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 peek 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.
Elizabeth twisted around to fasten the chemise. The ties slipped through her fingers, and she 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 face. The rumpled bed and her state of undress would tell all that had transpired last evening 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 morning, 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 and then helped Elizabeth don the bliaut.
While 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.
“Aye.” Releasing Elizabeth’s braided hair, the maid strolled to the bed and smoothed the mussed linens. “Dominic went with Lord de Lanceau to tour the estate today. Dominic refused to lie abed one more day, though milord wished it.”
Elizabeth chewed her last bit of bread. “What of Mildred?”
“She is weeding the garden. Milord wishes you to work on the saddle trapping.”
Elizabeth nodded. She was glad of a day’s respite from the gardening and, as she well knew, he could have given her a far more onerous task than the embroidery.
She sat near the hearth in the hall and left her chair once, to eat the midday meal. It seemed strange to dine without Geoffrey’s bold presence beside her.
Veronique was absent as well.
As the servants chatted and cleared away the remnants of the meal, Elizabeth returned to her work. The torn silk shifted on her lap, and she straightened it with clammy fingers.
She remembered the shock and loathing in Veronique’s eyes when the courtesan had walked into the solar unannounced. An unspoken rule, that Veronique laid absolute claim to Geoffrey’s attentions, had been broken in that moment. Though Elizabeth had resisted him then, Veronique no doubt still held a grudge. The courtesan would hate Elizabeth even more when she learned Geoffrey had spent the night with her in his bed.
Turning the trapping a fraction, Elizabeth began a row of stitches on the embroidered hawk’s talons. The needle slipped between her fingers. Had Veronique gone with Geoffrey to the fields? The courtesan enjoyed the freedom to roam the keep and its grounds as she pleased. Elizabeth’s mouth pinched. Freedom was denied to her. Now, as she embroidered, she was watched by two guards playing a game of dice.
Mayhap Veronique hoped to win Geoffrey back.
Mayhap at this very moment, she kissed him full on the lips. Pleasured him. Ensnared him again in her lover’s web.
Jealousy uncoiled in Elizabeth like a hissing snake. She s
hould not care at all about Geoffrey’s affairs with Veronique.
Yet, Elizabeth could not bear the thought of him making love to the courtesan. Not after last night.
The thread snapped. Elizabeth groaned. She would have to remove the entire row of stitches and start again. How unfair, that the rogue should be able to rattle her thoughts, when he was not even in the hall.
The servants delayed the evening meal until Geoffrey’s return. As the sun’s rays lengthened on the walls, Elizabeth heard his unmistakable laughter echo in the forebuilding. Her hand stilled. A thrill of joy and then dread washed through her.
When Dominic and Geoffrey strode into hall, discussing the harvest, she did not glance up. She longed to raise her head and catch Geoffrey’s smile, to see his mouth ease into that devastating grin just for her. But she could not bring herself to look him in the eyes. Jealousy chafed like a new wound. How could she look at him, when he had spent the day with Veronique?
As the men’s conversation continued, she blew a sigh. Thank the saints he had not seen her by the fire.
The voices stopped. Her relief fled.
Bold footsteps approached. Halted. A broad, tanned hand curled over the arm of her chair. “Damsel,” Geoffrey murmured near her ear.
His husky voice sent her pulse pounding with delight. How foolish, that her heart beat so. “Milord,” she said, and refused to glance up from inspecting her stitches.
“You have accomplished much today.” He trailed a finger over the silk.
The slow touch triggered the memory of his hands on her skin, exploring and caressing. Fierce passion ignited, and she could think of naught but him and the pleasure he had shown her.
He was still speaking. “—you have done excellent work.”
She shrugged aside her sinful thoughts. “I had no distractions today, milord, to keep me from my work.” Though she tried, she could not keep the venom from her voice.
“You are angry with me?”
Her lashes shot up. A curious smile hovered on his lips. His windswept hair curled over the collar of his moss green tunic flecked with dirt and grain husks. He looked rugged, wild, and very handsome.
His gaze dropped to her mouth, a silent kiss. When he handed her a single, bright blue cornflower, her breath jammed.
Did he think she would not know?
She did not take the flower. She stared at her hands clenched into the trapping. “You must take me for a fool.”
“Did one of the servants offend you?” His tone sharpened. “Did Elena speak amiss when I sent her to you this morning?”
“Nay.”
“Why do you not welcome me with your eyes?” His voice dropped to a purr and he brushed the petals against her cheek. “Did you miss me?”
She answered with an indignant snort.
Geoffrey chuckled. “Ah. You are annoyed because I spent the day away from my bed. And you.”
“Cease!” Elizabeth stood and threw the trapping into a heap on the chair.
Geoffrey’s eyes hardened. He did not look at all guilty, curse him. Annoyed, confused, and tired beneath the smudges of dust on his face, but not ashamed.
He set the flower on the side table. “I thought that after what we shared last night, you would have softened a little.”
“You expect too much.”
“Why?”
How well he portrayed his innocence. His cool gray eyes hid a lie well. Elizabeth thought of him pressing Veronique’s naked body down in a patch of meadow grass, his hot mouth on her skin, and fought a furious shriek. “You should not ask me why. You wished to spend your day with someone else.”
“If you mean Dominic, aye, he came with me to the fields, but he always does.”
“I do not mean Dominic,” Elizabeth bit out.
“Then whom?” He sounded annoyed and frustrated.
“Who else?” Hurt ripped into her. “The woman who throws herself at your feet.”
“Veronique?”
“Do not sound surprised.”
He frowned. “I have not seen her all day.”
“Nor have I.”
For a moment, wariness shadowed his features. “She did not attend the midday meal?”
“Please,” Elizabeth muttered. “You need not spare my feelings. I am not naïve. I realize last night was no more than a meaningless—”
Geoffrey’s look of pure fury stopped her. “You know naught. ’Tis not your place to question me, but I swear to you, I did not spend my day with Veronique.”
He turned to Dominic, who stood near a trestle table and looked baffled. It seemed the knight had not known of her and Geoffrey’s liaison before now. “Find Veronique,” Geoffrey said with a growl.
“She ’as gone ta market,” piped up one of the kitchen maids, who was carrying in a wooden board laden with roasted hare.
“What?” Geoffrey’s gaze fell upon the small, dark-haired woman who looked about to collapse in a faint. She dropped the board on the nearest table, scattering the dogs at her feet with the loud clatter, and curtsied.
“She left early this mornin’, she did. Ta buy rosewater.”
“Veronique did not send a servant to fetch it for her?” His stern, disbelieving tone sent the maid into another curtsey.
“’Twas such a foin day, milord, she decided ta go ’erself. I also overheard ’er the other week sayin’ that the merchant in Branton sold ’er bad oils. She told me she wanted ta ride to the fair in ’averly ta see if she could buy better there.”
“Haverly is a day’s ride from here,” said Geoffrey.
“Aye, milord.” The maid straightened.
“She went alone?”
“Nay. Viscon went with ’er.”
Geoffrey’s expression darkened. “She knows I despise the man. Why would she—”
“Veronique also knows the roads are too dangerous for a woman to travel alone,” Dominic said. “Who better to protect her from thieves and bandits than a skilled mercenary?”
“I do not like it.” Geoffrey raked his fingers through his hair. “’Tis not usual.”
“Today, much is not usual,” Dominic said with a wry smile. Elizabeth did not mistake his meaning, and flushed.
“Veronique knows not to test my temper.” Geoffrey paced the floorboards. Rushes crackled under his boots. “When she returns to the keep, send her to me.”
Dominic bowed. “Of course, milord.”
As Geoffrey swung back to face her, Elizabeth stiffened.
“Your jealousy is ill placed, damsel.”
She plucked a silver thread from her sleeve. “’Tis ridiculous for me to be concerned with such matters.”
“Because of the melee?”
“Because you are my enemy.”
A crooked smile teased his lips. “Did you ever stop to think, damsel, I might never let you go?”
Elizabeth forced a laugh. “You jest.”
An indefinable emotion flashed in his eyes and vanished on his next blink. “Come, I am starving.” He held his hand out to her. The dark-haired maidservant hurried past and set the roasted meat, steaming bowls of cabbage pottage, and wine on the lord’s table.
Elizabeth looked at his fingers, upturned in invitation. She could refuse, but she did not. She did not want to. His hand closed around hers, and he led her toward the dais.
The warmth of his touch coursed through her.
Bliss . . .
***
Arthur glared at Veronique sitting on the opposite side of the tent, which the men-at-arms had erected in haste by the side of the road.
The woman was as cunning as she was beautiful. She had refused to divulge even a scrap of information until she sat in a comfortable chair, ate a decent meal, and drank a goblet of his finest French wine to quench her thirst.
Even Viscon indulged like nobility, though Arthur had denied the scum the privilege of dining in a private tent.
Bees hummed in the clover outside, making Arthur even more aware of the silence within, a silence the
wench controlled. Veronique met Arthur’s gaze. Her lips spread into a knowing smile, and she ran her tongue along the edge of the silver goblet, catching a drop of wine.
Arthur’s patience snapped. He lunged to his feet and almost charged into the corpulent, wheezing knight who staggered through the tent’s flap.
“Baron Sedgewick,” Arthur said, startled. “I expected to meet you and your army at Moyden Wood. My message—”
“Was delivered as you ordered.” The baron grasped his chain-mailed side as though to relieve a cramp. Footsteps sounded outside, and Aldwin appeared through the flap with a wine jug and goblets. “Ah, good. I knew I could count on you, squire.”
Arthur frowned. “How—”
Sedgewick poured and guzzled wine with alarming speed. “When the messenger told me of my dear betrothed’s plight”—he belched—“and the ransom demand, I followed him to you post haste.” He brushed sweat from the end of his bulbous nose and rolls of fat jiggled at his wrist. “Poor, dear Lady Elizabeth.”
“So this is the thwarted groom,” Veronique drawled.
“Thwarted?” Arthur swung back to face her. “Explain.”
“Who is she?” The baron’s small, glittering eyes wandered up and down Veronique’s figure. She had shed the mantle, revealing voluptuous curves encased in silk. A fresh sheen shimmered on the baron’s brow.
“Veronique,” Arthur said through his teeth. “She is de Lanceau’s courtesan.”
“Was,” she corrected with a smooth toss of her chestnut curls. “Another has taken my place.”
“I care not for trivialities.” Arthur took a determined step closer. “I have given you food and drink. I wish to hear of my daughter. Without delay. Or I shall have the information flogged out of you.”
Apprehension flickered across her painted features, but was repressed by sheer malice. “Be warned, milord. You will not like what I am about to say.”
“Tell me.”
“Very well. The wench Geoffrey de Lanceau has taken to his bed is your daughter, Elizabeth.”
Arthur’s breath exploded from his lips. The baron looked about to topple over, but Aldwin reached out and steadied him. The squire looked shocked.
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