A Knight's Vengeance (2 page)

Eighteen years later

"Love potion, dove?
An elixir ta ease
yer lonely heart?"

"Not this day, thank you." Lady Elizabeth Brackendale strolled past the one-eyed peddler waving flasks and vials. As she sidestepped a mound of manure, she sighed. Love potion, indeed. Her heart's afflictions could not be cured in that manner.

Behind her, she heard the voices and booted footsteps of her lady-in-waiting and two armed guards. What a nuisance the men-at-arms were, an unwelcome reminder of the perilous future.

Elizabeth shivered, skirted two men arguing over a spilled crate of onions, and walked further into the crowded market square. She would
not
spoil this rare, glorious day that her
father had allowed her to leave Wode's fortified walls. She would
not
worry about the lord rumored to be plotting vengeance against her sire, a rogue named Geoffrey de Lanceau.

Her father would deal with him.

Tipping her face into the breeze, she inhaled a waft of ripe vegetables, wood smoke, and horse. Ahead, men unloaded cartloads of cloth and spices, jugglers performed for a laughing crowd, and merchants hawked their wares. What a glorious
mélange
of smells, sights, and sounds. How she had missed her visits to the market.

Apprehension, cold as bone fingers, trailed down her spine. If only battle were not looming in the days ahead. If anything happened to her father . . .

She shoved the thought aside. When necessary, he would summon his armies, crush de Lanceau, and peace would again rule Moydenshire. Her father could not fail with Baron Sedgewick of Avenley and his armies at his side.

Baron Sedgewick.
Her betrothed.

In seven days, her husband.

Fluttering strips of cloth lured her toward a stall. Blinking away tears, she paused and fingered a blood red ribbon. Resentment flared, sharper than her worry. She could not wed the baron. She
would
not! How could she marry and leave her father's side with de Lanceau still a threat? How could she marry a man she did not love, but loathed?

She must persuade her father to break the engagement.

Or, she would find a way to escape it.

"Three pieces of silver?
I suggest you reconsider."

Recognizing the voice, Elizabeth dared a sidelong glance. Mildred Cottlepod, her gray-haired lady-in- waiting, scowled at a hunchbacked crone who sold healing herbs. Elizabeth's gaze slid to her guards who leaned against crates of squawking chickens, and pointed to the jugglers who boasted of an impossible feat.

Onlookers shouted bets. Coins clinked.

The guards laughed and reached for their money purses.

Elizabeth sucked in a breath. Could she slip away? How wondrous, to elude her guards' watchful gazes for a while. Since de Lanceau had taken up residence in his crown-awarded keep two months ago, they had become her permanent shadows.

Heat stung Elizabeth's cheeks, and her fingers tightened around the ribbon. She was a grown woman, not a witless simpleton who needed constant supervision.

No harm would come to her in this peaceful town protected by her father's fortress. Without her guards hovering nearby, mayhap she could think of a way to convince her sire to annul the betrothal.

And, she could choose the thread she needed to finish the embroidery on the orphans' chemises and shirts, for she had promised the nuns she would be donating gifts of clothes and sweetmeats to the children. Her lips flattened on a painful, buried memory. She would not forget the thread, or the promise she made, one year ago, when her mother and infant sister died.

"Ye like it, milady?" said a gruff voice.

"Pardon?"
She swung around, and came face to face with the stall's proprietor.

He jabbed a grubby finger at the bit of silk in her hand.

"'Tis lovely."
She dropped a silver coin into his palm, far more than the ribbon cost, but no
doubt ,he
had a wife and children to feed. He flashed
her a
toothless grin. She smiled back and glanced at her guards. They were engrossed in the bet.

Lifting up her bliaut to keep it out of the dirt, she darted into the market square.

A thrill rippled through her.
Freedom, at last.

The merchant who stocked the nicest thread was just past—

"Milady."
A man's voice carried over the
honk, honk
of geese flapping to get out of her way.

Had the guards seen her?

Ignoring the shouts and
clop
of hooves behind her, she sidestepped a puddle and quickened her steps.

"Milady, look out!"

Elizabeth whirled around. A wagon laden with wooden casks rumbled straight for her.

The driver yelled for her to get out of the way. He jerked hard on the horse's reins. The wild-eyed beast tossed its head, snorted, and refused to obey its master's command.

Elizabeth lunged to the side, expecting to feel the stinging weight of the animal's hooves. A muscled arm snaked around her waist. She shrieked an instant before she was yanked to safety. The cart hurtled past.

Elizabeth coughed. Waving her hands, she tried to disperse the dust that burned her eyes and clung to her cloak, hair and skin. Her legs wobbled. She prayed the stranger who had saved her would not release his hold, or she would topple face first on the ground. She closed her eyes against a wave of dizziness.

"You fool. Were you trying to get yourself killed?"

Her coughing subsided. She recognized the deep, rich voice that had called out moments ago.
Fool?
Who would dare to chastise her so?
She, the daughter of Lord Arthur Brackendale.

Equally annoying, she had sagged into the stranger's arms like a swooning maiden. Her cheek pressed against his warm chest.

Elizabeth took a steadying breath, calmed by the rhythmic
thud
beneath her ear, the pulse of life. This man did not deserve her anger, but her gratitude. He had risked himself great harm to save her from a painful death.

"Kind sir, I owe you my thanks," she said.

His arms, curved around her waist, relaxed. He must have sensed her strength returning. "A moment
more,
and you would have been crushed beneath the wagon's wheels," he said. "A pity, indeed, if such a fair damsel were broken like a child's toy."

His breath stirred the hair at her forehead. Goosebumps shot down her arms. She did not like the sensation, or the trace of humor warming his voice.

"I did not see the wagon," Elizabeth said.

"Nor did you heed my warning."

He spoke in the same tone as her father when he told her of her betrothal, but her sire had gentled his words by insisting the arrangement was for her, safety, to ensure she and Wode never fell into de Lanceau's clutches. She scowled. Her whole life it seemed of late was governed by this rogue de Lanceau.

She tipped up her chin. Her savior was a tall man. Shoulder muscles stretched his gray wool tunic. She steeled herself against his enticing, musky scent. "You are bold to speak to me in such a manner."

"Not half as bold, milady, as you appear to be."

Elizabeth groaned, for he spoke true. Her hands curled into his tunic. The ribbon poked between her fingers.

"Or half so bold again," he continued with a velvety drawl, "as if I had stolen a kiss from your sweet lips."

Her breath caught in her throat, trapped like a robin in a hawk's talons. She wrenched free of his hold. The ribbon slipped from her grasp and drifted toward the ground.

"You would not dare kiss me."

The stranger chuckled, and Elizabeth glared up at him. Her gaze locked with eyes the color of cold steel.
Magnificent, captivating eyes, framed by dark lashes.
His gaze glinted with amusement. And challenge.

Unease shot through Elizabeth. Where were her guards?

The stranger's stare did not waver. His eyebrows arched with unquestionable arrogance, and her heart beat like a frantic bird's wings. Why did he not lower his gaze and show her due respect? He must realize her position. Her sky blue gown was tailored to the latest court fashion and sewn from the finest English wool, unlike his plain, homespun gray tunic and hose.

"You are a fool to challenge me," she said, hoping to hear the loud roar that signaled the end of the jugglers' act.

The stranger smiled, "
I
am the fool? I did not run into a wagon's path." His grin widened to reveal straight, white teeth without a spot of decay. "Mayhap your attention was claimed by more important thoughts, such as the whispered endearments of an eager suitor?"

She gasped, aware that curious townsfolk gathered around them.
Insolent knave.
How dare he mock her before an audience, and her father's people? "Do you not know who I am?"

"A lady, forsooth."
His gaze traveled the length of her cloak. "Come to market to buy a pretty trinket?"

Pride warmed her voice. "My father is lord of the keep which stands upon yonder hill, and the lands surrounding it for many leagues."

Surprise and anger flashed in the man's eyes. "You are Brackendale's
daughter?"

She had expected awe, not the fury and stark pain that ravaged his features. He looked wounded, cut to his soul. She
wondered at the source of his anguish, even as the emotion vanished and his lips thinned into a bitter, controlled smile.

Over the crowd's murmurs, she heard shouts and the thunder of approaching footsteps.

"Your faithful guards, milady."

Elizabeth smothered a relieved sigh. "Good. My father will enjoy meeting a rogue who thought to kiss me."