Medieval Rogues (15 page)

Veronique clapped. “Well done, milord.” The guards laughed, sheathed their swords, and the buzz of laughter and chatter resumed.

Geoffrey stared at Elizabeth’s down-turned face, hidden by the black veil of her hair. She shook in his grasp, the bones of her wrist jumping like a bird’s trapped wing. He heard a sound like a sniffle. Tears? He hoped not. He released her, then strode around the table and picked up the dagger.

With his cuff, he wiped his neck. The wound did not feel more than a scratch.

Veronique hurried to him, and her fingers brushed his jaw. “Does the wound hurt? Shall I bandage it for you?”

Motioning for guards to watch Elizabeth, Geoffrey took Veronique’s elbow and led her to a quiet corner. “Give me the brooch.”

Disbelief gleamed in her amber eyes.

“You should not have gone through my belongings.”

She pulled away, her crimson lips set in a pout. “You never minded in the past. When I needed coins to buy my oils, you told me to take what I liked.”

“That does not mean you may claim whatever you wish as yours.”

A sly smile curved her mouth, and she ran a finger over the brooch. “I thought you had bought it for me, milord. You promised me a favor after what happened last evening. Remember?”

Fury leapt inside him. He had not promised her a gift wrought from solid gold. He bit back a scathing retort and held out his hand. “The brooch is not mine. Nor is it for you. I will have it.”

Her mouth flattened, but she reached to her cleavage and unpinned the ornament. She dropped it into his palm. As she drew away, her nails trailed over his skin, a reminder of a past, wild night of lovemaking. “I did not expect you to concede to her.”

He ignored her scorn. “I concede naught.” He glanced at Elizabeth, who stood behind the lord’s table, the guards flanking her. Despite the watery glitter of her eyes, she kept her head high and met his stare with one of bold determination.

Looking back at Veronique, he said, “We will speak more of this later.” He turned on his heel and strode to the table. “Milady, come.”

She clasped her hands together. “Before you punish me, I would like my brooch. Please.”

He tipped his head to the guards. “Bring her. By force if need be.”

Elizabeth’s throat moved on a swallow. “I will walk.” She rubbed her eyes and, with rigid strides, skirted the table.

Geoffrey stalked across the hall to the stairwell. Children and dogs scampered out of his way. He climbed the winding stairs and threw open the door to the wall walk. The wind whistled, buffeted him, and stung his eyes, but he strode to the edge and looked down through the squared crenel to the fields below, where sheaves of wheat dried under the sun.

Light footfalls approached behind him.

“Guards,” he said without turning, “stand watch at the stairwell.”

“Aye, milord.”

He cast Elizabeth a sidelong glance. The wind tangled her hair, blowing it over her shoulders and down her back. She moistened her lips with her tongue, a nervous gesture he had come to recognize. Desire flared, and he forced his gaze back to the fields.

“Why have you brought me here?” she asked. “To throw me over the edge?”

Geoffrey laughed. “A tempting thought.” He touched his neck and found the bleeding had stopped.

Her gaze fell to the crimson stains on his cuff. Guilt shadowed her eyes and turned them the color of a winter sky. “I did not mean to draw blood.”

“By the morrow, ’twill be a mere scratch. I will accept your apology, milady,”—he met her gaze—“if you tell me why you risked yourself harm for this brooch.” He opened his palm, and the gold gleamed against his skin.

She glanced away. Her hands swept up and down her arms, as one did to ward off a chill. “I told you, it belonged to my mother.”

“A gift?”

“Aye.” Sadness dulled her voice.

He sensed her anguish ran deep. He listened to the wind howl around the crenellated stone like a wounded dog, and waited.

When she spoke, her voice was a raw whisper. “My mother gave the brooch to me on the day she died. She was with child. Her birthing pains had started weeks too soon, and she knew something was wrong.” Elizabeth paused. “I saw fear in her eyes. When I asked how I could help . . .”

“Go on,” he coaxed.

“S-she told me to fetch the brooch. Told me it was mine. Told me to remember her when I wore it close to my heart. She said she would always love me, even when we could not be together any longer.”

A shivered sigh left Elizabeth. “Her hands were so cold. I begged her to lie down and rest. She fell back on the bed, and screamed . . . and screamed . . . The brooch fell into my hand. I could not save her. The midwife could not—” Her words trailed off with a choked sob.

Geoffrey dragged his hand through his hair. He resisted the urge to draw her into his arms. To comfort her with hushed words. To dry the tears that streamed down her cheeks and she brushed away with shaking fingers.

He could not offer her comfort. She was danger, soft and tempting. She had the power to destroy him, if she knew how.

“The babe lived for a day. She was tiny and beautiful. My father was so distraught over my mother’s death, he could not look upon his child.” Elizabeth sniffled. “I found a maidservant to nurse her. I sat by the fire and rocked her, and held her in my arms through the night. My sister was too weak.”

Steeling himself against her torment, Geoffrey touched her shoulder. “I am sorry.”

“Are you?”

Her words had held no challenge, only grief. “I would not have said so if—”

She shrugged free of his grasp and looked at him. “Now will you return my brooch?”

“I cannot.”

“You could if you wished.” Her wet eyes sparked with blue fire. “You plan to sell the gold to pay for your revenge against my father.”

Geoffrey’s fingers closed around the gold. The brooch’s fastening, as sharp as a fang, bit into his palm. “I respect your love for your mother.” Bitterness hardened his tone. “Yet, your torment is no different to that of a boy who watches his father die.”

Her posture stiffened. “You were with your sire when—?”

“Aye.”

“You saw my father kill him?”

Geoffrey shook his head and fought a flood of anguish. “I did not see the knight’s face, for he wore a helm. Yet, I saw his back as he jerked his sword from my father’s body and walked away. I dragged my father to a horse. I took him to safety. He died in a rat-infested stable.”

Her breath rasped between her lips. “Mayhap ’twas not my sire.”

“We both know it was,” Geoffrey snarled.

The wind screamed, whipping the hem of her skirt against his knees. She rubbed her arms again. “My father and his army carried out an order from the king. Edouard de Lanceau was a traitor.”

“Was he? To my knowledge, my father never abandoned his support for King Henry in written or spoken word, or in deed.”

Her face looked pale against her glistening eyes. “You lie. The king would not have ordered a siege unless he had proof.”

“Mayhap my father was betrayed.”

“Do not twist the truth with falsehoods!” Hair tumbled down over her bodice and the thrust of her breasts, and she flicked it aside with her hand. She glared at him. Tension poured from her like water from an unleashed dam.

Rage burned in his blood. Desire warred with his reason and conscience. Even now, he wanted her. He longed to touch her, to find oblivion in her kisses and sweet body. He cursed his wretched weakness.

“Do you believe all that you are told to be true?” he said, returning the sting of her words. “Would you believe me, milady, if I said your betrothed, Baron Sedgewick, is rumored to have beaten one of his wives so she could no longer walk?”

Elizabeth shook her head.

“He took the Earl of Druentwode’s daughter as his third bride. She was a kind, gentle girl who loved music. I was told she lived in fear of the baron until the day she died.”

“Nay,” Elizabeth whispered.

“I do not know if that rumor is true or a lie. Do you?”

“I care not what the gossips say about the baron. My father is innocent of wrongdoing.” Her voice quavered. “He obeyed the king’s command when he besieged Wode. He did so because of your father’s treachery.
That
is the truth. Do not try to sway me with deceit.”

She blazed defiance, determined she was right and he was the monster. Easing his hold on the brooch, Geoffrey leaned his elbow on the rough stone merlon. “I remember one night at Wode when my father dined with four or five other lords. I had returned for a visit; for after my eighth summer, my father sent me to the Earl of Druentwode’s keep to serve as a page.”

“If you aim to beguile me with more falsehoods about my father, you will not succeed,” she warned and crossed her arms.

He scowled. “Pray, listen. I left the merriment in the hall to fetch a wooden box I had made under the tutelage of the earl’s carpenter. I was proud of my work. I could not wait to show my father.”

She made a disparaging sound. “Milord—”

“When I came back down the stairwell, I heard my father shouting. His bellow frightened me as a boy, and I felt real fear then. I crept down to the bottom stair, held my box to my chest, and listened.” He swallowed, the moment reviving in his mind. “I heard him condemning a plot to support the king’s son and rebellion. My sire refused to take part. He ordered all of his guests to quit the hall and never set foot within Wode’s walls again. Two days later, your father attacked Wode.”

He had shocked her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape.

Her cheeks pinkened, and she looked away. “Mayhap you remember what you wish to believe. ’Tis no sin to remember with fondness those who are dead.”

“I did not invent my memories. I will never forget my father’s face when he strode past me, or his silence when I found him in the chapel later.” Geoffrey brushed tangled hair from his brow. “Do you believe I speak false of the treachery? Of my father’s words?”

For a long moment, she did not answer. “I cannot pass judgment on what I do not know.”

“What could not be proven,” he corrected. He had tried, as had the Earl of Druentwode, but had found naught.

She closed her eyes against the gusting wind, her lashes dark against her milk white skin. Geoffrey sensed confusion undermining her anger. Again, he fought the urge to touch her.

His emotions ran high because he had spoken of the past and reopened wounds that bared his soul.

He could not care for Brackendale’s daughter.

He did not dare.

“I have no doubt you loved your father,” she said, her words hushed by the wind, “as I loved my mother.”

“It seems so.”

“A bitter irony, milord, that we have this in common.”

He nodded. “If I could return your mother’s brooch, I would.”

Her gaze cooled. “Spare me your gilded lies.”

“I do not deceive you.”

“Nay?” She whirled, and her skirt flared out around her slender legs. “You know why I treasure the brooch, yet you will not give it back. How foolish that I shared my mother and sister’s memory with you. I wish I had not.”

Tears shone along her lashes. “Your heart is as corrupt as your father’s. I do not doubt his treachery. I do not doubt my father’s guilelessness. Nor do I doubt my sire will rescue me and crush this keep into a heap of blackened rubble.”

***

De Lanceau’s eyes hardened to the gray of chilled stone. Relief shivered through Elizabeth, for the compassion in his gaze had vanished. She
had
to hurt him. She had to reinforce the emotional barricade between them, before she dissolved into a sobbing mess and begged him to wrap his arms around her.

“So be it, milady,” he snarled. He turned and walked toward the guards.

Elizabeth turned her face into the breeze and inhaled the scents of wind-scoured stone and wheat. Regret washed through her. Her vision blurred, and she blinked to halt fresh tears. She had laid her heart bare to her enemy, and, God help her, he had understood.

She had shared her grief over her mother’s passing with Aldwin and Mildred, but no others. Not even her father, who had changed from the day of her mother’s death into a different man. He had shown little outward suffering, but had attacked his duties as though his estates were being overrun by demons of chaos. He had been too busy with demands of the estate to hug her as she wept.

De Lanceau, in turn, had told her of his sire and possible betrayal. Could his words hold any truth?

Nay.

Yet, even if they did, her sire had acted with honor and obeyed his duty to the king.

Voices cut through the wailing wind. Behind her, the door slammed. She turned to find the guards waiting, their expressions impassive.

One man pulled the door open, and Elizabeth preceded them into the stairwell. The air smelled smoky and stale, but the familiar scents revitalized her spirit. They reminded her anew of her captivity, her vow to escape, and her foolishness.

How could she have craved the embrace of her father’s enemy? She must find a way out of Branton Keep as soon as possible.

Squinting in the dim torchlight, Elizabeth guided her descent with a palm on the wall, the guards a few paces behind. To her surprise, they did not escort her to her chamber, but to the great hall. Most of the castle folk had gone, and the tables were covered with empty trenchers, ale mugs, and spilled gravy.