She clasped her sweaty hands together. "I am not afraid of you, milord."
"You should be." His thumb brushed away a drop of red wine on the goblet's rim. "If you have come to demand an apology for my behavior this afternoon, you will not get it."
"I do not seek your apology."
"I am still angry, damsel." Distrust echoed in each word. He must wonder why she had dared to enter his solar again and court danger.
Steeling her nerves, she strolled into the shadows painted by firelight. His gaze moved over her unbound hair and the clinging rose wool, and hope sparked within her. Desire still gleamed in his eyes. If he refused to heed her reasons why the melee must be canceled, she still had a chance to sway him.
She paused near his chair. "H-How is Dominic?"
Geoffrey frowned. "Why do you ask?"
"I hope he is recovering well."
He stared at the drop of wine on his thumb, which glistened like blood. "He is awake, but suffering a headache and sour stomach. Mildred has not left his side. She is convinced he would recuperate faster if he drank one of her purgative tonics, but he refuses to have one."
Elizabeth chuckled. "She has great faith in her tonics."
Silence lagged. She fidgeted with her cuff, and tried to decide the best way to broach the subject of the melee.
He sighed, an impatient sound. "What do you want? Why did you ask to see me?"
"I must speak with you."
"Then speak."
Her legs trembled. She moved to the hearth. The fire's heat, as warm as Geoffrey's caresses, touched her skin and she shivered. "I have come—"
"—to ask a favor of me."
Elizabeth started. She could not deny that was indeed her aim. "How did you know?"
"I guessed." Wry humor warmed his voice. It gave her the courage to plunge ahead and say what she must.
"Milord, I ask that you . . . I want you to refuse my father's challenge."
His bitter laughter filled the chamber. "I am many things, but I am not a coward."
"I did not mean you were." She struggled to keep her tone calm. If she enraged him, she would achieve naught, and she must convince him to halt the battle. "The melee is a fight to the death, is it not?"
He nodded, hair snarling over his shoulder.
"My father is more than twice your age. He is not as strong, quick, or as skilled with a sword. He will die." Her words ended on a whisper. "You accused me earlier of being a murderer. Are you so eager to be one?"
Geoffrey's eyes darkened. He sipped his wine; then he rested his goblet on his thigh. "My father was an innocent man. Your sire is guilty of taking his life. To kill the guilty is justice, milady, not murder."
"My father is guiltless! He followed orders from the king."
"The melee will decide who is right." His mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. "'Twould please you, aye, to see my head on a pike?"
She pressed her arm across her stomach, sickened by the gruesome image, and shocked by the anguish that swept through her when she thought of him dead. "Of course not."
For the barest moment, surprise flickered in his gaze. Then his face hardened with scorn. "I will not decline your sire's challenge. Naught you say or do will change my mind."
Desperation clawed up inside her like a living creature. His words had sounded so bleak. Final. "Milord—"
"I will not," he growled.
She shook like a leaf buffeted by a gale, about to be tossed over a fathomless pit. Despair threatened to devour her. She braced her palm against the cold wall and sought strength from the solid stone and mortar. "You know the pain of losing a father," she whispered. "You have lived with the agony of losing someone you love, respect, and admire. Do you wish the same torment for me?"
A muscle leapt in Geoffrey's jaw.
"Promise me you will spare my father's life." She pleaded with the depths of her soul. "Please."
Geoffrey raised the goblet to his lips and looked down at the fire. "I cannot."
Tears welled in her eyes. She should have realized he would never listen to reason or pleas. His anguish had festered for too many years.
Still, all was not lost. Not yet.
One means remained for her to save her sire.
One last chance to sway her enemy from vengeance.
She blinked away the tears. She would have no regrets.
Raising her chin, she met Geoffrey's gaze. With slow, loose-hipped strides, she crossed to him.
Caution flared in his eyes. "Elizabeth?"
A sob jammed in her throat, yet she dropped to her knees before him. The bliaut pooled around her and snagged on the worn floorboards, but she did not care if it never pulled free. She bowed her head, and her tresses fell around her face like a black veil. "I beg of you. Spare my father."
"'Tis not like you to beg, damsel."
Her head jerked up. She fought an angry blush, struggled to find the will to say what she must. "If you spare him, I will lie with you."
"Elizabeth." His voice became a helpless groan. "You must not—"
"I know you desire me. I cannot deny I. . . crave you also." The truth glowed bright in her heart. She would never feel passion for another man as she felt for Geoffrey de Lanceau. "I yield not just for my father," she said, "but for me."
Torment and desire shivered across Geoffrey's face, and he shook his head. "I can make you no promises for the melee."
"Then I expect none."
"Listen to what you say! You will sacrifice your innocence for naught."
She shivered at the bite in his words, but did not look away. "I yield because I wish to. Because I want this one moment with you that may never come again."
"God's teeth," he whispered, "you are the bravest woman I have ever known." Admiration gleamed in his shocked gaze. He reached out and trailed his wine-stained thumb down her cheek. She did not realize she was crying, until she felt the wet path of his skin on hers. "Ah, damsel, how I wish you wept for me."
His words were soft, tender, and Elizabeth exhaled on a rush. She fought for words to convey the swirling emotions inside her.
He cupped her face with his hand. "Elizabeth, my beautiful, headstrong damsel. I want to love you."
"I am yours."
"Kiss me."
She had never seen such turmoil. Hunger. His need throbbed inside her.
She longed to feel his arms wrap around her, to taste him, to explore him. The yearning—a desire that surpassed the boundaries of past and future to reach pure, elemental attraction between man and woman—was stronger now than it had ever been.
He set the silver goblet on the table. His hand dropped from her face, yet he did not move closer or try to touch her, though she knelt within reach. Mayhap he feared frightening her away. Mayhap he wanted her to reconsider all that she had offered.
Whatever his reasons, they did not matter.
She would not waver.
With a shaking hand, she touched his leg. His wool hose felt smooth and warm beneath her palm, and, edging forward, she closed the space separating them. His hand settled over hers, and tingles shot up her arm. She glanced up to see if he, too, had felt them. He nodded. His gaze smoldering, he plowed his fingers into her hair.
A ragged sigh burst from him, and he leaned toward her. His breath warmed her cheek. A caress. An invitation.
Elizabeth lifted her mouth to his.
The kiss was sweeter than she ever imagined. Her lips feathered over his, explored his sensuous mouth. He tasted of red wine, a tangy, heady piquancy more intoxicating than a sip from the goblet. She kissed him again and drew back.
He exhaled with a gasp, a sound that expressed a deluge of sensations. As she licked her lips, savoring his essence, his mouth hovered close. He raised one eyebrow. When she flushed, he smiled. Anticipation shivered through her. Before she lost her nerve, Elizabeth leaned forward and claimed his lips.
"Damsel," he groaned. Tangled in her hair, his hand shook. She sensed his urgent need, his desire
to take control, yet he did not. Instead, he coaxed her with kisses that dared her to seek more. With a sigh, Elizabeth arched forward to deepen the contact, and her belly pressed against his leg. His fingers slid from her hair and, breaking away for less than one breath, he reached down and drew her into his lap.
Awareness assailed her. His thigh under her bottom. His muscled arm at her back. His familiar scent. She trembled, overwhelmed, but his mouth found hers. His lips soothed, teased, and when his tongue eased between her teeth, she gasped. His kisses grew fiercer, more profound, until her pulse hammered and her body arched with wanting.
Breathing hard, Elizabeth drew back. She stared up into his flushed face, into his blazing eyes, and felt an inexplicable sense of incompletion.
"Elizabeth." He nuzzled the hollow of her neck and trailed kisses down her collarbone. "Lie with me now."
His hushed words were not a command, but a request, delivered with such yearning her heart almost broke in two. She snuffed a twinge of panic and regret. She would go to his bed, for she wanted him, as he desired her. If she could convince him not to plunge his sword into her father's heart, she must.
She met his ravenous gaze. "Aye," she whispered.
He answered with a tortured groan and a kiss so brazen, Elizabeth cried out when their lips parted. Cradling her in his arms, he rose and carried her to the bed, her hair brushing the floorboards. His hands gentle, he laid her down on the coverlet. The bed ropes creaked as he stretched out beside her.
His fingers stroked her tresses. He fanned her hair out over the coverlet and pulled a ringlet over her shoulder. She smiled and, spurred by a rush of boldness, pushed her hand up under his tunic.
He tensed. His eyes narrowed in warning, and she froze with her hand pressed to his warm belly. Had she displeased him? She had never lain with a man before. Dismay whirled up inside her. If she had ruined her chance to save her father—
Geoffrey covered her hand with his, and drew it to a buckled ridge along the right side of his chest. A scar. A long, hideous scar. Elizabeth traced the line of marred flesh with her fingertips and bit back a horrified cry. What had happened to him? How had he survived such a wound?
Anguish shimmered in his eyes, and she felt him steel himself for her rejection. With a gentle smile, she tugged the tunic up past his navel.
"'Tis not a pleasant sight," he muttered.
"Please," she said, and pushed herself up to sitting.
He raised up on one elbow, drew the tunic over his head and tossed it onto the floor.
Elizabeth sucked in a breath. She had expected the warrior strength of his physique, but not his godlike beauty, which the scar could never diminish. His skin gleamed like polished bronze. She smoothed her fingers over the swell of muscles and ribs, and marveled at the perfection of the human body. His body.
Geoffrey pushed up to sit beside her. The skin across her breasts tingled, for she recognized the wicked gleam in his eyes. His fingers drifted over her bodice, down to her waist, and as she swayed against him, her eyes closed. He took her mouth in a fiery kiss, reached down and unlaced his boots. They fell to the floor with a thud. He did not break the kiss as he unfastened the points of his hose, removed the belt, and stripped the wool from each leg.
His thumb caressed her cheek, and Elizabeth dared to open her eyes. He was naked. Glorious. Her gaze traveled over his body, worshipped each gleaming swell of muscle and sinew. Her fingers burned to touch him. She reached for his thigh, but he captured her hand. His fingers linked through hers and he pressed her back on the bed.
His face taut with need, he leaned over her. His tongue slicked over the sensitive hollow of her throat, then moved to her bodice's edge. How did such pleasure exist in a simple touch? Through half-lowered lashes, she watched him unfasten her bliaut's ties. His hands moved again, down her side, down her leg, to her hem.
When his fingers grazed the inside of her leg, she quivered. His lips swept over hers. He whispered tender reassurances, and pulled her bliaut and chemise to her waist. He coaxed her to wriggle out of them, and then dropped them over the side of the bed.
Cool air kissed her skin. Elizabeth shivered. She lay naked before him, vulnerable as a hatched bird without feathers. The rough hair on his legs brushed against her, reminded her of the different textures of man and woman. With her hands, she tried to hide her nakedness, but he raised her fingers to his mouth and kissed them, one by one.
"You are beautiful," he murmured.
"And you tell a fine falsehood." She gave a shaky laugh. "My cheekbones are too high and—"
"Believe me, damsel, you are exquisite. All of you."
His eyes blazed, and a thrill of wonder and excitement coursed through her. He ran his hand over her hipbone and flat stomach. When the muscles fluttered at his touch, he grinned.
With slow, careful movements, he lowered his weight over her. As he braced his arms on either side of her shoulders, his silky hair brushed her temple. Elizabeth swallowed. Dipping his head, he distracted her with a searing kiss. He teased her desire, taunted her with his hands, lips, and tongue, until her body writhed beneath him.
"Elizabeth," he said in a thick voice. "Are you certain?"
She nodded.
His hardness pressed into her, bringing pressure and stabbing pain. She gasped. His body tensed above her, and she sensed the effort it took him to stop.
"I do not wish to hurt you."
"I know."
His face held such a tortured expression, she drew his head down to kiss him. His lips moved over hers. He kissed her with a soft, muffled apology, and then thrust hard and deep.
He crushed her, everywhere, inside as well as out. She thought she could bear no more, when he whispered her name and began to move. The gentle friction dimmed the pain and brought with it a delicious, slow burn. With each of his strokes, the pleasure intensified.
The smell of his sweat filled her nostrils. His stubbled jaw grazed her cheek. Need heightened, and she whimpered. Groaning, he quickened the pace. She dug her heels into the bedding, matched his thrusts.
Faster.
Faster.
The burn flared before exploding into a single, brilliant flame. She cried out as it engulfed her.
In its fiery wake, Geoffrey roared with pleasure. His breaths became shuddered gasps.
And, when he buried his head against her shoulder, she tasted the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter Sixteen
In the hazy glow of candlelight, tears shimmered on Elizabeth's face. Geoffrey lay beside her on the coverlet and listened to her breathing slow to a normal pace. He wondered if they were tears of regret, guilt, or worry for what the future might bring.
He shifted the arm curled under his head, but left the other draped over her belly. He sensed her drawing away from him even as his fingers caressed her skin. He did not want the moment to end. Not now. Mayhap not ever.
Leaning over, he kissed the damp curls at her temple. "Are you all right?" he whispered.
"Aye." She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. "I did not hurt you?"
With a faint smile, Elizabeth shook her head.
"'Twas not easy to be gentle with you," he said, his tone gruff. He remembered all too well how her sleek body had molded to him. He had not expected such pleasure when it had been her first time. The damsel had surprised him yet again.
Her soft laughter startled him. "I did not expect you to be gentle. As you once told me, you are not a patient man."
"True."
He saw her hand stretch toward him, but he still flinched when her fingers trailed the length of his scar. 'Twas not a hasty examination, but one of careful study. She seemed to be committing each puckered ridge and lump to memory. He tried to pull away, but she did not let him go.
"Tell me about this," she said.
"Are you certain you wish to know?"
Her blue eyes were moist but steady as they met his.
"Aye."
"'Tis no
t a pretty tale."
Her gaze shadowed. "This wound almost cost your life."
Geoffrey closed his eyes and tried not to heed the tenderness in her tone and touch. No words could express the full extent of his injury—the endless months of agony as his flesh fused, and the emotional torment that accompanied his healing. He wondered at the risk he took telling her. To dig into his past would make him vulnerable. If he gave her insight into the man he once was, he gave her a weapon to wield against him.
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