A Knight's Vengeance (10 page)

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 musky

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."

"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 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, yet her glare did not falter. Irritation swelled within him, 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.

Or even her accursed father.

Elizabeth stretched out her hand, palm upturned, fingers curled like a water lily's petals. "Give it back. I demand it."

Words ground between Geoffrey's teeth.
"Demand?
So you can use it to bribe one of my men and escape?" His fingers closed around the shimmering gold. "I think not."

"'Tis mine!"

He locked his heart and mind against her shrieks. He would not return the brooch. By doing so, he could jeopardize his victory, and he had waited too many years for revenge.

Geoffrey turned his back to her and slipped the gold into his bag. "Troy, get her on the horse." Over her indignant cries, he shouted, "Paul.
Viscon.
Bring a horse for Mildred. Be quick about it."

*
    
*
    
*

The roan stumbled. Elizabeth pitched forward, then back against Troy's chest. Her breath expelled on a groaned "oomph." The cursed nag seemed to find every one of the road's potholes and raised stones.

Elizabeth straightened and drew back the edge of the cloak's hood which shielded her face. Viscon rode on her right, his scarred hand braced upon his knee, his saddle creaking like a hangman's noose.

Shuddering, she recalled the gleam in de Lanceau's eyes when he had spurred his destrier up alongside her several leagues back. He had ordered Mildred and Paul, riding on her left, to the back of the entourage. No doubt he had done so to separate her from her one ally on the journey.

Fury had whooshed through Elizabeth like a summer fire, for she had indeed planned to conspire with Mildred to leave clues behind—a dropped shoe, or even a torn bit of shift. When de Lanceau had addressed her and asked if she were all right, Elizabeth had stared off at the fields and refused to answer.