Medieval Rogues

by Catherine Kean

  He chuckled, clearly not bothered by the disdain in her words. “Well said. Yet, I have contacts in France and the port of Venice, the center of the silk and spice trade. Good English wool is prized by the French merchants, almost as much as spices and perfumes. Where there is a demand, milady, there is profit.”

  She swallowed past the ache in her throat. His plans for Wode showed great foresight. He had planned, it seemed, for many years. Unable to school the bitterness from her voice, she said, “You will trade your sword for a merchant’s tally stick? You are a hero of the Crusades. A man of war.”

  He did not even flinch. “I am weary of fighting. When I ride into battle against your father, ’twill be my last.”

  “True.”

  His gaze hardened. “My last, because I will triumph. All that I have told you will come to pass.”

  He moved back to the table, picked up the jug, and offered her more wine. She shook her head.

  Elizabeth shut her eyes against a sudden headache. Demand. Profit. Revenge. All of his plans hinged upon her. She was the pivotal pawn, his way to get his fortune and destroy her sire.

  Fear cut into her soul. Her father would never agree to de Lanceau’s ransom demands. Her father would die before he surrendered Wode. Battle was inevitable. Bloodshed and death loomed like hideous, fanged specters, and here, snared in de Lanceau’s grasp, she was helpless to stop them.

  Her heart ached with a pain so profound, she could not bear Geoffrey to see it. Elizabeth pushed up from the chair. Ignoring his brooding gaze, she crossed to the windows and looked out. Thousands of stars sparkled in the sky and reflected back from the lake’s glassy surface. How serene the world outside looked, as though war would never scar its beauty.

  She sensed, rather than heard, Geoffrey’s approach. His hands touched her shoulders, and she stiffened.

  “Elizabeth.”

  Where he touched, awareness blossomed. Her traitorous body still craved him, despite all he had told her. Despite all he intended to do.

  With a muffled gasp, she shrugged free of his hold. “I wish to go to my chamber now.”

  “You have not finished your wine, or the custard.”

  “I do not want them.”

  His breath warmed the back of her neck and stirred the ringlets that had escaped from her braid. She spun around. He stood so near, her hand brushed his sleeve. Stumbling back, she bumped against the cold stone ledge.

  A frantic cry warbled within her. She shut it from her mind. She might be de Lanceau’s pawn, but she would not let him intimidate her. Her father refused to yield to a rogue, and so would she. “You may summon the guards now.”

  “Not yet.” His rasped voice sent heat swirling down to her belly, and she swallowed hard.

  “’Tis late, milord.”

  “Mmm.” His knuckles brushed her cheek. Then he cupped her face with his hand, holding her captive with a gentle touch. Moving his thumb, he coaxed her chin up, until she stared straight into his eyes. She could not suppress the tremble weaving through her, and his steely gaze flickered with a hint of regret. “Do not blame yourself for the days ahead, damsel. My battle is not with you.”

  His tender words rippled through her like water rings spreading across a still pond. How had he known her thoughts? She tried to squirm away, but he did not release her.

  “I will not let you kill my father.”

  Grudging admiration softened his expression. He caressed her cheek. “As you have said before.”

  “I will stop you.”

  “You cannot,” he whispered without a trace of threat. His free hand skimmed down her side and brushed over her bliaut, near the small of her back.

  “W-what are you doing?”

  His fingers moved. He had untied her braid. “Such incredible hair,” he murmured, and both of his hands threaded through her tresses. “I will never forget the day we first met. Your hair shone like black silk.”

  Her pulse thudded with a wildness that excited and terrified her. Mildred’s warnings echoed in Elizabeth’s mind. “Stop. I want—”

  “Shh.” He pressed his thumb to her lips. His fingers claimed a ringlet and followed its shiny length to where it ended at her waist. “You smell good. Eau de Cypress?”

  She shrugged. “Elena poured the fragrance into my bath.”

  He inhaled a long breath, and then nodded. “I brought the scent from Acre. Once, a woman could win my favor by wearing it.”

  He leaned closer. His hands spanned her waist and warmed her skin through the gown. Desire rushed through her limbs. She must stop him, before he kissed her. Or she would be lost.

  “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he breathed against the side of her face. His breath was a caress against her skin, and heat shot down into her quivering belly.

  Reason nagged at her muzzy thoughts. “I must . . . return to my chamber.”

  He shook his head. “I forbid it.”

  “Why? What are you going . . . to do?”

  His smoldering gaze turned intent. Purposeful. “What I have wanted to do all evening.”

  His arms went around her waist.

  His mouth brushed hers.

  Never before had she experienced such a kiss. His lips came down with the silken touch of a butterfly’s wings. He did not aim to possess, but entice. He did not demand that she kiss him in return. With each stroke of his lips, he offered an invitation, in an unspoken language as old as the first dawn.

  Her body recognized that language. Responded. Her eager lips parted, and their tongues meshed.

  Sensation shimmered, sweeter and richer than before. She must protest. Force him away. Her hand came up to push against his chest, but of its own volition, wound into his shirt.

  She mewled, a cry of urgent need. Her body pressed against him. Hungry. Hungry . . .

  He gasped against her lips. Shuddered. He broke away from her, swearing into the darkness, and pushed her to arm’s length.

  “Geoffrey?” she whispered.

  Breathing like a winded stallion, he looked at her. Fury flashed in his eyes.

  She touched her tingling lips and struggled against an overwhelming sense of loss.

  His mouth slanted into a mirthless grin. “You will not sway me that way, milady.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “You hoped to seduce me.”

  “Nay!” She jerked out of his grasp as though he had slapped her.

  His harsh laughter grated like a dagger against stone. “You are quite the temptress, when you put a little effort into your kiss. You would put Eve to shame. How foolish of me, to think you were innocent of such methods of deception.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “You are mistaken.”

  “I think not.”

  The depth of her anguish confused her. This rogue meant naught to her. She should not care whether he believed her or not. “Why would I wish to seduce you?”

  “You hoped to find my weakness. To make me soften toward your father.” His tone thinned. “Mayhap you thought I might decide to free you. Whatever the reason, I will never yield.”

  Rage devoured the torment inside her. “You are despicable.”

  “And you play with fire, damsel. If I so desired, I could take what you just offered me. Here. Now.”

  Elizabeth shook with fury. And fear. He did not make an idle threat. From the fierce set of his jaw, the rock-hard glare of his eyes, he had spoken true.

  Would he do as he said?

  “I never intended to tempt you,” she countered, with far more boldness than she felt. “I came here because you summoned me, remember? I did not choose this gown, or the fragrance Elena put in my bath. Nor do I have the slightest desire to lie with you.”

  “Nay?”

  She sniffed, a sound of acute disdain. “I would rather clean the keep’s garderobes than offer myself to you.”

  “Is that so?” A wicked gleam lit Geoffrey’s eyes before his teeth slash
ed white in the darkness. Did he imagine her tackling the smelly task that even the lowest servants despised?

  “’Tis so,” she said.

  “Such a convincing rejection.”

  She crossed her arms. “’Tis the truth.”

  “Careful, damsel, or you might get your wish.”

  “You would have me clean garderobes?” Elizabeth shot him a withering look. “I think not.”

  “And I think you tread a perilous path,” Geoffrey growled. He whirled away from her and marched toward the solar doors. His boots thundered on the wooden floor. “Go back to your chamber, before I decide I preferred your earlier offer.”

  Elizabeth ground her teeth. “I was not—”

  Geoffrey yanked open the door with such force, it banged against the wall. “Out, damsel. Before I do something we will both regret.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Up ye get, milady.”

  Elizabeth opened a bleary eye to see two guards standing beside her bed. One shoved a candle near her face and leered down at her.

  Rubbing sleep from her eyes, she sat up. “What do you want? Why do you intrude upon my slumber?”

  “Our lord requests ye,” said the heavyset guard who appeared enthralled by her dishabille. His gaze wandered over her night shift, and she promptly tucked the bedding under her armpits to curtail his ogling.

  “He summons me now?” Elizabeth shoved hair out of her face and peered past the men to the window. The faintest glow of dawn was visible beyond the shutters’ slits. With a groan, she collapsed back on the bed in a tangle of blankets.

  “Ye best come with us, milady,” said the other sentry. He nudged his comrade and snickered behind his hand. She glared at the stocky lout, wondering what he found so amusing about her predicament, and in answer he thrust a stumpy finger at the green wool. “Ye are to get dressed.”

  “Not with you standing there. Await me outside,” she said in a firm voice. “I will knock on the door when I am clothed.”

  The heavyset oaf scowled and opened his mouth, then shrugged and did as she asked.

  Elizabeth rose from the bed and shook out the green wool. After her confrontation with Geoffrey last evening, had he decided she no longer needed a maidservant to help her dress? Wretched rogue. Shivering in the draft from the window, she stripped off her shift and donned the plain linen chemise. By some miracle, Elena walked into the chamber at the very moment Elizabeth attempted the ties of the bliaut. The maid set down the meager breakfast of bread, blackberries, and ale, and hurried to Elizabeth’s side.

  “Why am I summoned? Does he wish me to begin mending the saddle trapping?” she asked as Elena fastened the garment.

  “I do not know, milady.”

  “Your hands are shaking.”

  The maid held Elizabeth’s gaze, then looked down at the floor. “Milord is in a strange mood this morning.” Elena urged Elizabeth to the wooden stool near the hearth and, when she sat, began to braid her tresses.

  While the ivory comb slid through her hair, Elizabeth thought back to last evening. Geoffrey had plied her with wine and sweetmeats, told her of his past wounds and future ambitions, and then, of all wicked wonders, he had kissed her. With tenderness. For a fleeting moment, he had become a chivalrous suitor trying to woo her affection. When he had unbound her plait, his hands had been as gentle as Elena’s. The memory of his caresses and kisses crept across Elizabeth’s skin, and she tried to quell her thoughts by brushing a wrinkle from her bodice.

  On Elena’s instruction, Elizabeth lowered her chin so the maid could secure the braid. Yet, the memories persisted like an unsettling dream. The rogue’s livid expression and growled words revived in her mind with a wallop. You hoped to seduce me.

  She frowned down at her clasped hands. She had encouraged his kisses—indeed, he had a most tempting and skillful mouth—yet how could he make such an accusation? He had initiated the intimacy. She should accuse him of trying to seduce her.

  Annoyance burned the last vestiges of sleep from her brain. ’Twas not her fault he had a temper shorter than a pig’s tail.

  Her gaze drifted over the beautiful rose wool and fine chemise, folded on the table where she had left them. “Why I must wear this horrible gown? I thought I could wear the clothes of a lady again.”

  “I do not know,” Elena said in a hushed voice. “Milord was quite specific about your garments.”

  After downing her breakfast, Elizabeth followed the maid into the corridor. The guards did not take her to the great hall, or Geoffrey’s solar, but to the bailey.

  As she stepped out of the musty forebuilding, surprise and excitement thrummed in Elizabeth blood. Overhead stretched the robin’s egg blue sky. The breeze stirred her gown and teased wisps of hair across her cheek, and brought the smells of horse, damp stone, and blooming wildflowers. A child’s voice carried to her, and she saw a boy toss a pail of scraps to the rooting pigs.

  Laughter drew her attention to the straw-roofed stables. Geoffrey stood leaning against one of the wooden wagons and chatting with Dominic. Sunlight shot the rogue’s dark hair with silver highlights that reminded her of the gleam in his eyes when he challenged her to a verbal joust. Her stomach squeezed. How handsome he looked, wearing a leather jerkin, tight brown hose, and leather boots.

  The guards ordered her forward. When she walked out of the keep’s shadows into daylight, he turned and saw her. His expression became guarded. “Milady.”

  She walked past the snuffling pigs and halted before him. “Milord, why did you bring me to the bailey? Am I to embroider outside this day, to better see my stitches?”

  Dominic chuckled. She looked into his round, expressive eyes, and he glanced across the bailey. Whatever the secret was, he would not tell her.

  “Patience, damsel. All will be clear soon.” A mysterious twinkle lit Geoffrey’s eyes.

  “By the blessed Virgin.” At the sound of Mildred’s voice, Elizabeth turned. The matron hastened toward her, doing her best not to trip on the hem of a mud-brown bliaut. “Good morning, milady. Milord.” She attempted a curtsey. “Lord de Lanceau, pray tell me why you roused me from my warm bed. My old bones do not see daylight until the sun is risen.”

  Geoffrey answered with a crooked smile.

  Mildred’s eyes narrowed. “If an old woman may be so bold, what mischief have you concocted for us?”

  “’Tis your lady’s bidding.”

  Elizabeth started. “Mine?”

  “You told me you wished to clean the garderobes.”

  Horror slid through Elizabeth like chunks of ice. She had indeed made such a rash claim, but had not expected him to believe her every word.

  Mildred wailed and slapped a wrinkled hand to her brow. “Milady, what have you done now?”

  “I did not say I desired such a task.” Elizabeth scowled. “If you remember the circumstances of my comment, you will know I am right.”

  Geoffrey’s gaze clashed with hers. “Our talk last night made me consider many things. As I told you once before, we have too many tasks for too few hands at Branton. I questioned why I kept two able-bodied women sitting by the fire when they could earn their keep.”

  Mildred huffed. “Milady mended your tunic.”

  “That is not the kind of toil I mean.”

  An angry blush warmed Elizabeth’s face. “You hold us hostage. You cannot mean for us to—”

  “I regret the garderobes were cleaned two weeks past,” he said, straightening away from the wagon. “Otherwise I would have obliged. However, the keep’s gardens need tending. You”—he pointed to Elizabeth and Mildred—“will see it done.”

  Elizabeth tsked. “What a shame, I am not able to mend the saddle trapping. You will have to ride into battle without it.”

  His insolent smile broadened. “After you have finished your day’s labor in the gardens, you will work on the repair.” He thrust an iron-edged spade and a billhook toward her. “You may begin garden
ing now.”

  “This is madness,” the matron sputtered.

  Elizabeth stared at the implements, and her fury flared. He expected her to dig up weeds and dirty her hands and clothes like a commoner? She glared at him.

  An answering gleam heated his gaze. He expected the refusal on the tip of her tongue.

  As she stared at him, standing with his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised, she forced down an indignant scream. The knave wanted her to protest. He hoped she would throw a tantrum and refuse to cooperate, so he could belittle her in front of his men and have the satisfaction of forcing her to his will.