A Knight's Vengeance (27 page)

"Too much wine," she moaned.

Geoffrey pushed the plate of honeyed figs into her hands. "Here. Eat. You drank on an empty stomach. 'Tis no wonder the floor moves under your feet."

"Sorry." She hated how pathetic she sounded.

He grunted at her apology and sat down. She picked up a fig and bit into it, and found the combination of sweetness and spice delicious. Honey drizzled down her chin. She brushed it away with sticky fingers until Geoffrey sighed and pressed a linen napkin into her hand. Within moments, she finished the plate, and he handed her a bowl of gingered custard and a spoon.

He did not indulge himself, but watched her devour the food. He seemed fascinated. She meant to challenge his stare and the wry grin tugging at his mouth, but first, she would satisfy her hunger. The creamy custard, a little overcooked, dissolved on her tongue and she scooped more onto the spoon, taking care to run it along the bowl's edge to glean every sweet bit.

When she had almost finished, he rubbed his thumb over his mouth. "I suppose I do owe you an explanation."

Elizabeth swallowed her mouthful. Thank God, her head had almost stopped whirling.

"I wanted to satisfy my curiosity."

Wariness crept into her thoughts.
"How?"

He looked at her spoon poised over the custard bowl, then at her. "Why did you help Elena this afternoon?"

Elizabeth rubbed her lips together. She had not expected this question. Cupping the bowl between her hands, she said, "Elena was upset because she had many other duties to attend. The embroidery was a simple task for me."

"Elena is a servant," he said in a biting tone.

"What of it?"

His gaze darkened. "She is duty bound to work as long and as hard as I wish. That is her way of life. She was born a villein and worked the demesne fields with her husband until he died in a storm last month."

"How terrible."

Geoffrey stared at the flames. "A tree fell on their cottage and crushed him as he slept."

"I did not know," Elizabeth whispered. At last, she understood the woman's timidity.

"I took pity on Elena and her son Roydon and offered her work in the keep. Yet she is still a servant.
Far below your noble caste."

A cold sweat dampened Elizabeth's brow and she shrugged. "I consider her a friend. She has shown me kindness and compassion, and I was glad to help her in return."

His eyes glowed as bright as the candle flame. "Ah," he murmured. "Elena wins greater respect than, say, a gallant stranger who saved your life at the market?"

Elizabeth's stomach did a sluggish turn. Too late, she sensed his careful trap. She set the custard bowl on the table and snatched up her wine goblet.
"'Tis not a fair comparison, milord.
As well you know."

"Do I?"

Words tumbled from her lips. "You insulted me. You took advantage of your chivalry and demanded a kiss."

"I
demanded
naught.
Even so, 'twas not much to ask considering I saved your life."
He paused and set his goblet on his thigh. "Tell me, would you have given it?"

A shivered breath caught in her throat.
"A kiss?"

"A kiss."

Her gaze darted to his mouth. She could not halt the sinful memories.
His lips gliding over hers.
His warmth.
His taste.
"I. . . I cannot say. I did not know you were a lord."

He scowled. Setting down his wine, he steepled his fingers together. "Let us pretend you never discovered my identity. Would you have condemned me to Wode's dungeon because you objected to my harmless jest? Because I teased you about what is natural between a man and a woman?"

Warmth drained from Elizabeth. "That morning at the market, he had shocked her with his boldness, and she had spoken without forethought. She felt his verbal snare tighten. "You provoked my anger and—"

"You avoid the heart of the issue," he growled.
"Aye or nay?

"N-Nay."

His breath roared through his lips. She could not tell if he were glad of her answer, or even more furious.

Elizabeth's hands shook. "Is there a point to your questioning, milord?"

"The point, damsel, is I find you puzzling. You flaunt your privileged birthright with annoying haughtiness, yet you also show compassion for a servant who is not of your household, which implies a tender nature. Which is the true Lady Elizabeth Brackendale?"

She stared down at her white-knuckled fingers, which were locked around the goblet. "Does it matter?"

"I find it does." Torment and loneliness threaded through his words. A place deep inside her cried out, and she steeled herself against the foolish empathy.

"I had no reason to withhold my help from Elena," she said, "and would do the same for any servant at Wode. I was taught that lords and ladies should show equal measures of kindness and discipline toward their subjects. Otherwise, they will never win their subjects' best work, respect or loyalty."

Geoffrey nodded.
"Wise words."

"My father's words," she said with pride.

Geoffrey's expression darkened. The poignant intimacy vanished like a wisp of smoke.
"Your father's."
He spat the words like a curse.

Desperate to convince him, to make him see past his hatred, she said, "My father is not the cruel lord you mistake him to be. He is a man of honor and justice."

Menace blazed in Geoffrey's eyes. "With his own sword, your father murdered my sire. I will never forget. Or forgive."

A furious sigh burst from her. "You do not know for certain he cut your sire's mortal wounds. How can you recall what happened eighteen years ago? You were a frightened child, in the midst of a battle."

"Lord Brackendale besieged Wode. He commanded the attack. He gave the orders. The responsibility falls on his head."

"The king's orders!"
Her worn patience frayed, about to snap. "My father could not refuse a command issued by the crown. To do so would be treason."

Geoffrey's eyes narrowed to gleaming slits. "Your devotion to your father is admirable, but misplaced. He should have determined, before he led the attack, that my father remained loyal to King Henry, and did not support his intransigent son."

"If there were no justification," she
said,
her voice as taut as the knot around her heart, "why did the king order the siege?"

"My father was betrayed."

"A theory without proof."

Geoffrey's face, gilded by firelight, hardened with anger. "My father was a powerful lord. His estates covered half of the county of Moydenshire, and he had great prominence in the previous sovereign's reign. I have often wondered if King Henry feared my father's influence."

"If so, that is another reason why my sire is not to blame," Elizabeth said.

Geoffrey's lip curled back from his teeth. "You refer to honor and a lord's duty to the crown. What of greed? I vow like most of the lords in this land, your father wanted his share of the spoils. He would do whatever King Henry asked, including murder an innocent man, to get it."

Elizabeth pushed her empty goblet onto the table. A scream shrilled up inside her. Terrible anguish crushed her hopes of persuading Geoffrey of the truth. How could she reason with a man so embittered, so convinced he was right?

"'Tis senseless to seek revenge for what happened years ago," she choked out. "You cannot change the past. Why can you not find peace within yourself, and forget about Wode?"

Geoffrey lunged with such speed, Elizabeth shrieked.

She slammed against the chair back, her blood hammering in her veins. He gripped the arms of the chair.
Ensnared her.
Loomed over her.
Tremendous anger poured from him.

His breath hissed between his teeth and her forehead burned with the heat of it. "Forget?" he bellowed. "How
dare
you ask that of me?
You
were not there, trying to stop the blood gushing from his chest.
You
were not there when he drew his last breath.
You
did not have to listen as he coughed and gasped and struggled for air. My father was a great man.
A man of integrity."
Geoffrey's voice cracked. "He was no traitor, and did not deserve to die as one."

"I do not doubt he was a great man," she whispered.

He jerked back a fraction, clearly startled by her agreement, and then glared down at her. She braced herself for more lashing words. Yet his gaze softened. His lips formed a smile tinged with remorse. "Then you understand, milady, why I will take what is rightfully mine. Why I will avenge my father."

Geoffrey's hands fell away from the chair, and he straightened. He crossed to the hearth, braced one hand against the stone wall, and looked down into the fire. Shadows played over his face. He looked tortured, haggard, and . . . human.