A Knight's Vengeance (21 page)

Elizabeth stiffened. How shameful, that he would caress her in such a way, and for all to see. His lazy smile proved he knew just how wrong his actions were. "Remove your hand."

"You did not say please." With his tongue, he plucked a dripping morsel from the dagger's tip. "Were you not taught to be polite, when you learned your ladylike duties?"

"My ladylike duties," she said between clenched teeth, "did not include entertaining rogues."

He grinned as he chewed, his teeth a slash of dazzling white. With his dark hair tangled around the shoulders of his white shirt, he looked wild.
Predatory.
Wicked.
"
Entertaining
,?
"
His tongue rolled over the word with such sensual appreciation, tremors raked through her. "What delightful possibilities."

He had twisted her words to imply far more than she intended. Elizabeth's hands shook. She must destroy his deliberate misconception.
Now.
Or he might test her mettle in front of the entire hall.

"You mistook my meaning, milord," she said.

"I wished you to return the noble courtesy I showed to you, and you refused." His gaze locked with hers in frosty challenge. "You may despise me, but I am still due a measure of respect."

An unspoken message flashed in his eyes. She would not get her bath, unless he was satisfied.

Elizabeth grabbed the closest piece of bread and jammed it into the stew.
Respect?
He had not earned it, not when he took pleasure in provoking her anger, humiliating her, and denying her the slightest privileges.

For all he had done to her, she should dump the trencher's contents in his lap.

For one exquisite moment, she thought she might. Yet, if she did, he would refuse the bath. She sighed and forced her anger to cool. Soon, the meal would be finished.

Geoffrey's fingers lifted from her thigh and brushed the back of her wrist. The pressure on her skin was gentle, but she did not mistake the warning.

"I do not like mangled bread."

Looking down, Elizabeth saw the bread was indeed becoming the same consistency as the gravy. She frowned, annoyed he had chastised her, but when she looked up, a grin curved his lips.

Wrenching her hand free, she thrust the bread in his face. He took the bite, but with agonizing slowness. His gaze never left hers as he ran his hot, slick tongue over the tips of her fingers and sucked the morsel into his mouth.

She shuddered. "I hate you." The words slipped out before she willed them.

"Of that, I have no doubt. More bread, milady."

Again Elizabeth fed him, repulsed yet also excited by the ritual's intimacy. She tried not to watch him eat, but his lips were so well formed, his profile so handsome, 'twas hard not to.

After several more mouthfuls, he slid the eating dagger toward her.
"Now, some meat."

Her fingers closed around the smooth hilt. The blade looked sharp. "You dare to place a weapon in my hand?" she said, unable to conceal her astonishment.

"You are no fool, and I give you fair warning. Threaten me, and I will prove your idiocy before every man, woman and child in this hall."

He would indeed. She skewered a round of carrot with the knife and had just raised it from the trencher when she smelled perfume.
Rosewater.

"Veronique," Geoffrey murmured.

The skin across the back of Elizabeth's neck prickled. Once, he had spoken to her in such a tone.
When he had held her in his arms in the market.
When he had not known her name and teased her for a kiss.

"Milord," said a sensuous feminine voice. Elizabeth looked up. The woman dropped into an elegant curtsey before de Lanceau.

Veronique's coral silk bliaut fanned out around her on the rush-strewn floor. The gown, shorter than the undergarment, revealed a chemise so delicate, it looked woven from spider webs. A coral-colored ribbon wove through the braid coiled about her head.

As Veronique straightened, the exquisite cut of the gown became evident. The fitted sleeves flared below the elbow and were accented by shimmering embroidery in patterns of diamonds and squares. The same design rimmed the squared neckline.

Pinned in the center of the embroidery, between Veronique's breasts, was a gold brooch.

Elizabeth's breath became a painful gasp.

Her mother's brooch.

Anguish pounded in her veins. Rage clouded her vision until the hall became an angry red blur. Hatred boiled.

She heard Veronique titter. "So this is Brackendale's daughter. Not much to look at, is she?"

Elizabeth shot to her feet. The knife, warmed by her skin, molded to her palm. Warning flared in Geoffrey's eyes, an instant before she pressed the blade against his neck.

"I want my mother's brooch. Refuse and I will plunge this dagger to the hilt."

*
    
*
    
*

As the knife jabbed his flesh, Geoffrey grimaced. Her eyes wide, Veronique stepped back several paces. Shocked castle folk pointed and stared at him. Under the table, dogs stopped fighting over a bone.

He heard the hiss of swords being drawn, and cursed himself for trusting the lady with the knife. He cursed Veronique for rummaging through his belongings without first asking permission, and taking what he would never have given her. Most of all, he cursed Elizabeth for forcing him into an awkward position. How did he reclaim the knife without hurting her?

"The brooch," she
said,
her voice shrill.

Out of the corner of his eye, Geoffrey saw a guard edge toward the dais. He fought for the rational, controlled calm that had saved his life many times on Acre's battlefields. This time, he must plan a strategy to avoid bloodshed. "Milady, if—"

"Now."

Her hand trembled, and the dagger jerked the slightest fraction. Warm liquid trickled down Geoffrey's neck.
Blood.

Elizabeth
moaned,
a sound of despair and horror. He sensed the instant her resolve wavered. Lunging to his feet, he grabbed her wrist and slammed it down on the table. Her fingers flew open. The dagger skidded across the oak and clattered onto the floor.

Veronique clapped. "Well done, milord." The guards laughed, sheathed their swords, and the buzz of laughter and chatter resumed.

Geoffrey stared at Elizabeth's down-turned face, hidden by the black veil of her hair. She shook in his grasp, the bones of her wrist jumping like a bird's trapped wing. He heard a sound like a sniffle.
Tears?
He hoped not. He released her, then strode around the table and picked up the dagger.

With his cuff, he wiped his neck. The wound did not feel more than a scratch.

Veronique hurried to him, and her fingers brushed his jaw. "Does the wound hurt? Shall I bandage it for you?"

Motioning for guards to watch Elizabeth, Geoffrey took Veronique's elbow and led her to a quiet corner. "Give me the brooch."

Disbelief gleamed in her amber eyes.

"You should not have gone through my belongings."

She pulled away, her crimson lips set in a pout. "You never minded in the past. When I needed coins to buy my oils, you told me to take what I liked."

"That does not mean you may claim whatever you wish as yours."

A sly smile curved her mouth, and she ran a finger over the brooch. "I thought you had bought it for me, milord. You promised me a favor after what happened last eve. Remember?"

Fury leapt inside him. He had not promised her a gift wrought from solid gold. He bit back a scathing retort and held out his hand. "The brooch is not mine. Nor is it for you. I will have it."

Her mouth flattened, but she reached to her cleavage and unpinned the ornament. She dropped it into his palm. As she drew away, her nails trailed over his skin, a reminder of a past,
wild
night of lovemaking. "I did hot expect you to concede to her."

He ignored her scorn. "I concede naught." He glanced at Elizabeth, who stood behind the
lord's table
, the guards flanking her. Despite the watery glitter of her eyes, she kept her head high and met his stare with one of bold determination.

Looking back at Veronique, he said, "We will speak more of this later." He turned on his heel and strode to the table. "Milady, come."

She clasped her hands together. "Before you punish me, I would like my brooch. Please."

He tipped his head to the guards. "Bring her. By force if need be."

Elizabeth's throat moved on a swallow. "I will walk." She rubbed her eyes and, with rigid strides, skirted the table.

Geoffrey stalked across the hall to the stairwell. Children and dogs scampered out of his way. He climbed the winding stairs and threw open the door to the wall walk. The wind whistled, buffeted him and stung his eyes, but he strode to the edge and looked down through the squared crenel to the fields below, where sheaves of wheat dried under the sun.

Light footfalls approached behind him.

"Guards," he said without turning, "stand watch at the stairwell."

"Aye, milord."

He cast Elizabeth a sidelong glance. The wind tangled her hair, blowing it over her shoulders and down her back. She moistened her lips with her tongue, a nervous gesture he had come to recognize. Desire flared, and he forced his gaze back to the fields.

"Why have you brought me here?" she asked.
"To throw me over the edge?"

Geoffrey laughed. "A tempting thought." He touched his neck and found the bleeding had stopped.

Her gaze fell to the crimson stains on his cuff. Guilt shadowed her eyes and turned them the color of a winter sky. "I did not mean to draw blood."

"By the morrow, 'twill
be
a mere scratch. I will accept your apology, milady,"—he met her gaze—"if you tell me why you risked yourself harm for this brooch." He opened his palm, and the gold gleamed against his skin.

She glanced away. Her hands swept up and down her arms, as one did to ward off a chill. "I told you, it belonged to my mother."

"A gift?"

"Aye."
Sadness dulled her voice.