Medieval Rogues (12 page)

Sunlight fingered over the coverlet on the massive bed set against the wall. Without breaking his stride, Geoffrey led her across the room and pushed her down on the mattress, crushing her body beneath his. His limbs tangled with hers, a passionate contrast of black and red. He kissed her with fierce hunger.

He had to unleash his need, or it would devour him from the inside out.

“Geoffrey,” Veronique moaned against his lips. “Ah, Geoffrey.”

Elizabeth had made a similar sound. With stunning clarity, he remembered the moment she had surrendered and opened herself to him. When, with hesitant thrusts of her tongue, she had begun to kiss him in return.

Confusion muddied his desire. He shoved thoughts of Elizabeth from his mind and brushed his lips down Veronique’s perfumed throat. She would assuage his need. She always rendered him weak, gasping, and slick with sweat, the last time the night before he had left for Wode.

From their first tryst in a farmer’s field outside the fair at Bruges, with stars glimmering in silent witness, Veronique had proved herself mistress of his body. She, unlike other wenches, had not cringed at the sight of the hideous, puckered scar that ran down the side of his chest, a permanent reminder of the battle wound that had almost killed him. Lusty, creative, she had given him pleasure, and he had offered her a life far richer than that of a poor cotter’s daughter.

His jaw tightened on a shudder. He wanted Veronique to shatter him with pleasure now, to vanquish the tension coiling in the pit of his stomach.

With feverish urgency, Veronique guided his hands to the ties that fastened her bliaut. Between one slippery kiss and the next, the red silk slid to a pool beside the bed, followed by her chemise. Breathing hard, Geoffrey pulled Veronique into his lap. She straddled his legs. He smothered her gasps with his lips and buried his hands in her hair.

Skeins curled between his fingers and around his wrists. Her hair felt coarser, heavier, than Elizabeth’s tresses. He inhaled and savored the scents of rosewater and willing woman.

Elizabeth’s fragrance had been as arousing.

Why did the damsel plague him so?
Why?

She meant naught to him.

Closing his eyes, he willed himself to recapture his need for Veronique.

Her throaty laughter blew over his ear. Squirming against him, she skimmed her hand down between their bodies. She lifted his tunic’s hem.

Before she could release the points of his hose, he shoved her back and caught her hands.

“You are in a mood to dally?” she purred. “Pray tell, how do you wish me to tease you?”

“Nay,” he muttered.

Veronique’s lashes lowered on a delighted smile. “You shall tease me.” Pressing her palms flat, she arched back and lowered herself to the coverlet. She spread her hair across the bed, into the gleam of sunlight. “Come.” She dragged her toes along his thigh. “I await ravishment.”

Forcing Elizabeth from his mind, Geoffrey leaned forward and trailed his fingers over Veronique’s smooth, naked belly.

He shook. Cursing, he balled his fingers into a fist. He rose from the bed and strode to the window, his ragged breaths echoing in the silence.

“You do not want to couple with me, milord?”

Geoffrey heard incredulity in Veronique’s tone, underscored by anger. Self-condemnation and disgust seared his throat and threatened to choke him. He well understood her scorn.

Indeed, he could not explain his thoughts.

He could never tell Veronique that when he looked into her face, the eyes staring back at him were sapphire blue, not amber.

And the hair splayed across his coverlet in wild abandon shimmered like black silk.

***

Elizabeth stood resolute until the door banged shut, and then flung herself on her knees beside the bed. She clasped her trembling hands together. Bowing her head, she recited an urgent prayer for forgiveness.

She should not have allowed de Lanceau to kiss her. He was a villain, a rogue without honor. The astonishing sensations she had felt were no more than clever manipulations by a man familiar with a woman’s body.

Of her own free will, she had kissed the knave who had kidnapped her, imprisoned her, and who no doubt intended to barter her for Wode.

Even worse, she had enjoyed it.

“How could you?” she whispered. No one must ever learn of her weakness moments ago, most of all her father. She imagined his expression when he realized her betrayal, for that is how he would see the kiss, and her vision blurred with tears.

She would not allow de Lanceau to kiss her again.

Drying her eyes with her sleeve, Elizabeth stood. Her gaze fell upon the water jug and earthenware bowl on the side table. Her mouth still felt swollen from de Lanceau’s wretched kisses. After pouring a little water into the bowl, she scrubbed her face and lips with her fingers, and then rinsed her mouth to wash away the lingering taste of his ale.

A soft knock sounded on the door. The key scraped in the lock and the door opened, admitting Elena.

“Milady.” The maid bobbed in a shy curtsy and offered a trencher laden with bread and roasted quail, a mug, and a jug of wine.

Behind her, the door creaked most of the way closed.

It did not shut.

Excitement glimmered inside Elizabeth like rekindled embers, and she wiped her fingers on her gown. If she were quick, she could dart by Elena, throw open the door, and run past the startled guards outside.

She must escape, for she would not be held captive to de Lanceau’s sensual wickedness.

Elena crossed to the trestle table, and Elizabeth ran.

“Milady, stop!”

Two steps. Three. Elizabeth grabbed for the iron handle.

The door slammed. The lock clicked.

“Nay!” She pounded her fists against the wood. A frustrated sob welled inside her. Laughter and male voices rumbled in the corridor beyond, and then faded.

Blinking hard, Elizabeth whirled away from the door.

Her fingers knotted together, Elena stood by the food set on the table, her gaze fixed on the floorboards. “Please. You will feel better once you have eaten.”

Elizabeth scowled. She would feel better when she was free.

The overcooked quail did not look at all appetizing.

Storming back to the water bowl, she said, “Return the fare to the kitchens. A hungry child may have my portion.” Twisting her hair into a coil, she lifted it atop her head and splashed water down her flushed throat.

“Lord de Lanceau ensures all the keep’s children are well fed.” Elena sounded worried. “’Tis foolish not to eat.”

Elizabeth sighed. She did not care to argue. “Very well. Leave it.”

The maid nodded and hurried across the chamber. Glancing over her shoulder, she rapped on the door. It opened a fraction, and a guard grunted his consent before Elena slipped out and the door shut.

Elizabeth poured a mug of wine, slumped on the bed’s edge, and pulled at a frayed bit of blanket. De Lanceau must know sheer boredom was a form of torture. At Wode, she never sat idle. If she were there now, she would be overseeing the servants and making sure the daily tasks were done. In quiet moments, she would embroider one of the orphans’ chemises or shirts.

Resentment burned inside her. De Lanceau prevented her from finishing her task, and she had never once failed to do as she promised.

She sipped her drink and wrinkled her nose at the poorly-aged wine. Her temple throbbed. Setting aside the mug, she lay back on the bed. If only she could have one of Mildred’s poppy tonics and enjoy the oblivion of sleep.

Her eyelids grew heavy. Yet, when she closed her eyes, she saw de Lanceau looming over her. His gaze smoldered with the thrilling intensity she had witnessed before he had kissed her.

Her lips tingled.

Rolling onto her side, she pressed her face against the scratchy pillowcase.

The next time she attempted escape, she
would
succeed.

***

A sliver of moon gleamed like an ivory tusk in the night sky beyond the window when Geoffrey disentangled his limbs from Veronique’s and rose from the bed. She stirred, mumbled a few incoherent words, and then turned over with a rustle of bedding.

Standing in the shadows, he stared down at the satiny curve of her arm draped atop the coverlet. At last, she slept. He had not made love to her. While fury blazed in her eyes, he had explained he was more tired from the previous day’s ride than he had first thought.

“You speak false, milord?” she had asked, her voice tight.

“I do not.” Exhaustion ached in every bone and muscle in his body. Of that, he spoke true. After a silence, her anger had diffused to grudging acceptance and she had allowed him to take her in his arms. He had coaxed her under the coverlet and had lain with her, his clothed body nestled behind hers.

He watched the steady rise and fall of her shoulder. Guilt tore through him as his lust stirred anew, the urge to drive hard and fast into her voluptuous body.

Would she deny him now, if he asked her to make love? He doubted so. After wringing a gasped apology from his lips, she would take him inside her with the eagerness he had come to enjoy, anticipate, and expect.

For the first time in years, that was not enough.

He muttered a soft oath into the darkness. The lady had addled his brain. She had interfered with his lovemaking, and now she influenced his judgment.

The moonlight’s pale glow revealed his boots lying beside the bed, and he bent to retrieve them. In all his years, he had never encountered a woman quite like Elizabeth Brackendale. Why did she intrigue him?

Elizabeth lacked the sophistication of a wench who knew the power of her own beauty, but she held a power over him just the same. Veronique used her fingers, tongue, and body to stir him to passion. Elizabeth had but to challenge him with the toss of her hair and barbed words, and his blood ignited like liquid fire.

Tension tightened his gut. Such comparisons were pointless. The lady was a temporary burden. No more.

Taking care to prevent the leather from creaking, Geoffrey pulled on his boots and then quit the solar, drawing the door closed behind him with a faint
click
. His footsteps echoed in the stairwell and when he stepped out into the torch lit bailey, he breathed in deep to clear his mind.

He would not lose sight of his purpose.

As he exhaled, his breath formed a white cloud. Change was in the air. The cool summer night foreshadowed winter’s chill.

The wind gusted and tangled his hair like an invisible hand as Geoffrey began to walk the bailey’s perimeter. A guard on the wall walk hailed him, and Geoffrey called out a gruff greeting.

He turned to retrace his steps across the uneven ground. A sound, the scrape of a boot heel, warned him he was not alone. Someone concealed in the dark shadows, where light from the flickering torches did not reach, watched him.

His disquiet shifted into warrior alertness. “Reveal yourself,” he ordered.

Dominic materialized, garbed in a brown wool cloak. His mouth eased into a sheepish smile. “Good evening, milord.”

Geoffrey massaged stiffness from his neck. He wondered how long Dominic had watched his pacing, and how much his clever friend had gleaned from it.

“I am surprised to find you here, milord. I thought you would be enjoying the warmth of your bed and fair Veronique.”

“I could not sleep.”

“Ah. Lady Elizabeth.”

“’Tis not so,” Geoffrey snapped.

Dominic winged an eyebrow. Geoffrey wished that by some miracle, the breeze would blow, snuff out the torches, cloak the bailey in darkness, and shield him from his friend’s scrutiny.

“May I point out that the lady came into our care yesterday morning? Since that time, you have acted like a demented boar.”

Geoffrey snorted. “Far better a boar than a
weasel
.”

“I was not spying on you, but looking at the moon. I drank one too many mugs of wine with the evening meal, and fresh air is known to calm the temperament.” His tone lightened. “Which is why you are here.”

Setting his hands on his hips, Geoffrey half-turned and stared up at the moon’s bluish outline. He would not be snared into admitting his idiotic yearning for the lady.

He sensed Dominic’s gaze sweeping over his profile, and turned his face away.

Dominic chuckled. “The lady causes this restlessness?”

“The
lady
,” Geoffrey said between his teeth. “When I am in her presence, I wish to throttle her.”

“You desire her. She is stubborn and spirited, aye, but also quite lovely.”

“She is Brackendale’s daughter.”

Dominic shrugged. “Unfortunate for her, but not her fault.”

With stiff fingers, Geoffrey flicked wind-tousled hair from his brow. “Lady Elizabeth is a pawn, a means to win my revenge. In a few days, she will no longer plague me.”

Burying his hands into his cloak, Dominic tilted his head to one side. “Tell me, milord. Do you suffer any guilt?”

Geoffrey laughed. The sound vanished on a blast of cold air. He should not feel remorse for the way he had treated Elizabeth. Nor would he regret one mean-spirited word he had spoken to her, or forcing her to kiss him. Not when his father’s death demanded retribution from Lord Brackendale.