Medieval Rogues (7 page)

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.

Gathering her reserves of courage, she turned and faced him. He stood with his hands on his hips, his hair tousled by the breeze. His flinty gaze told her he expected her to do as he ordered.

Elizabeth stole a glance at the shadowed forest. One could get lost in those woods.

An idea flooded into her mind. A brilliant idea.

Why had she not thought of such a request sooner?

Smoothing all excitement from her voice, she asked, “May I have a moment of privacy?”

Suspicion glinted in his eyes, but then he nodded. “Be quick about it.” He summoned two armed men and thrust a hand toward the forest. “Do not let her out of your sight.”

Elizabeth started toward the trees. When she marched into the shade of outlying ash and birch trees, and headed for a patch of blackberry vines fringed with ferns, the men shouted. “That is far enough.”

“Very well,” she said. “Will you turn your backs?”

The guards looked at each other. “Lord de Lanceau—”

Laughing, Elizabeth pointed to the surrounding shrubbery, a tangle of bushes, nettles and vines. “Where can I go? Up a tree like a squirrel?”

The men exchanged frowns, shrugged, and faced the meadow.

The breeze gusted. Leaves rustled overhead.

Elizabeth bolted. As she hurtled through a patch of tall ferns, she came upon a worn deer trail.

A branch snapped beneath her slipper.

Shouts rang out behind her.

The wound at her temple throbbed. Dizziness threatened to blur her vision.

She must not stop running.

She dodged low-hanging branches. Jumped raised tree roots. Twigs grabbed at her shift like gnarled fingers. The linen pulled taut. Tore.

Her pursuers were gaining ground. Their harsh breaths sounded louder than her own.

Her lungs burned.

She stumbled on a root. Slowed for the barest instant.

A guttural roar exploded behind her. A hand grabbed her arm and spun her around. A hard body slammed her against an ancient oak. She kicked. Clawed. Fought the blackness that threatened her consciousness.

Smells seared her nostrils: the churned loam; the musty tree bark; the male essence of the rogue trapping her.

He caught her wrists. “Be still!”

De Lanceau’s voice sent fear blazing through her veins, and an element far more dangerous. She stilled. His hands dropped from her, but he did not ease away. His thighs pressed against her hips. His chest crushed her breasts. His breath rasped over her flushed skin.

She shuddered.

“What were you thinking?” he growled. “You would never have outrun us. Were you hoping to break your neck?”

Her whole body quivered. “Release me.”

“You will not escape me, milady. Not until I have vengeance against your father.” His mouth formed a wicked smirk. “Mayhap not even then.”
 

Chapter Five

“Get on the horse.”

Elizabeth’s blue-eyed gaze hardened, and she crossed her arms over her tattered shift. “Nay.”

Geoffrey looped his destrier’s reins about his knuckles, and looked at her standing beside his horse. Two scarlet spots stained her cheeks, yet she stared back at him without as much as a blink. Her furious blush had not dimmed since he had hauled her out of the forest and set her between his horse and the wagon, curtailing any more attempts to escape.

He narrowed his eyes, willing her to yield, but her glare did not falter. Irritation swelled within him, as hot as the desire he was struggling to leash. He had only to look at her, and her fragrance, the crush of linen against his hands, the warmth of her quivering body, hummed anew in his blood.

He squashed the foolish, inconvenient lust. “I do not offer you a choice.”

“How dare you demand further indignations of me? I shall
not
sit with my legs dangling either side of that beast.”

“You fear your modesty will be compromised?” When her lips parted on a shocked gasp, Geoffrey chuckled. “Next time I abduct a lady, I will remember to bring a side saddle. I do not have one now, so you will ride like the rest of us.” He smiled his crooked smile that, through the years, had swayed countless women’s hearts. “Unless you prefer to walk?”

Elizabeth huffed and looked away. “Rogue.”

“At last, you concede.” He grabbed the drab woolen cloak draped over the destrier’s saddle and tossed it to her. She let it crumple at her feet. He shrugged and tightened his horse’s girth. “Put it on.”

“If I do not?”

Her insolent whisper pricked his thinning patience. “If you do not,” he said, “I shall be forced to heap further indignity upon you. I may dress you in the cloak myself, even if I must wrestle you to the ground and hold you down to accomplish it. You will make an even more fetching sight with flowers and grass in your hair.” He gave the leather strap a firm tug. “Mayhap I should summon Viscon, and let him take care of the matter.”

She sighed, a sound of reluctant defeat. He cast her a sidelong glance, and watched her pick up the cloak. His gaze skimmed her dirty face. She looked exhausted. Fragile.

As she drew the yards of brown wool over her shoulders, fresh blood glinted on her brow. In her idiotic dash for freedom, she had reopened her wound.

He cursed a stab of pity and lashed his leather bag to the saddle. He had no wish to coddle her on the journey.

Not when in the secluded forest, his blood had heated, his loins had hardened, and his mind had turned to less noble, but far more pleasurable, ways to slake his revenge.

He had intended for her to ride with him, where he could keep close watch on her, but the thought of her enticing body brushing against his . . . Aye, ’twould be wiser if she did not ride with him, after all.

The
thud
of hooves brought his head up. Troy led his horse, a sway backed blue roan, to a halt beside the wagon’s spoked wheel. “The men are ready, milord.”

“Good. The lady will ride with you.”

In the midst of adjusting the cloak, Elizabeth stilled. Her eyes widened, and she glanced at his destrier. “I thought—”

“Troy has more patience than I. He will sit behind you and keep you from falling off.” Biting the inside of his cheek, Geoffrey added, “Since you cannot ride astride.”

Her color deepened. “Why you—”

“Milady!” A cloak draped over one arm, the matron squeezed past the roan’s hindquarters and set her hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I tried to attend you sooner, but that miserable Viscon would not allow it.” Her gaze traveled over Elizabeth and her face pinched. “My poor lamb. What wretched garments we are forced to wear. I pray they are not infested with fleas, and do not bring you out in a rash.”

The matron shot Geoffrey a withering glare. His lips twitched. She thought to intimidate
him?
He had clashed swords with bloodthirsty Saracens and triumphed.

He raised his brows.

“Harrumph!” Mildred picked up the cloak, shook it out with a perfunctory snap, and fastened it over the black mantle.

Over glinting gold.

Warning tingled through Geoffrey. He had forgotten about the brooch. “Wait.”

He stepped forward and parted the cloak’s edges with his fingers. The matron squawked and swatted his hand, but he managed to unfasten the ornament. It dropped into his palm.

“Nay!” Elizabeth lunged forward, but Troy caught her arm. She cursed and struggled.

Geoffrey rubbed the intricate scrolled pattern with his thumb. The metalwork was of superb quality, a masterful blend of gold and artistic design.

“Give me my brooch.” Hurt and anger rang in Elizabeth’s voice.

He wondered what the ornament meant to her. Mayhap one of her adoring suitors had given it to her, or Sedgewick.