Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  Flickering reeds, locked into iron brackets along the wall, illuminated the passage. The flames cast eerie shadows across the mildewed stone.

  Ahead, the corridor turned and merged into another passage that seemed less gloomy. Woven tapestries portraying campaigns of Charlemagne hung on the walls. Although they were grayed by dust, Elizabeth guessed that if the weavings were taken down and beaten with a wooden paddle, the colors would be as vibrant as the day the wool was dyed and spun.

  Daylight brightened the corridor ahead, which echoed with laugher, cheers, as well as the clatter of crockery, and ended in a wooden landing overlooking the keep’s great hall.

  Elizabeth squinted through the hazy smoke into the room below. The hall looked enormous, though not as imposing as Wode’s. Sunlight streaked in through horn windows splattered with bird droppings and positioned at opposite ends of the room. Trestle tables ran along two of the four walls. A meager assortment of men-at-arms and servants sat awaiting their food.

  A stout, gray-haired woman flirted with the men and kicked aside the hounds at her feet as she set ale jugs on the tables. The third wall boasted a fireplace as tall as a man, and twice as wide. The fourth, a scarred table on a raised stone dais.

  De Lanceau sat at the head of the lord’s table. The instant she stepped onto the landing, he saw her.

  Through the smoke, his gaze met Elizabeth’s, and she stiffened.

  Glancing past her shoulder, he nodded. The guards motioned for her to follow Dominic down the narrow stairs. As Elizabeth descended, she became aware of the curious stares that followed her, and the sudden hush.

  With an encouraging smile, Dominic ushered her toward the dais. Dried rushes and herbs crunched under her shoes. In the silence, the sound seemed as loud as snapping branches. She clasped her sweaty hands and fought the warmth stealing into her face.

  As she neared him, de Lanceau’s gaze sharpened. “Milady.”

  He could not have looked more of a rogue. The lustrous silver thread embroidering his collar matched the glint of his eyes. His skin looked tanned against the white linen shirt. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, which shimmered from his last sip of wine. A quiver shot through her. She would not be able to eat one bite without thinking of his kiss.

  She did not want him to catch her staring. “Milord.” Because she wanted that bath—and only for that reason, she told herself—she graced him with a stiff curtsey.

  Surprise lit his gaze. He drank from a goblet, then dragged his thumb over his lips. “You accepted my offer. I was not certain you would.”

  “I was not certain myself, until Dominic promised Mildred would accompany me.”

  His mouth pursed. “Mildred?”

  Dominic stepped forward. “I had to sweeten the arrangement, milord. I agreed her lady-in-waiting could dine as well.”

  De Lanceau’s brow darkened with a scowl. Elizabeth expected him to order swift punishment for Dominic. To her astonishment, the rogue gritted his teeth and bared a smile that looked almost painful.

  “Well, milady. Since Dominic has taken it upon himself to honor your request, I would be remiss not to see it done. Guards, fetch Mildred.”

  She heard the men behind her turn and stride away. Hushed conversation resumed in the hall.

  De Lanceau stood and gestured to the chair beside him. “Come.”

  The thought of sitting next to him and suffering his attentions for the whole meal tied Elizabeth’s stomach into a knot. Yet, there were other vacant chairs at the table. Mildred would soon arrive to chaperone.

  Elizabeth squared her shoulders and forced aside her reluctance. She would have the bath he promised. If she must pacify the rogue for a short while, then so be it.

  She nodded to him, stepped up onto the dais, and sat in the chair to his right. Tension seemed to ease from his posture. He called to the serving woman to bring more bread, and with effortless grace, lowered himself into his chair. The scents of fresh air and leather wafted to Elizabeth, and his nearness stirred memories of his body’s heat pressed against hers. She bit down on her lip.

  A blush threatened, but at that moment, the gray-haired woman waddled toward them and set down a wooden board of grain rolls.

  “There ye are, milord. Plenty for ye and the lady.”

  De Lanceau grinned, and the serving woman’s face reddened. “You are as kind as you are beautiful, Mistress Peg.”

  His smile, warmed with genuine affection, took the harshness from his features. He no longer looked forbidding, but handsome.

  Elizabeth wrenched her gaze away.

  Peg’s blush deepened. “Ye tease, milord.” She giggled, dipped in a curtsey, and then stomped away, shouting orders to the maidservants delivering food.

  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 had 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 morning 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 far more than she had 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 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 c
hemise 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.