A Knight's Vengeance (12 page)

Her belly did an anxious turn, and, steadying herself, Elizabeth leaned against one of the bedposts. Her palm brushed rough wood. Glancing down, she saw the post had once splintered. The clumsy repair was the work of an apprentice rather than a skilled carpenter. She smiled. If she exerted enough pressure, mayhap she could snap the post again. She could use it to batter down the door, or, if that failed, knock senseless whoever next came into the chamber.

Linking her hands around the mended wood, she pulled, hard. The joint held firm.

Defeat wailed inside her. Refusing to listen, she crossed to the dust-covered trestle table and the bedside table set with candles. Neither held items that might aid her escape. Not even a book to hurl at a guard and distract him, while she dashed for the door.

De Lanceau had planned well.

Elizabeth slumped on the bed's edge. The ropes squeaked and sagged. Her eyes burned and she bit back a defeated sob.

She would
not
cry.

Lying on her side, her cheek pressed to the pillow, she stared at the opposite wall. She should remove her garments before she got a chill or soaked her blankets. Yet all strength had drained from her body.

Her eyelids drooped.
Wretched de Lanceau.
He had not sent a bath to ease her aching muscles, wash her wounds, and scrub away the wagon's filth. He had not offered her a meal, lumpy or not. She wrinkled her nose. The pillowcase, no doubt stored before it had dried, smelled sour; and the linen scratched her skin.

Her eyes closed. Elizabeth fought the ever-present dizziness. She must not rest. She must not sleep.

She must find a way to escape.

*
    
*
    
*

Geoffrey stood in the chamber doorway and listened to Elizabeth's rhythmic breathing. Hers was a sleep of sheer
exhaustion, free, for now, of emotional distress and memories that gnawed at one's soul until it bled.

How he envied her.

His leather boots creaked as he crossed the threshold. Moonlight slipped in through the cracks in the shutters and painted the room in an ethereal, silvery light. The maidservant Elena had left a candle burning beside the bed, but he did not need its light to see. Still, he did not snuff the flame.

Softening his strides, he approached the bed. He stared down at Elizabeth. Studied the beauty he had snared.

Willful damsel.
She had surprised him today with her defiance, but in the end she had only made the journey more difficult for herself.

She lay on her back, her hair tangled across the pillow, the bedding tucked about her shoulders. She had not stayed awake long enough for Elena to bring food or water to wash. The damsel had not even roused when the damp clothes were stripped from her body. When Elena had applied the last of the healing salve he had saved from the hospital at Acre to Elizabeth's temple, she had moaned, but not awakened. Not once.

His gaze skimmed over her cheek, brushed by moonlight. Did his eyes trick him, or did she look ill? Frowning, Geoffrey bent over her. Her lids were the color of cream above the dark fans of her lashes. Her mouth formed a gentle pout, innocent of the biting words she hurled at him at every

opportunity
. Elena said the lady had no fever, but he set his hand on her forehead to see for himself. Her flesh was warm, pulsing with life, but not hot.

She stirred.
Sighed.

He jerked back, and his face stung. He hoped he had not woken her. What would he say?

If he tried to leave the chamber now, he would wake her for certain.

Still as a tombstone, he counted his throbbing heartbeats.
Waited.
Her head drifted to one side, and her breathing slowed.

Relief whooshed through his body. He should leave and tend to the other matters demanding his attention this eve.

Yet the delicious warmth of her skin shimmered on his palm.

He longed to touch her again.

Caution blazed through him. Still, his traitorous fingers trailed a feather-light path down the side of her face. How smooth her skin felt against
his,
and as soft as the silk hawked in the crowded Venetian markets.

Her warmth curled up his hand. Reminded him, with arousing potency, of how good she had felt in his arms.

He ground his teeth and drew away from the bedside.

She had found a weakness in him. How he hated her for it.

The candle extinguished on his coarse oath. He could not afford weakness. Not when years of anguish and rage

had
led him to this pivotal point, and victory was so near.

This beauty was his enemy. He admired her boldness, but he would not let her weaken him. Not through desire. He turned and strode to the door. . Lady Elizabeth Brackendale would never touch his soul.

Through a sleepy haze, Elizabeth became aware of two people speaking. The man's voice seemed familiar, but she did not recognize the woman's.

"Milord, the head wound does not appear deep," the woman said in hushed tones. "'Twill
be
clearer once I wash away the dirt and blood."

Elizabeth's
groggy
mind stirred. Who had been injured?

"Troy told me she faded in and out of consciousness."

Concern poked at the fog smothering Elizabeth's thoughts. Troy? She recognized the name, but could not remember from where. Why did her thoughts seem as dense as cabbage pottage?

"Poor dove. She will have a mark on her brow for a few days, I vow."

The man sighed with displeasure. "What of her arm?"

"'Tis not broken, but the bruises may cause her discomfort."

A breeze wafted against Elizabeth's cheeks. Fabric rustled. She dragged up the strength to raise her lashes.

A warm, wet cloth pressed against her temple.

Pain!
                                                      
'

She gasped. Her eyes flew open.

"Do not fret, my child." An old woman hovered at the bedside. Her black habit and white wimple enhanced her round face wizened by sun-bronzed wrinkles. Her smile offered trust.

Elizabeth licked her dry lips. "Who—"

"Lie still. Let Sister Margaret finish her work."

The rumbled command swept the last slumberous cobwebs from Elizabeth's mind. Memories of the previous day flooded back to her, and her stomach tightened.

She turned her head on the pillow. Geoffrey de Lanceau leaned against the doorway, his leather-booted legs crossed at the ankle. He wore a burgundy wool jerkin and black hose, and looked refreshed and clean despite their long journey but a short time ago. He had even shaved. With his squared jaw bare of stubble, he looked even more arrogant.

Her gaze flew back to Sister Margaret. Did the nun know that de Lanceau was a kidnapper? It seemed not. Sister Margaret's gentle smile did not waver as she rinsed the bloody cloth in a bowl on the side table, and dabbed again at the wound.

"Ouch!" Ignoring a wave of nausea and dizziness, Elizabeth pushed herself up to sitting. Yet she did not lie atop the bedding as she remembered, but was snug inside it.

The linen sheet slid from her shoulders. A draft cooled her throat.
Her
bare
throat.

Someone had removed her shift.

She squeaked and snatched at the bedding.

De Lanceau chuckled. With lazy strides, he strode to her, his boots thudding on the floorboards.

The nun glanced at Elizabeth. Puzzlement shone in the woman's eyes before she shook her head and picked up the bowl. "I must fetch clean water. I shall return in a moment."

As the door clicked shut behind the nun, Elizabeth clutched the blankets to her naked flesh.

"What ails you, damsel?"

A blush stung her face. "How dare you?"

"Dare I what?" He dropped down on the edge of the bed. The ropes creaked and groaned, and she bobbed up and down like a child's ball. With effortless grace, he crossed one muscled thigh over the other and seemed oblivious to her frantic attempts to keep hold of the bedding, though she guessed from the mischievous glint in his eyes that he knew of her predicament.

She shot him an icy glare. "Where is my shift?"

His grin, a slash of straight, white teeth, made her belly flip-flop. "Ah, I remember now.
That filthy, ripped bit of linen?
The one you wore yesterday?"

"Aye," she snapped.

"I told Elena, the maidservant, to send it to one of the town peasants. He could use it for scraps."

"You
what
?
ⁿ

De Lanceau's brow furrowed into a frown. "Should I ask Sister Margaret to treat your hearing too?"

"I hear as well as you." Elizabeth choked back a shriek. "My shift could have been mended with a needle and thread. You had no right to give it away."

De Lanceau flicked a speck of lint from his hose. His gaze locked with hers.
"'Twas not worth salvaging.
The esteemed Lord Arthur Brackendale would not want his daughter to be seen wearing such an inferior garment."

Anguish lanced through her, but she stifled the hurt. She would not stoop to his challenge and fight to defend her father. Her sire was a brave, loyal, noble man, and when he learned of her abduction, he would lead his army to Branton and squash de Lanceau like an annoying bug.

"By your own admission, you are a thief as well as a rogue," she said in a cold voice. "'Twill cost you many coins to replace my shift with one of equal quality. Yet you will, since
you
are responsible for its ruin."

His brows arched. "Am I?"