Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  As she levered up on one elbow, she discovered she had fallen asleep without changing into her night shift, and had slept on top of the bedcovers.

  Confusion and embarrassment whooshed through her. She did not remember getting into bed without taking off her gown. She could not even recall leaving the great hall.

  Where was Elena this morning?

  Determined to stagger to the jug of water and wash her face, Elizabeth pushed herself up to sitting. She groaned. Somehow, she would walk the five paces to the table.

  As she sat with her calves dangling over the bed's edge, summoning the energy to step onto the cold floorboards, the door swung open. Geoffrey strode in. He looked refreshed and handsome in his black hose and knee-length russet wool tunic.

  The rogue had come to take her to the gardens.

  She shot him a mutinous glare, and he grinned. "Good morn."

  "Go away."

  Geoffrey chuckled as he walked to the window and drew back the shutters, admitting light and gust of cool air. "Elena will be along soon. You slept late, but 'tis a fine morn. The sky is clear, the sun hovers over the distant hills. A perfect day for weeding the garden."

  "Must I?" she grumbled, too weary for a show of spirit.

  "I gave you two days."

  Her patience smarting as much as her strained muscles, she stood. "How long must we continue this wretched charade?"

  "Charade?" He raised his eyebrows.

  "This . . . this mockery of making me work like one of your servants." She plowed her hand through her mussed hair. "You have made your point. Now leave me be."

  His mouth tightened. "I cannot."

  She rolled her eyes heavenward. "You could, if you wished."

  "Nay, damsel. I have not finished with you."

  Her indrawn breath snagged in her lungs. He stared at her as he had last night in the hall, with a sinful hunger.

  Fear, anticipation and sheer curiosity fought to govern her. Forcing her limbs into motion, she crossed to the table, aware of his gaze upon her. Aware of the forbidden thrill snaking through her. Aware of how alone they were in this chamber, whose walls seemed to squeeze closer together.

  She fumbled with the water pitcher. "Where is Mildred?"

  He stepped nearer. "Dominic is escorting her to the garden, where you will soon be."

  Water splashed into the earthenware bowl. "If I refuse?"

  "You will serve me in my bed."

  Her head jerked up. The jug banged down on the table.

  "What?!"

  Geoffrey reached out and caught one of her glossy curls. His gaze scorched her like flame. "I see I must speak plainer, since you are an innocent."

  Heat seared her cheeks and throat. Gripping the edge of the table, she faced him. "I understand your coarse words, milord. I will never—"

  "Never?" With the barest touch, he trailed his fingers down her cheek toward her lips. Her skin throbbed.

  She shoved his hand away. "Do not touch me."

  Anger and remorse darkened his expression. "I am shocked by the notion too, yet 'tis the one way I will be free of you."

  An icy tremor raked through her to the soles of her feet. "Let me go. When I am gone, you will forget—"

  He shook his head. His eyes gleamed like oiled steel. "You claim I am the annoying hornet, yet you never give me a moment's peace. You are in my thoughts every moment of every day. You taunt me with the memory of your lips. Your skin. Your scent. I do not want you there, yet you persist. I try to ignore you, but I cannot. When I fall asleep at night, you emerge in my dreams, teasing, challenging, your eyes as bright as the stars in the heavens."

  His awkward words flew from his lips like a swarm of wasps. Elizabeth's belly tightened. He haunted her in the same way.

  "Let me go," she whispered, her tone desperate.

  "And forfeit Wode? Never."

  "You do not know what you say." Her fingers, locked onto the table, trembled with strain.

  Geoffrey laughed, a sound of agony. "I rave like a mad man."

  "You are my enemy."

  Torment warred in his gaze, and the same emotion clashed within her. Elizabeth's mind flooded with memo- , ries of his kiss, touch, and taste. She fought the rush of illicit sensations, and willed her indignant fury to return. Like dry wood added to a dwindling fire, it would refuel her determination to fight him.

  The rage did not come.

  In its place, came hollowness. Emptiness.

  Yearning.

  "I cannot change the past, Elizabeth," he rasped.

  Her arms ached to curl around him. Her body cried out for his embrace and touch, but she forced a denial between her teeth. "I will not lie with you."

  "You did not find the idea so repulsive the other eve."

  She sighed. "I did not try to seduce you. Will you ever get that into your addled skull?"

  His lips twisted into a knowing smile. "While you scorn me with your tongue, your body weeps for my touch."

  "It does not!"

  "I will prove it." Before she could dart away, Geoffrey captured her wrists and yanked her against him. Cursing, sobbing, she fought him, but his fingers pushed into her hair, cupped the back of her head, and held her still. His lips covered hers. She pummeled her fists against his chest, but he did not let her go, and he did not relent.

  His rough kisses claimed her mouth, to prove him right and her wrong. Pleasure surged. Elizabeth gasped, the sound mufHed against his lips. He tasted of blackberries. As her arms slid around him, and her lips melded to his, she despaired of her own weakness.

  As her resistance melted, his touch gentled. His fingers, splayed at the small of her back, slid down and cupped her bottom. With a low groan, a helpless sound torn from him, he pulled her flush against his thighs. She moaned at the intimate contact. Tongue to tongue. Chest to chest. Steel to softness.

  His breathing ragged, he broke the kiss. With his thumbs, he touched her swollen mouth. "Why do you fight what we both want?" His words shimmered in the air between them, bound her thoughts and desires to his like a.silk ribbon.

  She gazed up at him. Spellbound. Tempted.

  A breeze cooled her arms. Voices floated up from the bailey. Cold reality snuffed the raging need inside her.

  How could she desire the rogue who would destroy her father?

  She moistened her lips and tasted blackberries. The sweetness soured in her mouth. Mildred was right. His revenge included taking her virginity, and returning her to her father ruined, with a de Lanceau bastard in her womb. Her willing deflowering would make his vengeance all the more insulting.

  She squirmed in his hold. "Release me."

  His hands remained firm on her buttocks. His breath fanned over her cheek and brushed her lips. "Lie with me, Elizabeth."

  "I would rather . . ." She swallowed hard. "I would rather toil in the kitchens all day."

  Drawing back a fraction, he squinted at her. "What?"

  "Naught is as loathsome to me as working as a scullery maid"—she wriggled in his hold—"except lying with you." When he began to chuckle, she snapped, "I do not lie."

  He lifted one hand and trailed his finger along her jaw. His expression shadowed with suspicion. "Why would you make a point of telling me what you hate?"

  Her pulse raced like a frantic bird's. If she did not convince him, she lost her and Mildred's chance at freedom.

  She must not fail.

  Pulling away from his touch, she forced a taunting laugh. "Why? You would not give me a duty so far beneath my station."

  "Do not try and trick me, damsel. Do you scheme some kind of plot that requires use of the kitchens, or even plan escape?"

  She fought a stunned gasp. Oh, God, she must not betray herself.

  Casting him a frosty, resentful stare, she said, "Escape seems to be impossible." She paused for dramatic effect and smiled. "Yet your misplaced suspicion makes me wonder, milord, if you doubt your ability to keep me prisoner?"

  He studied her face a long moment,
before he grinned and released his hold upon her. "You will never escape me, and I fear you misjudged me. Tomorrow, you will toil in the kitchens. You and Mildred will prepare the midday and evening meals for the entire keep. I warn you, damsel. The food must be palatable, or you will be sorry."

  * * *

  Mildred dug the spade into the herb patch, wiped dirt from her nose, and beamed. Her tone hushed, she said, "Milady, you work miracles. However did you convince the rogue?"

  Kneeling before a crumbling rockery bed, Elizabeth shrugged and kept her blushing face from the matron's view. "I challenged him. He reacted as I thought he would." A giggle bubbled in her throat. "You should have seen his expression when he ordered us to do scullery work."

  "Pah! You will not laugh like a naughty child when we must make the meals." Mildred plodded closer. "If I may be so bold, how much cooking have you done?"

  Elizabeth uprooted a blooming dandelion. "None."

  "As I should have expected." Mildred sounded a little concerned.

  With careful fingers, Elizabeth nudged aside a spider scuttling up her skirt. "I have helped Fraeda order wine and spices and watched her cook on occasion, but I have not lifted a cauldron, boiled pottage, or chopped onions for stew. Nor, as the lord's daughter, did I expect to."

  Mildred sank onto the turned earth and dropped her face into her hands. "We are destined for disaster."

  The fine hair at Elizabeth's nape prickled. She raised her head. "You have cooked before, have you not?"

  The matron mopped her brow with her sleeve. "Many years ago, when I was married. Long before I entered the nunnery and learned the ways of herbs and tonics. Long, long before your father rescued me from those infernal hours of prayer and asked me to be your mother's lady-in-waiting."

  Elizabeth blew a relieved sigh. "Thank goodness."

  "I cooked for two, milady," the matron pointed out, "not an entire keep."

  "The principles are the same, are they not?" Elizabeth tossed another dandelion onto the huge pile of weeds. "What one does to one quail, one does to fifty."

  Mildred clutched at her head. She looked about to faint.

  "Why do you look so distraught?"

  The matron's throat moved on a loud swallow. "The process is a little more . . . ah . . . complex than you make it sound."

  "How so?"

  "The quail, if that is what we are to prepare, must be plucked. They must be cleaned, trussed, and . . . and then there is the matter of the fire. The meat cannot sit too near the flame. It must also be basted with fat as it cooks so it does not dry out and become tough and flavorless."

  With a loud snort, Elizabeth flicked her braid back over her shoulder. "The rogue cannot fault us for that. We have been eating leather for days."

  Mildred's sigh ended with a groan. "I am afraid my skills do not extend much beyond salted pork and roasted chicken."

  "Then we will serve pork and chicken."

  "Oh, milady." Mildred bit down on her grubby hand.

  "Cooking cannot be so difficult." Elizabeth brushed clods of dirt from her bliaut, and then worked a cramp out of her back. "We must convince the rogue we can cook the meal, or we will never manage to escape."

  "True." Worry still gleamed in the matron's eyes. "I am glad de Lanceau will be fast asleep before he has tasted much of our fare."

  * * *

  Lord Arthur Brackendale yanked off his helm and dragged his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Frustration burned inside him like glowing embers. The journey to Tillenham had taken far longer than expected, due to the necessary repair of a splintered wagon wheel, and heavy rains that had flooded parts of the road and forced the convoy to lose a half- day's journey.

  He stared at Tillenham's keep looming ahead, a hulking fortress outlined against the crimson twilight sky. The doubt nagging him over the last few leagues settled in his belly like a chunk of limestone. He had not ridden past charred fields or seen clouds of dense smoke. He had found no evidence of devastating fires.

  Oaks sighed along the fortress's walls and clustered in fields as far as Arthur could see. Over the stink of his own body and sweaty horse, he smelled drying wheat, sweet as the flowers blooming along the roadside near his destrier's hooves.

  The earl's missive was a hoax.

  A dog barked in the shorn field to Arthur's left. He turned his head, and saw peasants calling to their bedraggled children. They looked at him, curious, awed, even a little a feared.

  He scowled, rage hot in his mouth. They stared at an

  old fool.

  Aldwin rode up, his horse lathered with sweat. "What now, milord? There are no fires."

  "I know." Setting his helm in his lap, Arthur fixed his gaze on the keep ahead. "The earl will answer for his missive."

  Nodding, Aldwin fell back and relayed the message to the other knights and foot soldiers. Over the rattle and squeal of the wagons, Arthur heard grumbles. He ignored them. His men would eat and rest when he had the answers he sought, not before.

  As they rode up to the keep, a sentry on the wall walk hailed them.

  "Lord Brackendale of Wode," he shouted back. "I will speak with the Earl of Druentwode."

  After a moment, the portcullis raised enough to allow out a guard in full chain mail. He tromped across the lowered drawbridge, and Arthur spurred his horse forward.

  The sentry bowed. "Milord, I regret the earl is not receiving visitors."

  Arthur's lip curled. "I will not be refused."

  The guard tensed, and he dropped into another bow. "He is very ill. He lies near death, and has done so for almost a week."

  Arthur jerked in surprise. Murmurs ripped through the knights behind him. Leaning down, he flipped open his saddlebag, withdrew the missive and tossed it to the guard. "I received this from him several days ago."

  The sentry glanced at the document and shook his head. "'Tis not possible."

  "Then who—"

  Suspicion shattered the lump in Arthur's belly into a hundred shards. De Lanceau.

  Arthur's hands clenched around the destrier's reins, until chain mail links dug into his skin. The discomfort sharpened his anger to a lethal pitch. Why would de Lanceau create such an elaborate deception? Why did de Lanceau want him at Tillenham? There seemed no reason unless . . . Arthur sucked in a breath. Unless de Lanceau wanted to lure him away from Wode.

  A brutal, invisible fist squeezed Arthur's gut.

  "Lord Brackendale?"

  With effort, Arthur returned his attention to the guard. The man had not spoken, he realized, but the peasant lad who stood beside the destrier. His smile hesitant, the boy handed up a small bundle, a scrap of black silk bound with twine. "A man brought this for you."

  "Man?" Arthur scowled. "He knew I would come here?"

  The guard's expression turned confused and wary. "Answer the lord's question, boy."

  The lad swallowed and looked down at the stony ground. "He told me to expect you. I did not ask questions, milord. He gave me some silver to keep silent until you arrived and"—the boy's face turned red—"he told me 'twas very important."

  Arthur turned the object over in his mailed palm, weighing the contents. Round. Heavy. He broke the twine and parted the cloth's frayed edges. In his palm lay a rolled piece of parchment sealed with wax, and a gold brooch.

  Elizabeth's brooch.

  Anticipating the ransom demand, Arthur ripped open the parchment and read the note. He crushed it into a ball.

  "God's blood," he whispered. "Elizabeth."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elizabeth thought the morn could get no worse . . . until Dominic brushed past the grim faced guards and entered the kitchens.

  He stopped as though slapped by an invisible hand, wrinkled his nose, and peered at her through the thick smoke around the wall of cooking fires. "What is that atrocious smell?"

  "Smell?" Mildred chirped, looking up from a bubbling pot hung low over one of the fires. "Milady, do you note a smell?"

  Scowling, Elizabeth le
aned away from the chopping block. Dominic chuckled and she shot him a warning glare. How dare he laugh? 'Twas not her fault her green bliaut was splattered with blood, sauces, and vegetable juices. Nor would she apologize for the state of her hair.

  "It could be the chickens I burnt to a crisp on the spit," she said, raising her hand and counting off options on her

  fingers. "Or the rotten cabbages I found in the pantry and took the initiative to throw away. Or mayhap 'tis the white sauce I scorched a moment ago when I simmered it over too high a flame. Why do you ask?"

  Dominic's gaze fell to the bunch of fresh herbs destined for the cutting board, then slid to the knife by her hand. "Just curious," he said with a grin.