A Knight's Vengeance (9 page)

Elizabeth's eyes flew open. De Lanceau stood above her
on the bank, his hands planted on his hips. In one fist, he held a scuffed saddlebag.

"Well?" he said.

Her cheeks flamed, but her soul would roast in hell before she would allow him to best her. She turned to face him. The abrupt movement set the meadow spinning before her eyes, and she blinked twice before he came back into focus.

His mouth tightened. "You wish to speak with me?"

"You heard every word. I have no wish to repeat them." With an annoyed huff, she flicked her hair over her shoulder.

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His expression darkened, and her breath jammed in her throat.

With agonizing slowness, his heavy-lidded gaze dragged up her torso, across her shift's embroidered front, to her face. Her skin prickled.
Heated.
Burned, as though his fingers, not his gaze, had swept over her.

He stared at her with fierce intensity. A look that suggested he saw every swell and curve under her shift.

She forced herself to exhale, and crossed her shaking arms over her breasts. His stare should not fill her with a strange excitement.

"I heard your words," he murmured.
"Foolish words, spoken in haste.
But then"—his gaze skimmed over her again—"you seem to have a talent for foolishness."

Elizabeth's belly somersaulted. She wondered if he referred to her giving Mildred the mantle, or the market incident. How shameful, that she still remembered his body's warmth pressed against her, and that she had once dreamed of his kiss.

"Come away from the water, before you slip and fall in, and I have to rescue you again."

She drummed her fingers on her forearms. "I do not take orders from ruffians."

He arched an eyebrow. "You wish me to come and get
you?"

"I most certainly do not."

"We have a long journey ahead of us, and will be leaving soon. There is food and drink at the wagon." He opened the saddlebag. "I brought ointment for your wound."

Elizabeth turned her back on him. She did not want his fare, or his ointment. She thrust up her chin, tried to walk away, but found her right slipper stuck in the mud. She tugged her foot. It came free with a
pjffrrttt,
the sound of hearty flatulence.

Laughter erupted behind her. Elizabeth fought the mortified giggle welling in her throat.

"I suggest you eat," de Lanceau said, his tone lightened by a chuckle. "We leave when the horses are ready."

She glared at him over her shoulder. "Where are you taking us?"

"You will know soon enough."

"Branton Keep?"

His expression clouded with wariness.

Elizabeth smiled. "I heard King Richard had granted you that run down old fortress as a reward for your bravery in the Crusades. How ironic; you return the king's gratitude by kidnapping the daughter of one of his loyal lords."

De Lanceau scowled.

"'Twill not bode well for you when the king learns of your actions. You will find your keep under siege for the same reasons your traitorous father was attacked years ago."

He drew a hissed breath. "You have a bold tongue, milady, and know not what you speak of."

"And you, sirrah, are an idiot to provoke war with my
sire.

De Lanceau stared at her across the muddy ground. "The sensual heat had vanished from his eyes. Now, he looked angry enough to throttle her.

Fear whipped through her. She had spoken without forethought. Yet she had held true to her heart, and would never relinquish faith in her father.

De Lanceau's voice became a rasp. "You are unwise to speak of matters you do not understand. You are an even greater fool to taunt me. Fall into the water. Eat or not eat. I do not care."

He shoved a small earthenware pot into one of the men's hands, slung the saddlebag over his shoulder, and stalked off.

Elizabeth blew a sigh. She uncurled her hands, flexed her numb fingers and resisted the impulse to watch him walk away.

"We should use the ointment and eat the food he has offered," Mildred said, her tone soothing. "If he is taking us to Branton, we shall not reach there till nightfall."

"I would rather starve." As Elizabeth spoke, her stomach gurgled.

"You cannot best de Lanceau if you faint from hunger."

Elizabeth sighed. She could not escape, either. She took Mildred's arm. The matron snatched up the ointment pot and they headed back to the wagon.

De Lanceau stood with several of his men, adjusting the bridle of a gray destrier. He looked up, but Elizabeth refused to meet his narrowed gaze. She swept past him and surveyed the food set out on a blanket on the wagon's lowered edge— bread pitted with stones, and wedges of yellowed cheese, to be washed down with mead from a battered pigskin flask.

Her stomach whined, and she loosed a silent groan. At least when Fraeda baked bread she picked the bigger stones out of the flour to spare one's teeth.

Mildred popped open the pot and sniffed the contents. With a finger, she scooped out some of the greasy yellow ointment.

"Sit on the edge of the wagon, milady. This smells vile, but 'tis all we have."

Elizabeth sat. As Mildred dabbed at her temple, Elizabeth broke off some bread, nibbled the crust, and watched a butterfly flit through a cluster of daisies. Under other circumstances, she would have loved this pretty spot perfumed with wildflowers.

As Mildred pressed on a tender spot, Elizabeth winced. She sensed de Lanceau's assessing stare, and smothered another groan.

The sooner she
escaped,
the better.

*
  
  
*
  
  
*

Geoffrey gave his destrier an affectionate pat on the neck before starting toward the wagon. Wariness shadowed Elizabeth's eyes. She brushed breadcrumbs from her lap and rose from where she sat beside Mildred on the wagon.

So he made the lady uneasy. Good.

Striding past her, he grabbed a slice of the coarse bread. As he bit off a piece, she moved away and stared toward the forest. The breeze blew her shift against her body. The sheer fabric clung to her figure, and mocked him with its filmy drape, light and shadow.

He didn't want to gape like a randy green squire, but he couldn't help himself.

The cloth outlined all of her woman's curves. Her glorious black tresses curled down over the swell of her breasts and tumbled to her slim waist. How foolish, that he wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to savor its scent, to feel its shiny weight in his hands. As he stared, drawn by the sunlight playing over her tresses, she brushed strands off her throat.

His loins stirred. She was a magnificent creature.

She was Brackendale's daughter.
Forbidden.

A tiny stone slipped down his throat.

Choking, he groped for the flask, raised it to his mouth, and took a sip. The mead was warm. Sweet as a virgin's first kisses.
As sweet as Elizabeth's lips.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and cursed his mind for wandering where it should not.

Elizabeth took another step, and Geoffrey frowned. She swayed a little. It clearly took effort for her to keep her balance. She cradled her right arm.

Unwelcome guilt tore through him. In the Earl of Druentwode's tiltyards and on Acre's bloodstained battlefields, he had seen enough wounded to recognize physical injury. She had hurt more than her forehead when she fell.

He gripped the flask and chewed more bread. He would see her wounds healed, but would
not
feel sorry for her. The lady had enjoyed a privileged life, without the slightest want or need, and had done so because his father had died.

His honorable sire had never deserved to be named a traitor.

He had never deserved to be slaughtered.

Geoffrey forced himself to swallow the mouthful. If he shut his eyes, if he allowed the despair and memories to surface, he again felt his father's icy fingers gripping his own, and smelled blood-soaked straw . . .

"Have you finished with the mead, milord?" Mildred asked.

Geoffrey's eyes snapped open. He quelled a violent tremor, and glanced at Mildred. "What?"

"A drink, if I may?"

He tossed her the flask and looked back at Elizabeth. She bent to pick a flower. By abducting her, he could well end up with his head lopped from his neck. Yet he could no longer live the bitter lie which had haunted him since he was ten years old.

He could not find proof to exonerate his father—and by God, he had tried—but the simple truth remained. His sire had wanted him to rule the de Lanceau legacy, the lands granted to his proud Norman predecessors by William the Conqueror, and passed down through the oldest male sons.

And so he would.

By force and cunning, Wode and all its lands would be his. He would have his inheritance, and revenge.

A grim smile touched his lips. No one would stand in his way.
Above all, Brackendale's daughter.

*
    
*
    
*

Grasses rustled behind Elizabeth, and she tensed. Moments ago, she had sensed de Lanceau's brooding gaze upon her, prowling over her body in a manner that shot goose bumps over her skin. She had ignored him and hoped that, like an irritating wasp, he would be distracted and go away.

A futile wish.

"We leave now," de Lanceau said. His voice held command and a warning not to disobey.

Elizabeth refused to look at him. Her hands tightened around the cornflower she had turned in her fingers. She had heard him order the men to water the horses at the stream, but had not expected to be departing so soon.

She tried to think of some way of escape.

Without success.

Her pulse thudded against her ribs. If she had any hope of eluding him, she must act now.