A Knight's Vengeance (15 page)

He remembered well the heat of his captive's eyes, and her stinging words. "What did she say?"

The maid drew a breath. "She . . . well, she did not respect your generosity, milord."

"Go on."

"She said you provided the gown of a
strumpet."

Geoffrey chuckled. Dominic hooted and slapped his palms on the table, and Elena jumped, her gaze wide as a startled hare's.

"Did you borrow from fair Veronique's wardrobe?" Dominic asked.

"I dared not risk her wrath. I took a spare gown from one of the maids." Geoffrey dried his eyes with his cuff, yet Elena did not curtsey and take her leave. "There was more?" he said.

She looked about to wilt in fright.

"For God's sake," Geoffrey snapped. "What?"

"She . . . she . . ."

"Tell me!" He did not mean to shout, but from Elena's demeanor, he guessed the lady made another demand on his patience. She
rankled
him more than he ever imagined possible for one of the fairer sex, who had been in his company for less than a full turn of the sun.

"She demands . . . a bath," the maid squeaked.

"Demands?"
Dominic sounded astonished.

Geoffrey scowled. "Does she, now?"

"I told her she needed your permission, milord, for the water must be heated and brought up from the kitchens, but she insisted."

Biting back his fury, Geoffrey jerked his head in dismissal. "I will deal with the lady. Tend to Mildred,
then
help prepare the evening meal."

Elena dropped into a quick curtsy and scurried away.

"The next few days will be full of adventure, milord," Dominic said with a grin.

"I do not think so." Geoffrey shoved his chair back with such force it crashed to the floorboards. He stepped off the dais and stormed across the hall, dried rushes and herbs crunching under his boots. The sleeping dogs scrambled to their feet and darted under a table.

As he climbed the stairs to her chamber, his blood boiled.

The damsel would learn her lesson.

Pacing the floor of her tiny chamber, Elizabeth brushed her hand over the gown Elena had helped her into, a plain garment fit for a serving wench, not a noblewoman. "Knave," she muttered as she walked. When she next saw de Lanceau, she would ask why he deliberately insulted her by sending her common clothing.

Her irritated gaze settled on the rough-hewn wooden door warmed by morning sunlight. If he had chosen the garment to torment her, or bend her to his will, he would soon learn she would not be manipulated or coerced.

She spun on her heel, and her leg pinched. With gentle fingers, she massaged the spot, and winced, for every muscle in her body screamed from yesterday's horseback ride. Her limbs were stiff as a wooden doll's.

Reaching her arms over her head, she stretched and

groaned
.

A soak in steaming water perfumed with rose petals, lavender, and herbs, like the splendid baths Mildred arranged for her at Wode, would remedy the aches and pains.

Yet de Lanceau did not seem a man to care about a prisoner's wishes.
Most of all hers.
 
.

Worry gnawed at Elizabeth. She wondered what had happened to Mildred. She hoped the matron was all right, and being shown the courtesies due a woman of her aging years.

When asked about Mildred, Elena had refused to answer. De Lanceau must have forewarned her not to divulge any details, and it seemed she took her duty to her lord with utmost seriousness. Elizabeth's attempts to chat with the maid had won her a shy, guarded "aye" or "nay," and no more. The conversation had dwindled to tense silence.

When asked to relay the request for a bath, Elena had looked about to faint. "I will ask, milady," she whispered, and had sped from the room as though chased by a feral boar.

What kind of demon was de Lanceau to instill such fear in his maidservants? Uncertainty shivered through Elizabeth, but she swept it aside. Since she had not seen him since Sister Margaret's visit, she could not have communicated her wishes except through Elena.

A bath was not such an onerous demand.

Elena had opened the shutters, and a breeze blew in the window and stirred Elizabeth's unbound hair. She walked forward, drawn by voices and the
clang
of a blacksmith's hammer from the bailey below. Sunshine spilled over the stone embrasure and cast the grille's pattern onto the marred floorboards.

Elizabeth linked her fingers around the wrought iron. The sun's warmth felt wonderful, and she leaned forward to soak in all she could.

Beyond the fortress's curtain wall, a river meandered through wheat fields. At its deepest, the water looked as blue as her favorite bliaut. Giant oaks with gnarled roots lined the water's edge. Swallows lifted from the boughs of one of the trees, looped and danced in the breeze, then disappeared in the direction of the distant, mist shrouded, blue-gray hills.

Elizabeth dropped her brow to the cool metal. What she would give to be a bird, with the freedom to soar wherever she desired. She would spread her wings, slip through the grille, and fly to a place where fear, death, and the past could never touch her.

Somewhere beyond the hills, her father and Aldwin rode toward Tillenham. They would reach it soon. Worry nagged at her again, and her fingers curled tighter around the bars. Did they know of her abduction? Did they know she was imprisoned at Branton?

If only there
were some way
to get a message to them.

Or escape.

A pair of robins hurtled past the window. They dove into the bailey and over the curtain wall,
then
raced back past her window. She laughed, wriggled her hand through the grille, and stretched out her fingers. One of the birds alighted on the ledge outside and studied her with its head cocked to one side.

At that moment, the door to her chamber opened. She glanced over her shoulder. De Lanceau stood in the doorway.

The robin flew away.
                       
.

Withdrawing her hand, she faced him.

His expression was controlled, almost bland, but she sensed his seething rage. His gaze raked over her, from her hair to her bliaut's hem that grazed her calves, and his lips curled in a faint grin.

He strode forward, slamming the door behind him.

Anxiety settled in Elizabeth's belly like a lump of ice.

She was alone with him.

He halted near her, leaned one hip against the side table, and folded his arms across his jerkin. "You are well?" he asked, his words crisp yet polite.

"As well as I may be, under such conditions." A silent groan burned inside her, for her frazzled nerves had betrayed her. While she wished to convey her outrage and disdain, she did not want to infuriate him. Then he might never grant her a bath.

She also had no wish to repeat their earlier confrontation. Her skin still tingled where he had touched her.

"You feel mistreated?" His eyes darkened to the color of wet slate, and his gaze shifted to the bandaged wound at her temple.
"How so?"

Unease ran through her, but she squared her shoulders and met his stare. "For a start, I am not used to being attended by a stranger. Mildred is my lady-in-waiting, and has been since I was a girl."

"Elena is skilled."

"She is, but I prefer Mildred's help."

He shrugged. "You cannot have it."

Anger and concern thickened Elizabeth's tone. "How do I know she is all right? If you dare mistreat her—"

"No one has harmed her. She is being held in another part of the keep, and is fine."

Elizabeth crossed her arms to stop them from shaking. "If I could see her for myself, my worries would be appeased."

He leaned farther back on the table, into a bright splash of sunlight. "You will see her soon enough."

"When?
The day my father batters through the gates and rescues me?"

De Lanceau's jaw hardened, as though she tested the frayed boundaries of his temper. "The day my demands are met and I choose to release you, if not before then."

A defiant reminder of her father's military might sizzled on her tongue, but before she could say one word, de Lanceau shook his head. "I will not discuss your freedom. I was told you had grievances. Is your concern for Mildred the sum of them?"

Elizabeth shot him a glare.
"Not at all.
Elena tried her best, but could do naught with my hair. She could not even run a comb through it, 'tis so matted with grime. The jug of water provided me is enough to wash my face and hands, but no more, so I cannot complete my morning bath." She sucked in a breath. "My bed linens also smell sour, and the dust in this room is thicker than mud in a pigpen."

"I see." His words held menace. Yet, in her ramblings, she had outlined good reasons why he should allow her a bath. She must persist until she had his answer.

"I am sure you will agree that my well being would be improved by a hot bath. I trust Elena relayed my request to you"—Elizabeth sweetened her tone in a deliberate show of respect—
"my lord?"

His gaze sharpened. "She did."

"And?"

"And, milady, you have no right to make demands of my servants."

What sort of answer was that? He had not agreed to the bath, but he had also not refused her one.

She waited for him to continue.
Drummed her fingers on her arms.
Swept hair from her shoulder.
When he still did not reply, but watched her movements like a hungry hawk, she sighed and threw up her hands. "Well? What is your answer?"

"I am considering your request." He glanced at his fingernails, then back at her. "Elena mentioned to me you had another matter of concern.
The gown?"

Elizabeth pressed her lips together. How clever of him to change the subject without agreeing. Well, she would ask him again, before their talk was done. "You have given me peasant's clothes, milord."