Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  A tantalizing smell reached Elizabeth. She sniffed and tried to identify the meaty scent.

  De Lanceau reached out to the table's edge and pulled over a filled trencher. Stew. He set the food between them.

  Her knotted stomach lurched. He had not started to eat, though as lord of the keep he would have been served first. He had waited for her. He intended to share his meal with her and honor the custom between noble lords and ladies.

  She was going to be ill.

  He must have sensed her thoughts, for he pushed the fare toward her. She glanced at the braised meat and vegetables swimming in gravy. The sauce looked greasy and lumpy, but she did not care. Her stomach rumbled in an unladylike fashion, and she cringed.

  Geoffrey slid a small silver eating dagger toward her. "Hungry?"

  Denial buzzed on her tongue, but her helpless gaze fell again to the stew. Her stomach ached. Her fingers itched to grab the knife, spear a chunk of meat, and stuff it into her mouth.

  "Elena tells me you have not eaten much in two days," he said. Elizabeth watched his lean fingers break apart one of the rolls and tear it into bite-sized pieces. She had never seen such wondrous bread, flaked with oats and seeds. Choosing a soft morsel, he dipped it in the rich broth. "Is that true?"

  "Aye "

  "'Tis foolish to starve yourself," he murmured, toying with the bread. "If you refuse to feed yourself, I will have to find a way to make you." His gaze flicked up, and he looked at her. "Is that what you want?"

  "Of course not." '

  He lifted the soaked morsel to her lips. "Then eat, or I will make good my promise."

  Elizabeth stared at the tempting mouthful. Gravy ran down his fingers and dripped onto the tablecloth, but he made no move to wipe it away. She tasted a biting refusal that would no doubt irk him as much as his stern words had irritated her.

  But the stew-soaked bread smelled so incredible, she could not refuse.

  She bit down on the morsel. Her lips closed around his fingers, and, as his skin brushed her bottom lip, awareness shot through her. She jerked back.

  He smiled and lowered his hand to the table. "Good?"

  Elizabeth wiped the corners of her mouth and tried to sound nonchalant. "Aye, though not as tasty as the stews Mistress Fraeda prepares at Wode."

  "How is Wode's fare better?" His tone was mild, almost detached, but she sensed his displeasure. For a moment Elizabeth regretted baiting him. Yet she could not deny a thrill of satisfaction that she had struck a nerve in his dark heart.

  "Well," she said, watching him dip more bread, "Fraeda adds handfuls of fresh herbs to her cooking, such as sage, rosemary, and basil. Each morn she cuts what she needs from Wode's gardens, then tells the scullery maids how each herb should be prepared for a particular recipe." Keeping her voice light, Elizabeth added, "Mildred is responsible for our extensive herb patch. She redesigned Wode's gardens after my father took control of the keep."

  De Lanceau frowned. "Redesigned them? How?"

  "She increased the number of vegetable beds. The layout is much prettier." When de Lanceau's gaze darkened, Elizabeth shrugged. "I believe Fraeda puts bay leaves in her stew, and a few sprigs of rosemary. It does make a difference." She parted her lips and took more bread from him.

  "I see," he muttered.

  She chewed, and he stared at her mouth a long moment before glancing away.

  "The rich flavors therefore cannot be achieved," she said, licking her lips, "if Branton lacks a garden and herbs."

  "We have both."

  "You do?"

  He nodded. "'Twould take a healer to tell weed from herb, though. The garden has not been tended for years."

  "Oh." Elizabeth slapped her hand to her mouth to stifle a belch, and her stomach released such a growl she was certain the entire hall had heard. The mongrel licking up scraps under the table pricked up its ears and looked at her.

  De Lanceau sighed. "Eat." He snatched up the silver dagger, stabbed some meat and held it to Elizabeth's lips. When she gobbled that bite, he offered another. "Chew with care, damsel, or you will end up with a bellyache."

  The trencher was half-empty when, murmurs rippled through the hall. Mildred hurried toward the table, her gray braid swinging to and fro.

  "Milady," she called and waved.

  Elizabeth lunged to her feet. She jumped down from the dais, ran to the matron, and embraced her. Held tight in Mildred's arms, tears filled Elizabeth's eyes. How she had missed Mildred's harrumphs and her gruff affection.

  After a moment, Mildred held Elizabeth at arm's length. Her green eyes shone. "What a wretched bliaut. You look so wan."

  "I am well," Elizabeth said, proud her voice did not waver.

  A hand touched her shoulder, and she turned to find Dominic at her side. His smile seemed strained, and she looked past him to the lord's table.

  Fury blazed in de Lanceau's eyes.

  "Milady," Dominic murmured, "please return to your place."

  Aware of castle folk gaping at her, Elizabeth choked back a surge of anger. "I was greeting Mildred. I have not been permitted to see her."

  Dominic nodded. "True, but 'tis best not to bait a dragon, if you understand my meaning."

  She did. With a sigh, Elizabeth stalked back to the dais. Mildred's shuffled footsteps came a few paces behind. De Lanceau's stare never wavered, and Elizabeth fought the awful tightness in her chest. De Lanceau was a fool if he overreacted to such a trifling matter.

  She had just set one foot upon the dais when Geoffrey motioned to Dominic. "See the matron has what she needs."

  With obvious reluctance, Dominic pointed to a place at the table's opposite end.

  Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. She and Mildred were to be separated? "But—"

  "Sit," de Lanceau growled.

  Elizabeth curled her fingers over the carved chair back and thanked the saints that the furniture came between them. "Milord, I insist. Mildred is my lady-in-waiting." In a deliberate gesture of humility, Elizabeth met his gaze, then let her lashes flutter down. She doubted the rogue had a decent bone in his body, but she would try and appeal to his honor. "Mildred has been in my family's service for years. She is like a mother to me. 'Tis right that we dine together."

  "Is it?" His tone was cold. "I agreed she would share a meal at this table. I did not agree you would sit beside one another." He signaled for Mildred and Dominic to pass.

  Elizabeth glared at him. "You thoughtless—"

  His hand snaked out, seized her wrist, and pulled her down into her chair. Cursing, Elizabeth struggled to rise.

  His palm pressed upon her thigh. She froze.

  The warmth of his hand permeated the thin gown. His fingers shifted, a mock caress. She recoiled as though stabbed with a knife.

  He grinned like a hawk ready to devour its cornered prey. "Now, where were we?" He brought more stew to her lips.

  "I am no longer hungry."

  "Nay?" He did not sound at all surprised, and his tone resonated with amusement. "Since you have finished, you will serve me."

  "I think not."

  "'Tis common courtesy," he said and tossed bread into his mouth. When she crossed her arms and refused to obey, his fingers skimmed over her hip.

  Elizabeth stiffened. How shameful, that he would caress her in such a way, and for all to see. His lazy smile proved he knew just how wrong his actions were. "Remove your hand."

  "You did not say please." With his tongue, he plucked a dripping morsel from the dagger's tip. "Were you not taught to be polite, when you learned your ladylike duties?"

  "My ladylike duties," she said between clenched teeth, "did not include entertaining rogues."

  He grinned as he chewed, his teeth a slash of dazzling white. With his dark hair tangled around the shoulders of his white shirt, he looked wild. Predatory. Wicked. "Entertaining,?" His tongue rolled over the word with such sensual appreciation, tremors raked through her. "What delightful possibilities."

  He had twisted her words to imply fa
r more than she intended. Elizabeth's hands shook. She must destroy his deliberate misconception. Now. Or he might test her mettle in front of the entire hall.

  "You mistook my meaning, milord," she said.

  "I wished you to return the noble courtesy I showed to you, and you refused." His gaze locked with hers in frosty challenge. "You may despise me, but I am still due a measure of respect."

  An unspoken message flashed in his eyes. She would not get her bath, unless he was satisfied.

  Elizabeth grabbed the closest piece of bread and jammed it into the stew.Respect? He had not earned it, not when he took pleasure in provoking her anger, humiliating her, and denying her the slightest privileges.

  For all he had done to her, she should dump the trencher's contents in his lap.

  For one exquisite moment, she thought she might. Yet, if she did, he would refuse the bath. She sighed and forced her anger to cool. Soon, the meal would be finished.

  Geoffrey's fingers lifted from her thigh and brushed the back of her wrist. The pressure on her skin was gentle, but she did not mistake the warning.

  "I do not like mangled bread."

  Looking down, Elizabeth saw the bread was indeed becoming the same consistency as the gravy. She frowned, annoyed he had chastised her, but when she looked up, a grin curved his lips.

  Wrenching her hand free, she thrust the bread in his face. He took the bite, but with agonizing slowness. His gaze never left hers as he ran his hot, slick tongue over the tips of her fingers and sucked the morsel into his mouth.

  She shuddered. "I hate you." The words slipped out before she willed them.

  "Of that, I have no doubt. More bread, milady."

  Again Elizabeth fed him, repulsed yet also excited by the ritual's intimacy. She tried not to watch him eat, but his lips were so well formed, his profile so handsome, 'twas hard not to.

  After several more mouthfuls, he slid the eating dagger toward her. "Now, some meat."

  Her fingers closed around the smooth hilt. The blade looked sharp. "You dare to place a weapon in my hand?" she said, unable to conceal her astonishment.

  "You are no fool, and I give you fair warning. Threaten me, and I will prove your idiocy before every man, woman and child in this hall."

  He would indeed. She skewered a round of carrot with the knife and had just raised it from the trencher when she smelled perfume. Rosewater.

  "Veronique," Geoffrey murmured.

  The skin across the back of Elizabeth's neck prickled. Once, he had spoken to her in such a tone. When he had held her in his arms in the market. When he had not known her name and teased her for a kiss.

  "Milord," said a sensuous feminine voice. Elizabeth looked up. The woman dropped into an elegant curtsey before de Lanceau.

  Veronique's coral silk bliaut fanned out around her on the rush-strewn floor. The gown, shorter than the undergarment, revealed a chemise so delicate, it looked woven from spider webs. A coral-colored ribbon wove through the braid coiled about her head.

  As Veronique straightened, the exquisite cut of the gown became evident. The fitted sleeves flared below the elbow and were accented by shimmering embroidery in patterns of diamonds and squares. The same design rimmed the squared neckline.

  Pinned in the center of the embroidery, between Veronique's breasts, was a gold brooch.

  Elizabeth's breath became a painful gasp.

  Her mother's brooch.

  Anguish pounded in her veins. Rage clouded her vision until the hall became an angry red blur. Hatred boiled.

  She heard Veronique titter. "So this is Brackendale's daughter. Not much to look at, is she?"

  Elizabeth shot to her feet. The knife, warmed by her skin, molded to her palm. Warning flared in Geoffrey's eyes, an instant before she pressed the blade against his neck.

  "I want my mother's brooch. Refuse and I will plunge this dagger to the hilt."

  * * *

  As the knife jabbed his flesh, Geoffrey grimaced. Her eyes wide, Veronique stepped back several paces. Shocked castle folk pointed and stared at him. Under the table, dogs stopped fighting over a bone.

  He heard the hiss of swords being drawn, and cursed himself for trusting the lady with the knife. He cursed Veronique for rummaging through his belongings without first asking permission, and taking what he would never have given her. Most of all, he cursed Elizabeth for forcing him into an awkward position. How did he reclaim the knife without hurting her?

  "The brooch," she said, her voice shrill.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Geoffrey saw a guard edge toward the dais. He fought for the rational, controlled calm that had saved his life many times on Acre's battlefields. This time, he must plan a strategy to avoid bloodshed. "Milady, if—"

  "Now."

  Her hand trembled, and the dagger jerked the slightest fraction. Warm liquid trickled down Geoffrey's neck. Blood.

  Elizabeth moaned, a sound of despair and horror. He sensed the instant her resolve wavered. Lunging to his feet, he grabbed her wrist and slammed it down on the table. Her fingers flew open. The dagger skidded across the oak and clattered onto the floor.

  Veronique clapped. "Well done, milord." The guards laughed, sheathed their swords, and the buzz of laughter and chatter resumed.

  Geoffrey stared at Elizabeth's down-turned face, hidden by the black veil of her hair. She shook in his grasp, the bones of her wrist jumping like a bird's trapped wing. He heard a sound like a sniffle. Tears? He hoped not. He released her, then strode around the table and picked up the dagger.

  With his cuff, he wiped his neck. The wound did not feel more than a scratch.

  Veronique hurried to him, and her fingers brushed his jaw. "Does the wound hurt? Shall I bandage it for you?"

  Motioning for guards to watch Elizabeth, Geoffrey took Veronique's elbow and led her to a quiet corner. "Give me the brooch."

  Disbelief gleamed in her amber eyes.

  "You should not have gone through my belongings."

  She pulled away, her crimson lips set in a pout. "You never minded in the past. When I needed coins to buy my oils, you told me to take what I liked."

  "That does not mean you may claim whatever you wish as yours."

  A sly smile curved her mouth, and she ran a finger over the brooch. "I thought you had bought it for me, milord. You promised me a favor after what happened last eve. Remember?"

  Fury leapt inside him. He had not promised her a gift wrought from solid gold. He bit back a scathing retort and held out his hand. "The brooch is not mine. Nor is it for you. I will have it."

  Her mouth flattened, but she reached to her cleavage and unpinned the ornament. She dropped it into his palm. As she drew away, her nails trailed over his skin, a reminder of a past, wild night of lovemaking. "I did hot expect you to concede to her."

  He ignored her scorn. "I concede naught." He glanced at Elizabeth, who stood behind the lord's table, the guards flanking her. Despite the watery glitter of her eyes, she kept her head high and met his stare with one of bold determination.

  Looking back at Veronique, he said, "We will speak more of this later." He turned on his heel and strode to the table. "Milady, come."

  She clasped her hands together. "Before you punish me, I would like my brooch. Please."

  He tipped his head to the guards. "Bring her. By force if need be."

  Elizabeth's throat moved on a swallow. "I will walk." She rubbed her eyes and, with rigid strides, skirted the table.

  Geoffrey stalked across the hall to the stairwell. Children and dogs scampered out of his way. He climbed the winding stairs and threw open the door to the wall walk. The wind whistled, buffeted him and stung his eyes, but he strode to the edge and looked down through the squared crenel to the fields below, where sheaves of wheat dried under the sun.

  Light footfalls approached behind him.

  "Guards," he said without turning, "stand watch at the stairwell."

  "Aye, milord."

  He cast Elizabeth a sidelong g
lance. The wind tangled her hair, blowing it over her shoulders and down her back. She moistened her lips with her tongue, a nervous gesture he had come to recognize. Desire flared, and he forced his gaze back to the fields.

  "Why have you brought me here?" she asked. "To throw me over the edge?"

  Geoffrey laughed. "A tempting thought." He touched his neck and found the bleeding had stopped.

  Her gaze fell to the crimson stains on his cuff. Guilt shadowed her eyes and turned them the color of a winter sky. "I did not mean to draw blood."

  "By the morrow, 'twill be a mere scratch. I will accept your apology, milady,"—he met her gaze—"if you tell me why you risked yourself harm for this brooch." He opened his palm, and the gold gleamed against his skin.