A Knight's Vengeance (14 page)

He wondered what Lady Elizabeth was doing now. Did she march about the chamber, damning his name? Had she wrapped herself in her blankets, one hand holding them together while she paced and plotted her next verbal battle? What a glorious sight she was when her eyes blazed blue fire.

He tapped the ledger's edge. By now, Elena should have delivered the lady's meal and clean clothes. A laugh tickled the back of his throat. He wished he could have seen the lady's face when she spied her new garments. Ah, wickedness.

He blinked, and the ledger came back into focus. Sunlight slanted further across the scratched oak table. The day passed. Once he had settled the accounts, he must ensure he and his men were prepared to confront a furious Lord Brackendale.

That day would come.
Soon.

Geoffrey snatched up the quill, braced an arm on the table, and leaned his head on his hand. He began to add a row of numbers. Anger simmered. He should not waste moments thinking of
her,
when vital details demanded his focus. He was not starved for a woman's attentions. The lady was no more than a means to change fate and, at last, avenge that night years ago.

"Milord."
Dominic stood at the opposite side of the table, his hair snarled and coated with dust, his tunic damp across the chest. No doubt he had been in the tiltyards.

Geoffrey lifted his cheek from his numb hand. How had he not heard Dominic approach? Pointing to the chair beside him, he said, "Come. Sit."

A wry smile tilted Dominic's mouth. After scraping the chair back, he sat. "You looked leagues away. You were not mulling over the accounts."

"Nay," Geoffrey muttered.

Dominic's gaze shadowed. He linked his hands together and rested them on the table. "Do you have doubts?"

"Of course not.
Our plot is unfolding the way I had hoped."

"Then what troubles you?"

"Naught."
Geoffrey sipped his ale and swirled the lukewarm, bitter liquid on his tongue. He would not be coaxed into revealing his musings on the lady. He picked up the ale jug and offered Dominic a drink, but his friend shook his head and chuckled, an all-too-familiar, knowing sound.

The jug landed back on the table with a
clunk.

"Milord, I have known you long enough to know your moods"—Dominic grinned like a well-fed cat—"and when you speak false."

A groan dragged up from deep within Geoffrey. What had he done this time to give himself away? Hold his mouth at an angle? Squish his eyebrows together?

"Will you tell me what weighs upon your mind, or must I resort to more devious measures?"

Despite his friend's good-natured teasing, fury heated Geoffrey's blood. He resisted a snide reply. Loyal, trusted Dominic did not deserve his scorn. "If you must know, my thoughts were of no consequence."

Dominic snorted. "You insult me. Do you believe that after visiting your hospital bed every day for months and months, and coaxing you back to the world of the living, I have no idea what eats at your soul?"

The residual ale soured in Geoffrey's mouth. "You visited me because you expected me to die. You felt obliged to offer me succor until my spirit left my body."

"There were other reasons, as well you know."

Geoffrey's words emerged as a growl. "As I told you long ago, and many times since, you are not indebted to me for saving your life at Acre."

"Not once, but twice. I
do
owe you. That is why I worry about your well-being."

Geoffrey gave a brittle laugh. "It seems you are the one with doubts, my friend."

To his surprise, Dominic did not refute the statement with a jest and a lopsided grin, but nodded. "Rage is a dangerous ally. I hope in the coming days you will not act with rashness, and will consider the
conséquences
of your vengeance. You are a good man. I have no desire to see you lose your head."

"My father was a good man. He should not have died a traitor. Thomas, too, did not deserve his fate." Geoffrey's fingers tightened around his earthenware mug. "My brother deserved to be a scholar, as he dreamed."

Geoffrey downed a long draught of ale. The anguish had not dimmed, even after eighteen years. The invisible wound hurt ten times worse than the Saracen blade which had plunged deep into his chest and left as proof a brutal scar.

"You cannot change the past," Dominic said, "but—"

"You believe I am mad to return to England and seek what is mine. I should release the helpless, suffering Lady Elizabeth, forget revenge, take Veronique to Venice, and earn a fortune from the silk trade."

"Eloquent words.
In part, they are true." Dominic smiled. "Yet the lady does not seem helpless or suffering. She is a woman of astounding courage."

Geoffrey's rage flared, and became so intense, he almost choked. "I look into her haughty eyes and know all the luxuries she enjoyed because of my father's sacrifice. Father bled to death in a stable. A
stable!
I owe it to him to demand revenge."

Regret softened Dominic's gaze. "Milord—"

"Brackendale will soon learn his daughter is missing. He will receive my ransom note, and demand my head. If he and the baron attempt a siege or challenge me to a battle, my men must be prepared."

"Sedgewick may have ridden with Brackendale to Tillenham. He may not yet know of his betrothed's abduction."

Geoffrey spat an oath. "Sedgewick could not find the sharp end of a sword if it poked him in the arse."

Dominic
laughed,
the sound vibrant in the quiet hall. "Still, he has the power to rouse a formidable army. His and Brackendale's forces will outnumber yours."

Wiping a drop of ale from the side of his mug, Geoffrey nodded. "I have not forgotten. I am not afraid."

Uncertainty clouded Dominic's gaze. "You asked me to scribe the ransom missive."

"If you will.
Your letters are far more patient than mine. I will not have Brackendale misinterpret my demands." Geoffrey paused. "Yet if you would rather not—"

"I will write it. When do you wish to send it?"

Geoffrey leaned back in his chair and stretched out his booted legs.
"In a few days.
First, I want Brackendale to agonize over his daughter's fate. Then, in exchange for her return, I shall demand my rightful inheritance as Edouard de Lanceau's first born son."

With his finger, Dominic traced a deep mar in the tabletop. "Will you ask for Brackendale's life, too?"

"I shall not have to. When he raises his sword to me in combat, I will not spare him." Geoffrey imagined drawing his sword in that delicious moment, and his fingers curled and uncurled. His palm warmed with the imagined rub of leather, and the weapon's slashing weight.

'Twould be a sweet victory.

Dominic frowned. His gaze shifted to the ledger. "There is also the matter of Viscon. Will you pay him to fight for you? He has already demanded a high fee for his part in the abduction and, I might add, has bedded down with one of the maidservants and made no move to leave."

Geoffrey waved away Dominic's disapproval. "I do not like the man either, but I have asked him to stay. His price is no greater than others of his profession."

Exasperation gleamed in Dominic's eyes. "Where will you get the silver? Have you received payment from Pietro?"

At mention of the Venetian merchant, Geoffrey smiled. He would forever be grateful that Pietro had befriended him when he was in the care of the Knights Hospitallers, at a time when Geoffrey wished each night for death. Pietro had introduced him and Dominic to the riches of the Eastern silk and spice trades.

Aye,
and Pietro had shown Geoffrey that every man had his price.
When it came to his mistress.

Or his daughter.

"I do not expect the profits from the silk shipments till the first frosts. I have some silver in my coffers. I also have this." Geoffrey drew near the wooden chest, flipped open the lid, and withdrew Elizabeth's gold brooch.

"By the saints."
Dominic picked it up and held it at his eye level. Sunlight gleamed off the delicate design. "Where did you get it?"

"Lady Elizabeth."

Dominic whistled and weighed the gold in his palm. "Worth a fair price, I vow."

Geoffrey grinned.
"Enough to pay several more mercenaries."

"The brooch seems of an older style."

"It belonged to the lady's mother. When the lady first asked after it, I thought she missed a pretty trinket. Then I looked into her eyes, and—"

Dominic eyed him with fascination. Did he expect some kind of profound confession?

Geoffrey snapped his jaw shut. He would
not
admit compassion for her. "I do not care if 'tis important to her. Now, it belongs to me."

"You should return it." Dominic's fingers brushed over the design. "If you kill Brackendale and seize his lands, she will have naught. The coin from selling this brooch would provide her an income for several years, at least until she finds a husband."

"She is betrothed to the baron. He will provide for her."

Dominic's mirthless laughter cut into Geoffrey's thoughts. "I doubt Sedgewick will still want her, when she no longer comes with a large dowry."

Geoffrey resisted a stab of guilt. He would
not
care for the damsel, or cripple his ambitions with concerns for her welfare. Not when revenge was so close.

Over the crackling fire, he heard the patter of footsteps. He glanced up, and saw Elena. She looked tired and flustered, and he realized she had come from Elizabeth's chamber.

He beckoned Elena over to the table.

She curtsied.
"M-Milord?"
Her face looked pale.

"How is the lady?"

"She would not eat." Elena stared down at her fingers, which were linked tightly together. "She refused. S-She said she cared not for lumpy gruel."

Geoffrey downed the last of his ale and dried his mouth with his hand. "You left the fare with her?"

"Aye, but I do not think she will eat it." Elena's hands shook. "I helped her dress in the clothes you sent for her, but she almost ripped them to shreds. She shouted and cursed like a wild woman."