either, but I have asked him to stay. His price is no greater than others of his profession."
Exasperation gleamed in Dominic's eyes. "Where will you get the silver? Have you received payment from Pietro?"
At mention of the Venetian merchant, Geoffrey smiled. He would forever be grateful that Pietro had befriended him when he was in the care of the Knights Hospitallers, at a time when Geoffrey wished each night for death. Pietro had introduced him and Dominic to the riches of the Eastern silk and spice trades.
Aye, and Pietro had shown Geoffrey that every man had his price. When it came to his mistress.
Or his daughter.
"I do not expect the profits from the silk shipments till the first frosts. I have some silver in my coffers. I also have this." Geoffrey drew near the wooden chest, flipped open the lid, and withdrew Elizabeth's gold brooch.
"By the saints." Dominic picked it up and held it at his eye level. Sunlight gleamed off the delicate design. "Where did you get it?"
"Lady Elizabeth."
Dominic whistled and weighed the gold in his palm. "Worth a fair price, I vow."
Geoffrey grinned. "Enough to pay several more mercenaries."
"The brooch seems of an older style."
"It belonged to the lady's mother. When the lady first asked after it, I thought she missed a pretty trinket. Then I looked into her eyes, and—"
Dominic eyed him with fascination. Did he expect some kind of profound confession?
Geoffrey snapped his jaw shut. He would not admit compassion for her. "I do not care if 'tis important to her. Now, it belongs to me."
"You should return it." Dominic's fingers brushed over the design. "If you kill Brackendale and seize his lands, she will have naught. The coin from selling this brooch would provide her an income for several years, at least until she finds a husband."
"She is betrothed to the baron. He will provide for her."
Dominic's mirthless laughter cut into Geoffrey's thoughts. "I doubt Sedgewick will still want her, when she no longer comes with a large dowry."
Geoffrey resisted a stab of guilt. He would not care for the damsel, or cripple his ambitions with concerns for her welfare. Not when revenge was so close.
Over the crackling fire, he heard the patter of footsteps. He glanced up, and saw Elena. She looked tired and flustered, and he realized she had come from Elizabeth's chamber.
He beckoned Elena over to the table.
She curtsied. "M-Milord?" Her face looked pale.
"How is the lady?"
"She would not eat." Elena stared down at her fingers, which were linked tightly together. "She refused. S-She said she cared not for lumpy gruel."
Geoffrey downed the last of his ale and dried his mouth with his hand. "You left the fare with her?"
"Aye, but I do not think she will eat it." Elena's hands shook. "I helped her dress in the clothes you sent for her, but she almost ripped them to shreds. She shouted and cursed like a wild woman."
He remembered well the heat of his captive's eyes, and her stinging words. "What did she say?"
The maid drew a breath. "She . . . well, she did not respect your generosity, milord."
"Go on."
"She said you provided the gown of a strumpet."
Geoffrey chuckled. Dominic hooted and slapped his palms on the table, and Elena jumped, her gaze wide as a startled hare's.
"Did you borrow from fair Veronique's wardrobe?" Dominic asked.
"I dared not risk her wrath. I took a spare gown from one of the maids." Geoffrey dried his eyes with his cuff, yet Elena did not curtsey and take her leave. "There was more?" he said.
She looked about to wilt in fright.
; "For God's sake," Geoffrey snapped. "What?"
"She . . . she . . ."
"Tell me!" He did not mean to shout, but from Elena's demeanor, he guessed the lady made another demand on his patience. She rankled him more than he ever imagined possible for one of the fairer sex, who had been in his company for less than a full turn of the sun.
"She demands . . . a bath," the maid squeaked.
"Demands?" Dominic sounded astonished.
Geoffrey scowled. "Does she, now?"
Knight's Vengeance Page 8