Knight's Vengeance

by Catherine Kean

  Part of him no longer cared.

  "You got this on Crusade," she pressed, and linked her fingers through his.

  He nodded. "I still remember the day as though 'twere yesterday."

  When she stared up at him, her gaze expectant, he said, "It happened over a year ago, at Acre. The city was still ruled by the infidel. King Richard wanted to free it and the hundreds of Christians imprisoned when the Saracens took control."

  "I have heard of Acre," she murmured, interest brightening her expression.

  "King Richard and the French king had decided to launch a fierce attack. The city, though, was well fortified and situated by a sea harbor."

  "Did they plan a siege?"

  "Aye. King Richard and the French king agreed to concentrate forces on the city's gates, which were the weakest point in the defenses. My brother and I were assigned to the division that would swarm inside once the gates fell. King Richard knew of my skill with a sword and placed me at the front, where—"

  Elizabeth raised her free hand. "Wait. You have a brother?"

  "Had." He could not keep the pain from his voice. "His name was Thomas."

  Sympathy softened her eyes. "I am sorry."

  "As am I." He stared down at his fingers, joined with hers. In the farthest reaches of his mind, he heard his comrades' coarse laughter, smelled sun-baked sand, and tasted the breeze blowing in from the eastern sea. "The first of our fighters attacked," he began. "The rest of us awaited the king's orders. All of a sudden, we heard a terrible noise behind us, yells, screams, and beating drums. It sounded like the demons of hell had come for our souls.

  "Hundreds of Turks flew upon us, shrieking like mad men. Soldiers fled in panic. Even knights, like I, who had sworn fealty to God and King within the hallowed walls of the church, deserted King Richard." He shook his head. "I knew if I ran, I would be no better than the infidel who threatened to bring an end to Christendom. I would die rather than break that sacred oath." A rough laugh warmed his lips. "I doubt I could have done aught else, for the Turks surrounded me."

  "Go on," she whispered.

  "I had sworn to protect my king," he said, caressing her wrist with his thumb. "I stood at his side and honored that vow. I killed any Turk who came near, as did my brother. King Richard managed to escape to safety. By then the ground was covered with blood and corpses, yet I kept fighting.

  "Somehow my brother and I became separated. I found myself fighting beside a man who had joined the king's Crusade to free the holy city of Jerusalem from the Turks."

  A startled smile warmed her face. "Dominic de Terre?"

  "The same. I saved his head twice, for which he feels indebted to me. As you have seen, I did not survive unscathed."

  "What happened?" She sounded horrified, yet also fascinated. Her gaze dropped to his scar, and he shuddered, remembering.

  "Three Turks singled me out. They surrounded me. I killed one, a young man. He was a careless fighter. He must have been the son of one of the other Turks. As he fell, dying, the older Turk screamed and lunged while the other circled to my back. I saw the one behind me raise his blade. I turned and tried to deflect it, but"—he flinched, reliving the pain—"I could not escape the sword that cut my chest."

  "Dominic saved me. I do not know how, but he got me to the Knights Hospitallers. He told me my brother died soon after I fell. Thomas had tried to avenge me."

  Elizabeth's eyes closed. She seemed to be internalizing his anguish. "How awful."

  "I spent months in the Hospitallers' care," Geoffrey went on, the words pouring from him like water loosed from a dam. "King Richard sent a missive in which he expressed his gratitude for my bravery and ceded Branton Keep to me. Yet I held little hope of ever returning to England."

  "Why?" Elizabeth whispered.

  "The physicians did not expect me to live. I suffered fever and was delirious. When at last I awoke, the physicians told me even if I did recuperate, I would never again be able to hold a sword, a sentence worse than death for a knight." He swallowed. "I wished I had perished and not my brother."

  "Oh, Geoffrey." Elizabeth squeezed his hand.

  "I grieved for my brother and blamed myself for not protecting him. I had failed. I had not saved my father's life, and had lost my brother as well. Soon, my pain became rage, an anger so intense it gave me a reason to live. I wanted blood spilled for their blood. I wanted vengeance." He tried to steel the bitterness from his tone, but could not. "If your sire had not besieged Wode, if my father had not been murdered, my brother and I would not have joined King Richard's Crusade."

  Elizabeth tensed. Geoffrey fought for calm, for the strength to tell her his entire wretched tale, so that mayhap, just mayhap, she might understand. "'Twas a long while before I could sit up, or feed myself, or leave my bed," he said. "I would have gone mad, were it not for the other wounded men under the Hospitallers' care.

  "One of them, Pietro Vicenza, was the son of a rich Venetian merchant. He had been returning from the fairs at Champagne when the Turks attacked his wagons laden with cloth. All but he were slaughtered. He had been stabbed and left for dead, but somehow crawled to find help."

  Geoffrey smiled. "Pietro entranced me with the riches of the merchant trade. He sat by my bed and told me of the spices his father Marco bought from the Eastern ships that docked in the port of Venice—saffron, coriander, cumin— spices so expensive just a few ounces cost most men a year's wage." Geoffrey's voice softened. "He told me of the jewels, gold, and bolts of cloth. Silks so luxurious, he said, they were the envy of all the courts of Europe. He said 'twas easy for a man with good friends to make a fortune. The idea appealed to me, for without a sword arm, I could not be of use to my king.

  "When I was able to leave the hospital, Pietro took me to Venice to meet Marco, his mother, and his three brothers. I learned how to pick out the finest fabrics and barter the best price. I even worked with Marco for a while, lifting barrels and hauling bolts of silks as I strove to regain my strength."

  Elizabeth's brow creased into a frown. "What of Dominic? You have scarce mentioned him in your story."

  With a chuckle, Geoffrey kissed her cheek. "Patience, damsel. I have not forgotten him. He visited me at the Hospitallers'. The king had dubbed him a knight the day after the Saracens agreed to surrender Acre and hostages. As I said, he felt he owed me for saving his life. He felt he must help me recover."

  "As I grew stronger, his visits became more frequent. He encouraged me to work on strengthening my arm. He berated me when I despaired, and boosted my desire for revenge when I did not have the will to live. The day I left the Hospitallers, I could hold the weight of a sword in my right hand, but only for a short while.

  "Dominic came with me to Venice. He sparred with me each day, and I grew stronger. The night we saved Marco from a murderous band of thieves, I knew I was strong again. Marco felt so indebted to us he offered us whatever we wished from his stores, whenever we wanted it. To this day, he sends me the best silks off the ships that sail into the port of Venice."

  Elizabeth's gaze turned thoughtful. "If you could live as a rich merchant in Venice, why did you return to England?"

  With careful fingers, Geoffrey stroked wispy hair from her cheek. "That life was not in my blood. Dominic and I traveled back to England so I could take tenure of Branton Keep, but I knew this fortress would never compare to Wode. I wanted what I should have inherited. What was denied me."

  She sighed, and her breath cooled his skin. "You could be happy here. Once you have repaired Branton—"

  "I will build a cloth empire in England, but I will have it at Wode."

  Her lips tightened. "And revenge."

  "Aye, and revenge."

  Sadness shadowed her gaze, and she looked again at his hideous scar. "Why can you not see that your desire for vengeance is wrong? You are not a merciless rogue. You—"

  He silenced her with a finger to her lips. He laughed, a wicked sound. "I have told you too much. Indeed, I am tired of talkin
g."

  She shivered. Her lashes fell, and she covered her breasts with her arms.

  A grin tugged at his mouth. She interpreted his words as a dismissal. Did she believe he had grown weary of her? How very foolish.

  "You wish me to leave." Her body rigid, she sat up, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and peered over the bed to find her garments.

  He caught her around the waist. Tossed her back against the silk pillows. Hovered over her.

  "Did I tell you to go?" he growled against her cheek.

  "I thought—"

  He smothered her words with a kiss, one so blatant a blush stained her cheeks. Her eyes glowed. Her face looked luminous against the black silk of her hair.

  "What do you desire now, milord?" she murmured.

  Geoffrey grinned. "You."

  * * *

  "All is ready, Lord Brackendale," Aldwin said. "The men await your command."

  Astride his destrier, adjusting his mail gloves, Arthur narrowed his eyes against the dawn sunlight. He glanced past the squire to the smoking embers and swath of trampled grass, the remains of their camp in the field beside the earl's keep. Aldwin had been efficient, as usual.

  The squire's hands curled and uncurled on his horse's reins. His face set in a frown, he turned his horse in tight circles on the dew-laden ground. Arthur shook his head. Since the lad had learned of the ransom demand, he had not stood still. He was impatient to be on the move.

  A scowl twisted Arthur's mouth. He felt the same.

  He and his men had spent yesterday replenishing supplies from the earl's stores and riding to the far edges of Tillenham's boundaries to rouse the local knights, who had agreed to fight with him in the melee. He would not be defeated by de Lanceau.

  Drawing on his simmering fury, Arthur shouted, "We ride!" Thrusting his fist into the air, he signaled his army onto the winding ribbon of dirt road that would lead them to Moyden Wood.

  The men behind him rode in silence, their sullen mood matching his. Arthur stared at the fields around him, and bit back a furious bellow. Geoffrey de Lanceau may have succeeded in his deception, but he would learn his folly.

  The knights were angry, their tempers thinned by cold, sleepless nights and wretched fare. Of them all, green and seasoned alike, Aldwin had made the fiercest vow that de Lanceau would suffer. The lad saw no honor in de Lanceau making a pawn of one of the fairer sex, and condemned him for not declaring an outright challenge to battle to settle his claim to Wode.

  The sun's heat had evaporated most of the morning dew when, on the crest of a distant hill, Arthur spied two figures on horseback. He squinted through his helm's slits. One was a woman clad in a fur-trimmed mantle, the other a man.

  Squat, brutish, the ogre looked familiar. Viscon. Arthur's jaw tightened. 'Twas rumored the mercenary had sold

  his services to de Lanceau.

  As the couple drew nearer, the woman's features became clear. Chestnut curls showed at the edge of the mantle, framing a face of such beauty that Arthur's blood ran a little hotter. Yet, as he straightened in the saddle, disquiet rippled through him. Bitterness tinged the smile curving her lush, crimson lips, and ruthless determination gleamed in her amber eyes.

  She held his gaze over the last yards separating them. This lady sought him out for a reason. Why did she associate with the vicious, grinning brute riding at her side? Why did she not lower her gaze in respect? Arthur's surcoat identified him as a powerful lord.

  His annoyance swelled, for she was bolder still to travel dangerous roads with only one escort. Despite Viscon's reputation, a gang of thieves or bandits could wrest the fine mantle from her back and slash her neck before he had time to draw a weapon.

  Arthur ordered the army to halt. As the woman reined in her horse in front of him, sweat beaded his forehead and plastered his hair to his scalp. He took a deep breath, his senses on alert. He smelled flowers. Roses. A lady's scent.

  "You are Lord Brackendale of Wode?" she asked, her voice strong in the morning air.

  "I am. And you are, milady?"

  "Veronique," she answered, her tone husky.

  As her slender fingers tightened around her horse's reins, and the mantle's edges parted, Arthur saw the luster of yellow silk. "You are the lady of Branton Keep?" he guessed.

  She replied with a throaty laugh.

  "She is no lady" muttered Aldwin. Arthur knew the slur was intended only for his ears, but the sound carried. Veronique turned her head and glared at the squire, but from one blink to the next, her fury transformed to blatant sexual interest.

  As she took a long, thorough look at the lad, Arthur shuddered. "Did de Lanceau send you?" he demanded, reclaiming her attention.

  "I come of my own accord. I have a proposal that will benefit us both, milord."

  "Return to the cur," he snarled. "I will not barter."

  "I suggest you reconsider." She smiled, an angry curl of her lips. "What I intend to tell you concerns your daughter."

  * * *

  Elizabeth awoke to soft linen sheets against her skin, a thick feather mattress cradling her body, and sunlight warming her bare shoulders. She stretched her arms out wide. The bed was at least three times as large as that rickety rope thing in her chamber.

  She inhaled, and smelled Geoffrey's scent on the sheets . . . and remembered.

  With a groan, she slumped back onto the pillow. Opening one eye, she dared to peep over the side of the bed. Her clothes were gone. Glancing toward the hearth, she saw her chemise and bliaut draped—by Geoffrey's hand, she imagined—over the back of one of the chairs.

  Memories of her night with him flooded her mind, and her fingers knotted into the bedding. Guilt poked at her like an accusing finger, and, with a firm shake of her head, she forced the remorse aside. She had vowed no regrets, and she would have none. Heat tingled across her skin, still tender from his lovemaking. Why should she feel shame, when their intimacy had been necessary, enlightening and . . . wonderful?

  Elizabeth drew the bedding aside, stepped down to the floor, and padded over to the chair. She pulled on the chemise warmed by the fire, and exhaled a long sigh.

  Geoffrey was a magnificent lover, his kisses and caresses as sweet as clover honey. Yet she must not succumb to romantic notions of him falling in love with her. They had shared pleasure, sated their physical desire, but in his heart, he did not care for her. He did not love her. Because of his soul-deep hatred of her father, he never would.

  She and Geoffrey remained enemies.

  But what bliss she had experienced with him.

  Indulging in a smile, she ran her fingers through her hair and remembered the boyish grin on Geoffrey's face as he toyed with her ringlets. He had enjoyed learning the secrets of her body, as she had his. After coupling for the second time, he had found comfort in her embrace, for he had fallen asleep with his arms around her.

  Odd, how a trust had formed between them by one physical act. An act that had changed her forever—heart, mind, and . . . body.

  She twisted around to fasten the chemise. The ties slipped through her fingers, and Elizabeth muttered under her breath. Geoffrey had left her no means to put her clothes back on.

  A delicious shiver wove through her. Had he intended to keep her in his solar, awaiting his return for more sensual play?

  The fire sparked, releasing the tang of burning pitch, and Elizabeth heard a faint knock. Mayhap Geoffrey had not intended for her to stay in his chamber. He might have sent the guards to fetch her for another day of toil. As the door opened, she clutched at the gaping chemise, but relaxed when Elena slipped inside with a pitcher and wooden board of food.

  A blush stung Elizabeth's cheeks. The rumpled bed and her state of undress would tell all that had transpired last eve between her and Geoffrey. Yet the maid did not even look at the bed, but walked straight to the table and set down the fare.

  "Good morn, milady," Elena said with her usual timid reserve. "Lord de Lanceau sent me to help you dress." She scooped up the
rose wool and shook out the wrinkles.

  "Thank you." Warmth blossomed inside Elizabeth, and she could not resist the ridiculous urge to grin. How kind of Geoffrey, to remember her needs.

  With deft fingers, the maid tied the chemise then helped Elizabeth don the bliaut.

  As Elizabeth perched on the edge of a chair, munching day-old bread, Elena tidied her tresses into a loose braid. "You fare well today, milady?"

  "Mmm? Ah, aye. Of course."

  "Milord did not punish you too much after what you did to the ale?"

  "Nay." Elizabeth fought another blush. What she had been given by Geoffrey could not be called punishment.

  "I am glad." Elena exhaled a shaky sigh. "'Twas frightening to see him in such a rage."

  "Dominic is recovered now?" Elizabeth asked.