Medieval Rogues (16 page)

A coy giggle drew her gaze to the dais. De Lanceau stood with his hands braced on the marred oak, speaking to Veronique who had claimed Elizabeth’s place. The courtesan smiled and offered him a goblet of wine. He took it and drank.

Elizabeth tore her gaze away and wiped her damp hands on her bliaut. She fought a ridiculous pang of jealousy. She did not care what the rogue did with his lover. The fresh air and emotion-laden talk had addled her senses.

Mildred waved from the trestle table. She looked worried. “Milady.”

Moving away from her guards, Elizabeth started toward her lady-in-waiting.

Dominic intercepted her and matched her strides. “You are well? You suffered no punishment at milord’s hand?”

“None.”

He grinned. “Good.”

A smile tugged at Elizabeth’s mouth. She might have grinned back, if de Lanceau had not straightened and looked at her.

His lazy grin faded. His gaze shifted to Dominic. “’Tis done?”

“Aye.” Dominic withdrew a rolled parchment from under his belt, strode to de Lanceau, and handed it over. “I included all of your demands.”

Elizabeth halted. “Demands?”

“Your ransom,” de Lanceau muttered.

Veronique laughed.

The air seemed to thicken. Elizabeth dragged in a breath, and the tang of burning pitch, drifting from the hearth, burned her nostrils. “Why did you not send it long ago?”

De Lanceau eased the parchment’s edges apart and unrolled the skin. “I wanted to be sure your father missed you, though mayhap he enjoyed relief from your bold tongue.”

She ignored the taunt. “What do you demand of him?”

“’Tis not a matter for your concern.”

“He is my father.”

Geoffrey smoothed a ragged corner with his finger. “You wish to know how I will destroy the great Lord Arthur Brackendale?” His ruthless gaze locked with hers. “I demand all that should have been mine. Every plot of land, title, and fortune that I should have inherited from my father, right down to the last bit of silver.”

Elizabeth’s outrage burned like dry kindling. “He will not agree.”

“In exchange for your safe return? Do you not think your father will yield?”

She forced a painful swallow which tasted of bitter resentment and fear. “Is that the sum of your demands, or will you kill him too?”

“You will learn that answer soon enough.”

“Tell me now.”

His gaze clashed with hers. Beyond the furious glitter, she saw resolve not to tell her more than he deemed necessary. “I suggest you and Mildred spend a few quiet moments by the fire.” He looked to the end of the table, where Mildred stood arguing with one of the guards. Geoffrey flicked his hand, and the man stepped aside and let the matron pass.

Desperation clawed up inside Elizabeth. “Tell me!”

His mouth thinned. “This is your last warning. Leave us.” He pointed to the hearth. “Go, before I decide to lock you back in your chamber.”

Elizabeth gnawed her lip. She must know her father’s fate . . . yet at the same time, she feared de Lanceau’s answer. Imprisoned within Branton’s walls, she could not stop his terrible plot for revenge.

Unless she escaped.

Unless he no longer had a pawn with which to barter.

Tension seethed inside her, but she turned and walked to Mildred. Murmurs and the scrape of chairs rose behind her. She glanced back to see de Lanceau and Dominic hunched over the parchment, weighted down at each corner with goblets. Seated beside Geoffrey, Veronique picked at a fresh trencher of stew and looked vexed.

Mildred came to Elizabeth side. The matron smiled before linking her fleshy arm through Elizabeth’s. “Do not worry,” she said in a low voice. “We shall find a way to thwart de Lanceau.”

“Escape,” Elizabeth murmured.

Mildred winked. “When the opportunity arises. For now, we will watch, listen, and wait.”

While they walked toward the massive blackened arch of the hearth, Elizabeth listened to Mildred chatter. Elizabeth was relieved to hear that despite the days spent in solitude, the matron had not been mistreated in any way. Elena also had brought her meals and helped her dress and wash.

“And you, milady? Have you been treated well?”

Elizabeth nodded. The temptation to blurt out all that had transpired between her and de Lanceau was overwhelming, but she thought better of giving the older woman cause for concern.

They neared the fire. Flames roared over the huge mound of logs and cast an orange glow over the glazed hearth tiles. Several chairs and a side table were lined up before the fire’s warmth. Elena sat in one of the chairs, her head bowed over a task in her lap. She cursed and shook her head.

Elizabeth withdrew her arm from Mildred’s. “Elena?”

The maid did not look up as Elizabeth rounded the chair. A silk tunic lay across Elena’s lap. In her hand she held part of the embroidered hem, damaged by a jagged tear. She jabbed the bone needle into the fabric.

“Ouch!” Elena groaned, dropped the cloth, and sucked the spot of blood on her thumb.

“Elena?” Elizabeth repeated.

The maid glanced up, her eyes round with worry. “Milady. Mildred.”

“What is the matter?” the matron asked.

“How will I finish mending this tunic?” Her hands shook, and her face looked ashen. Dropping down on her knees, Elizabeth placed a comforting hand on the maid’s arm.

“Milord asked me to fix the rip,” Elena said with a sniffle. “I have not yet rinsed all the laundry. Mistress Peg asked me to scrub the kitchen floor and chop cabbage and leeks for chicken pies, and I need to see the children fed.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I should not complain, but I have much to do and I am tired.”

“Let me have a look.” Elizabeth took the garment.

“Milady?” Elena whispered.

With gentle fingers, Elizabeth inspected the tear and frayed silver embroidery threads, and mulled the best way to fix them. Her mother had taught her the most difficult embroidery stitches. With care and patience, even the worst rips could be mended.

Her fingers stilled. The tunic must be de Lanceau’s. For that reason alone, she should not help repair it. Yet, when she glanced up and saw Elena’s tear-streaked face, Elizabeth’s reluctance melted. She must help the poor woman.

“The material must be held tighter,” Elizabeth said. “Otherwise the silk will sag and be hard to sew. Try to make your stitches smaller. Like this.”

Elizabeth pressed the needle into the fabric and took three quick stitches. Her swift, neat work won her a smile from Elena.

Taking the tunic back, the maid tried again. Elizabeth struggled not to frown. Elena’s second attempt was better, but her care made her slow. ’Twould take her the entire afternoon to finish the task.

It had been days since Elizabeth had embroidered, and she missed working on the orphans’ clothes. Focusing on the stitches, pulling the thread just so, and seeing the pattern form on the cloth would be a pleasant diversion.

When Elena’s slow progress continued, Elizabeth squeezed the maid’s arm. “Go to your tasks. I will finish this for you.”

“
You?
Nay, milady. ’Twould not do.”

Mildred’s chest puffed out like a proud mother hen’s. “Why not? She is a fine embroiderer.”

Before the maid could utter another protest, Elizabeth curled up in one of the chairs and pulled the tunic onto her lap. Her fingers flew over the silk, each stitch light and deft, and within moments she had mended part of the tear.

Elena stood and glanced at the lord’s table. Elizabeth peered around the chair, and saw the men were still bent over the parchment. Dominic looked to be illustrating a point with his finger while de Lanceau nodded, his brow creased into a frown.

The maid shook her head. “If milord finds out—”

Standing next to the hearth, Mildred snorted. “He is far too busy with other matters to worry about a little needlework.” She plopped down in an empty chair, folded her hands over her plump belly, and closed her eyes.

Elizabeth had just resumed her work when a shadow blocked her light. She shifted her weight to take advantage of another slant of sunshine, when realization tore through her in a hot-cold tremor.

De Lanceau stood behind her.

“What mischief do you make, milady?” His voice rumbled like thunder.

Clutching the tunic, Elizabeth leapt to her feet. Partway to the stairwell, Elena spun and looked about to faint with fright. Her mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

De Lanceau looked from Elena to Mildred, then at Elizabeth. As he folded his arms and quirked an eyebrow, she shivered. “Well?”

Mildred cleared her throat. “Milord, if I may explain.”

His gaze did not move from Elizabeth’s face. “Aye?”

“Milady offered to help Elena with the embroidery,” the matron said matter-of-factly.

“Did she, now?” He snatched the tunic from Elizabeth’s hands and scrutinized her stitches. Surprise and admiration lightened his gaze, and his lashes flicked up. “
You
did this?”

“I did.”

He swiveled and faced Elena. “Is that so?”

The maid nodded.

“Your work is fine, damsel. Very fine, indeed.” His mouth curved into a grudging, lop-sided grin.

Elizabeth’s breath suspended, caught by a shimmering magic. His smile held no hint of mockery or malice, but genuine respect. A reverent gleam in his eyes, he traced the embroidery with his thumb. She forced herself to look away.

The matron beamed. “Lady Anne had uncommon skill with a needle and thread, and taught Elizabeth. You were but a scrawny girl when you learned your first stitches, were you not, milady?”

A groan scratched Elizabeth’s throat. “Mildred.”

De Lanceau chuckled.

The matron tossed her gray braid. “He should appreciate your talent. Many noble ladies embroider, but few have the skill of our dear Lady Anne, bless her departed soul.” Her thick brows rose. “Or you, milady. I would wager every good tooth in my mouth that your stitching is the finest in all of England.”

Elizabeth blushed. “Mildred.”

The rogue’s grin widened, and Elizabeth’s stomach swooped like one of the diving robins.

“With your talent, he should be paying you to fix that tunic.”

An exasperated sigh burst from Elizabeth. “Mildred, cease!”

De Lanceau laughed. “Fret not, milady.”

Her face burning, Elizabeth dared to glance at him. His eyes glinted with humor. He bowed his head to her, an elegant, chivalric gesture that made her pulse thump a little faster, and held the tunic out to her.

She hesitated, pretending she did not care whether she finished the task or not, then took it. His smile broadened, and, to her dismay, her blush deepened. She cursed herself for reacting like a giddy girl.

“Milord,” Elena said in a hushed voice, her fingers knotted into the front of her bliaut. “May I—”

He dismissed her with a nod. “Resume your duties.”

Elena pointed to the silk in Elizabeth’s hand. “The tear?”

“Lady Elizabeth will finish the repair, since she has the greater skill. If she so wishes,” he added.

Confusion and pleasure spiraled within Elizabeth like windblown leaves. He gave her a choice. She looked down at the frayed silk.

Rebellion nagged. She should refuse. He was her enemy, and she owed him naught but hatred. Yet, she would rather linger in the hall with Mildred than be cloistered in her chamber.

Nor had she forgotten her vow to escape.

“I will finish it.”

“I thank you,” he murmured.

The maid curtsied and hurried away.

Brushing a crease from the tunic, Elizabeth turned back to the chair by the fire. De Lanceau did not take his leave. She sensed his stare, and glanced over her shoulder.

Light played over his face and softened the hard line of his jaw. His gaze narrowed, and her fingers curled into the silk.

Emotion blazed in his eyes, yet she could not define his expression. Did he suspect her motives?

A strange half-smile touched his lips.

“Milord?”

“You never cease to amaze me, damsel.”

His husky murmur sent tingles skittering down her spine. Forbidden heat rushed through her. With shocking intensity, she remembered his lips upon hers, his caress, as well as the regret in his eyes when she had told him of her mother.

Her legs became unsteady. She dropped into the chair. With stiff fingers, she smoothed out the tunic and yanked the threaded needle into position.

De Lanceau strode away.

***

Geoffrey returned to the trestle table where Dominic waited. He sat, swallowed some wine, and bade Dominic to continue reviewing the last points of the ransom demand, yet Geoffrey’s thoughts refused to settle.

He imagined Elizabeth’s slender hands moving over his favorite tunic, and the whisper of silk against her fingertips.

Her task seemed intimate, somehow. Or his potent imagination mocked him.

As Dominic’s voice droned on, Geoffrey dragged his gaze from the parchment and looked to the hearth. She sat with her lady-in-waiting, their heads bowed in conversation. How she had hated Mildred telling of her embroidery skill. Yet, the lady had an exceptional talent few possessed. Her skill deserved more important projects than mending a tunic.