Medieval Rogues (17 page)

He had such a task.

Painful memories careened into Geoffrey’s mind, and he steeled himself against the agony. He had not forgotten and neglected the work, but had saved it until he met an embroiderer with the skill to renew its glory.

Of all ironies, Lady Elizabeth Brackendale had such skill.

A sour taste flooded his mouth. She would never agree, not when she understood why. Yet, now, more than ever, he wanted the work done.

He would not allow her to refuse.

Shoving his chair back, he rose. Dominic’s head jerked up from the parchment, and he looked puzzled. “Milord?”

“Wait here. I will return in a moment.”

***

Elizabeth shoved the tunic down on her lap, swiveled in the chair, and glared at her lady-in-waiting. “How could you? Why did you tell that rogue about my mother’s skill, and mine?”

“I am sorry.” Mildred sighed. “I did not mean to upset you, but I did not think you would mind.”

Elizabeth scowled.

“’Tis not so terrible, is it?” Folding her wrinkled hands together, the matron smiled. “Now he will treat you with the respect you deserve. He seemed impressed by the revelations.”

“I do not care to impress him.” Elizabeth’s tone raised a notch. “You and I are hostages. Have you forgotten we were brought here against our will?”

The warmth vanished from Mildred’s gaze. “I have not forgotten. Nor shall I stop trying to find us a means of escape. Yet, I will do all I can to protect you. You may be a noblewoman, but all the titles in England cannot save you if de Lanceau decides to take you to his bed.”

A gasp parted Elizabeth’s lips.

Reaching over, Mildred touched Elizabeth’s hand. “I do not mean to alarm you, but we have both heard the stories of maidens held for ransom, who return home with bastards in their bellies.”

A log shifted in the hearth. Flames roared, masking Elizabeth’s outraged huff. “He would not dare.”

“He seems to have treated you with honor thus far, despite his contempt for your sire.” Mildred’s lips tilted in a saucy grin. “I do believe de Lanceau respects you. Respect, milady, has a power all its own.”

A draft blew across the floor, and the fire flickered. Elizabeth shivered. Was de Lanceau’s kiss in her chamber the prelude to his ravishing her? She stared down at the tunic and found it wadded into a ball.

“Do not worry.” Mildred smothered a yawn with her sleeve. “Keep your wits about you, and all will be well.”

“Good advice, milady.”

Elizabeth started at the sound of de Lanceau’s voice. She had not heard him approach. He stood a few paces away, holding a length of blue silk.

Fighting a blush, she asked, “How long were you listening?”

“I heard no more than Mildred’s last words. Should I have come earlier?”

“Harrumph!” Mildred waved a disparaging hand. “You must have more important concerns than our chatter.”

“Indeed, I do.” Striding closer to Elizabeth, he held out the silk. The tattered, embroidered emblem of a hawk, its wings outstretched for flight, flashed in the sunlight. The faded material was stained and torn almost beyond repair.

She raised her brows. “Another tunic?”

Anger glowed in his eyes. “A saddle trapping. One I have kept for eighteen years.”

His words hit her like stones. “Your father’s?”

De Lanceau nodded. “I took it from his horse the night he died. When you are done with the tunic, I want you to mend this trapping. I expect your finest work.”

Elizabeth tossed the tunic aside and lunged to her feet. “Never!”

He loomed over her, his face a determined mask. “My destrier will wear it when I ride into battle against your sire. Your father will know that I am proud to be a de Lanceau, and that I am not afraid to avenge my sire.”

Rage shook her to her very soul. “I will not.”

“You will. I know many methods of persuasion.” His gaze smoldered with warning, and he stared at her mouth. “I vow you are familiar with a few.”

She was indeed. Her mind and body tormented her with constant reminders. Elizabeth lowered her lashes, refused to let him see her fear. “You are a beast.”

His laughter rumbled. “Then you agree?”

A scathing refusal welled in her throat. Yet, “nay” was a poor answer when he could force her to yield. If he confined her to her chamber, she might never get a chance to flee. Far wiser to say “aye” and escape him before she finished what he demanded.

Her lips pressed into a line, and she glared up at him with all the fury boiling inside her. “I agree. Not because of your threats, but because you are doomed to fail. Your horse may wear your sire’s trapping, but my father will destroy you.”

“We shall see, milady.”

“Aye, we shall.”

He pushed the trapping into her hands and stormed away. His muttered voice drifted back to her, as he spoke with Dominic.

Mildred shook her head. “If I had known he would use your talents in such a way, I would never have—”

“Do not blame yourself.” Elizabeth sat back in the chair and set the trapping on the side table. Lowering her voice, she added, “I will not complete it. We will be free before then.”

The matron grinned.

Moments later, de Lanceau left the hall, holding the parchment. Dominic walked at his side. As soon as the rogue disappeared from view, Elizabeth exhaled a long breath. Her rigid posture eased.

Mildred soon succumbed to the fire’s warmth and dozed with her chin drooping to the front of her gown.

While Elizabeth stitched the tunic, she heard the servants talking, the rattle of crockery as they cleared and scrubbed the tables, the yelp of a dog when it got underfoot. She also learned to distinguish the voices of the two guards by the stairwell, who amused themselves with a game of dice as the day passed. From their rough conversation, she gathered the keep had one well, a gatehouse guarded day and night, and too few horses for their liking, details she tucked away at the back of her mind for her and Mildred’s escape.

The fire had burned low when Elizabeth tied the final knot in the thread. Smothering a yawn, she held the tunic up to the fading sunshine and shook out the creases. The embroidery caught the firelight and flashed like a fish out of water.

“’Tis an excellent repair, milady.” The matron smiled and looked refreshed after her nap.

“It did mend well.” Elizabeth inspected the tiny stitches one last time, pleased herself at how she could not see where the tear had once split the pattern on the hem.

Her eyes shining, Elena came to the hearth. “Milady, the tunic looks new again. How can I thank you for helping me?”

Elizabeth covered her mouth with her hand and trapped another yawn. She thought of the agreement Dominic had struck with her that morning that had brought her to the hall, and bit back a disappointed sigh. The rogue had never intended to keep his word.

Shifting in the chair, she eased the cramp in her bottom from sitting so long on a hard seat. With a rueful laugh, she said, “A hot bath would be wonderful.”

Elena nodded. “I will fetch it.”

Elizabeth almost fell out of her chair. “What did you say?”

“Milord told me to bring a bath upon your request.”

“He did?” After their heated words regarding the trapping earlier, she had not expected him to follow through with his vow.

“Lord de Lanceau is a man of great honor. He would never break his word. Not a promise made to a lady.”

“How chivalrous,” Elizabeth murmured and glanced at Mildred, who arched an eyebrow.

“I shall send the bath to your chamber, milady,” Elena said. “I will come and assist you as soon as I have fetched soap, towels, and a basin to rinse your hair.” She curtsied and hurried away, muttering under her breath and ticking off items on her fingers as she went.

At the tromp of approaching footsteps, Elizabeth stood. The guards had come to escort her and Mildred to their chambers.

After anchoring the needle into the remaining thread, she placed both on the table beside the folded tunic. She turned and hugged Mildred. “I will see you anon.”

She drew away, but the matron took her hand. “I am glad he granted you the bath. The rogue has a heart, after all.”

Elizabeth frowned. “We shall see.”

A smile touched Mildred’s lips. “I think we shall.”

***

Geoffrey met Elena in the stairwell. Head down, one hand flat against the stone wall, she almost ran into him as she descended the spiraling passage.

“Milord.” She dropped into an awkward curtsey.

“You are out of breath.” He squinted up at her through the smoky torchlight and wished he could read her expression. “All is well?”

“I am fetching the lady’s bath.”

“She has finished the tunic?”

Elena’s head bobbed. “You will be most pleased.”

He stepped to one side and motioned for the maid to pass. Her footsteps faded as he climbed the last steps, two at a time, to the great hall.

Without breaking his stride, Geoffrey crossed to the empty chairs near the hearth. The garment lay folded on the side table, its design glittering in the firelight.

He held the tunic up for a better look and a smile tugged at his mouth. As he expected, the damsel had done well. Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, he let the garment slide to the table.

His gaze shifted to the trapping, pushed to one side. He rubbed his fingers over the tattered, torn fabric. She resented his demand to mend it, but she had the skill to stitch life back into the cloth, to make the embroidered hawk soar again. He trusted her to make it worthy of his father’s memory.

To make it whole.

He lowered his arm and his fingers grazed the parchment tucked into his belt for safekeeping. Today he had learned a great deal about Elizabeth, and also the mother she had adored, a lady who had cared enough about her daughter to spend days teaching her difficult needlework. A vision of Elizabeth’s tear-streaked face and anguished gaze flew into his thoughts, and a heavy weight pressed upon his conscience. He forced the memory from his mind.

A child’s giggle carried in the hall, and he turned to see a dark-haired toddler dart behind one of the chairs.

“Roydon, come at once.” Elena appeared at the top of the stairwell, her cheeks flushed and her arms laden with linen towels, rags, and a cake of white soap. “Roydon!”

Geoffrey grinned and pointed to the hearth. “There.”

Elena saw him and attempted a curtsey, but the soap tumbled off her pile, followed by two of the towels.

Chuckling, Geoffrey rounded the chair and crept up behind the little boy who was crouched down, watching Elena pick up the fallen items. With a mighty roar, he grabbed the child around the waist and swung him high in the air. Roydon squealed in delight, before Geoffrey set the squirming boy down.

His eyes shone with excitement as he stared up at Geoffrey. “Again.”

“Roydon,” Elena said in a gentle but firm voice. “To bed with you. I have a lady to tend.”

He stuck out his bottom lip. “Mama, ’tis not fair.”

Reaching down, she took Roydon’s chubby hand in hers and hurried across the hall.

“Elena,” Geoffrey called to her.

She halted and looked back at him. “A-aye, milord?”

“When the lady has finished her bath, bring her to me.”
 

Chapter Eleven

“The water is getting cool, milady. I will fetch you a towel.” Elena set aside the lathered soap and pushed to her feet beside the round wooden tub.

With a reluctant nod, Elizabeth trailed her fingers one last time through the lukewarm bathwater. Candlelight winked off the rippled surface, and the scents of rose, lavender, and cinnamon drifted up to her. Elena had poured the fragrance earlier from a glass-stoppered bottle into the bath, and, closing her eyes, Elizabeth savored the exotic essence that reminded her of faraway lands.

When she raised her lashes, Elena waited beside the tub. “Please, you must not get a chill.”

Elizabeth sighed. After rinsing a soap bubble from her arm, she stood. Water dripped from her hair and body. Shivering, she stepped out of the tub and into the towel Elena held out.

Concern in her gaze, the maid poured a mug of wine from a flask on the table. “Drink. ’Twill warm you.”

Elizabeth swallowed a mouthful, glad of the heated glow flowing down inside her.

Once dried, with a towel wrapped around her hair, she took the clean chemise Elena offered. The sheer undergarment was not cut from coarse linen, but fine silk, and felt as light as goose down against Elizabeth’s palm.

“Whose garment is this?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.

Elena lowered her gaze. “Veronique’s, milady.”

“Why does she lend it to me?”

“I cannot say.”

Memories of Veronique flaunting the gold brooch and her vain hostility whirled through Elizabeth’s mind, and she wondered at the courtesan’s motives for being kind. Elizabeth’s fingers curled into the silk, and she drank more wine to wash down the bitter taste of indignation.

Dropping the chemise on the table, she said, “I prefer the one I wore before.”