A Knight's Vengeance (38 page)

After spending two years of her life with him, she would not be denied her share of the riches, or the glory.

She groped for a taper and lit it from the candle beside the straw pallet. Light glinted off the polished steel mirror lying on the bed. She picked it up and looked at her reflection.

The taper flickered, illuminating the wicked smile on her blood-red lips.

If Geoffrey intended to cast her aside, she would find a way to deny him his wealth.
And vengeance.

Elizabeth paced her chamber, her slippers tapping on the floorboards. She must find a way to change what was inevitable. Frowning, she turned and walked back the ten steps she had counted out so many times before which brought her to the opposite wall. She had to think.
Think!

Worrying the end of her braid with her fingers, she spun on her heel. She had to stop the melee. The brutal battle might prove the victor's honor and his right to Wode, but also meant her father's death. She knew that without doubt. Why had he challenged de Lanceau to such a skirmish when he knew he could not defeat a crusading warrior? Why?

Had he chosen the melee because 'twas an honorable death?

She forced a painful swallow. Her gaze fell to the rose wool folded on the trestle table. The melee came about because of Geoffrey's desire for revenge, his quest to seek justice for his father's death.

Geoffrey was not so heartless if he felt such anguish.

He had loved his sire very much, mayhap as much as she loved hers. Even, as he had posed that afternoon on the wall walk, with the poignancy she felt for her mother's death. He, too, knew the anguish of loss. Elizabeth hugged her arms to her chest and blinked away tears. He, too, knew the fear of being alone.

The afternoon sun faded to twilight, and when she next looked out the window, a crescent moon gleamed in the heavens, surrounded by a scattering of stars. An owl hooted in the darkness. Time was passing. Still, she had no answer.

She must stop Geoffrey. She must save her father.

Somehow.

Elizabeth sighed. She could stand the futile pacing no longer. Marching to the door, she pounded on it with her fists and shouted for someone to come. The sentries outside waited until she was almost hoarse before the door opened.

"'Avin a tantrum, are ye?" The guard eyed her as though he expected the water pitcher to be hurled at his head.

"I must speak with Lord de Lanceau," she said.

"If milord wished to see
ye
, he would have summoned ye," the sentry grumbled.

"Ask him anyway." She softened her demand with a wide-eyed, plaintive, "Please."

The door slammed in her face.

Determined not to work herself into an anxious fit while she waited, Elizabeth washed, pulled on the rose wool, and loosened her hair so her curls cascaded down her back. As she smoothed a crease out of her bodice, the door opened. The sentry tipped his head and indicated she was to go with him.

Elizabeth walked into the dark corridor. She prayed that since their encounter, Geoffrey's temper had cooled and also his desire to punish her. If she appealed to his sense of reason, his knight's code of honor, she could convince him there was no advantage to the melee.

Oh, God, she had to convince him.
Even if it meant risking his hands on her skin and more of his sinful kisses.
Even if meant risking . . . her innocence.

Lie with me, Elizabeth,
he had whispered. Those terrifying, thrilling words had torn from him with raw honesty.

Could she save her father's life, by giving herself to Geoffrey?

The guard pushed open the solar door. She stepped in, and the door closed with a
thud.
The solar was shadowed and quiet, as she remembered. Drawing a shaky breath, Elizabeth started toward the hearth.

Geoffrey sprawled in one of the chairs, swirling a goblet in one hand. He stared at the crackling fire, and did not glance up when she neared.

His hair looked mussed. How ridiculous to wonder how many times he had dragged his fingers through it. She expected him to be gloating, basking in the battle victory so certain to be his, but his expression held wariness.

"You dare venture into my chamber alone again?" His gruff voice seemed loud in the room's stillness. He tilted his head and looked at her, and his eyes glinted in the dim light.

She clasped her sweaty hands together. "I am not afraid of you, milord."

"You should be." His thumb brushed away a drop of red wine on the goblet's rim. "If you have come to demand an apology for my behavior this afternoon, you will not get it."

"I do not seek your apology."

"I am still angry, damsel." Distrust echoed in each word. He must wonder why she had dared to enter his solar again and court danger.

Steeling her nerves, she strolled into the shadows painted by firelight. His gaze moved over her unbound hair and the clinging rose wool, and hope sparked within her. Desire still gleamed in his eyes. If he refused to heed her reasons why the melee must be canceled, she still had a chance to sway him.

She paused near his chair. "H-How is Dominic?"

Geoffrey frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"I hope he is recovering well."

He stared at the drop of wine on his thumb, which glistened like blood. "He is awake, but suffering a headache and sour stomach. Mildred has not left his side. She is convinced he would recuperate faster if he drank one of her purgative tonics, but he refuses to have one."

Elizabeth chuckled. "She has great faith in her tonics."

Silence lagged. She fidgeted with her cuff, and tried to decide the best way to broach the subject of the melee.

He sighed, an impatient sound. "What do you want? Why did you ask to see me?"

"I must speak with you."

"Then speak."

Her legs trembled. She moved to the hearth. The fire's heat, as warm as Geoffrey's caresses, touched her skin and she shivered. "I have come—"

"—to ask a favor of me."

Elizabeth started. She could not deny that was indeed her aim. "How did you know?"

"I guessed." Wry humor warmed his voice. It gave her the courage to plunge ahead and say what she must.

"Milord, I ask that
you . . .
I want you to refuse my father's challenge."

His bitter laughter filled the chamber. "I am many things, but I am not a coward."

"I did not mean you were." She struggled to keep her tone calm. If she enraged him, she would achieve naught, and she must convince him to halt the battle. "The melee is a fight to the death, is it not?"

He nodded, hair snarling over his shoulder.

"My father is more than twice your age. He is not as strong, quick, or as skilled with a sword. He will die." Her words ended on a whisper. "You accused me earlier of being a murderer. Are you so eager to be one?"

Geoffrey's eyes darkened. He sipped his wine; then he rested his goblet on his thigh. "My father was an innocent man. Your sire is guilty of taking his life. To kill the guilty is justice, milady, not murder."

"My father is guiltless! He followed orders from the king."

"The melee will decide who is right." His mouth twisted into a mirthless smile. "'Twould please you, aye, to see my head on a pike?"

She pressed her arm across her stomach, sickened by the gruesome image, and shocked by the anguish that swept through her when she thought of him dead.
"Of course not."

For the barest moment, surprise flickered in his gaze. Then his face hardened with scorn. "I will not decline your sire's challenge. Naught you say or do will change my mind."

Desperation clawed up inside her like a living creature. His words had sounded so bleak.
Final.
"Milord—"

"I will not," he growled.

She shook like a leaf buffeted by a gale, about to be tossed over a fathomless pit. Despair threatened to devour her. She braced her palm against the cold wall and sought strength from the solid stone and mortar. "You know the pain of losing a father," she whispered. "You have lived with the agony of losing someone you love, respect, and admire. Do you wish the same torment for me?"

A muscle leapt in Geoffrey's jaw.

"Promise me you will spare my father's life." She pleaded with the depths of her soul. "Please."

Geoffrey raised the goblet to his lips and looked down at the fire. "I cannot."

Tears welled in her eyes. She should have realized he would never listen to reason or pleas. His anguish had festered for too many years.

Still, all was not lost. Not yet.

One means remained for her to save her sire.

One last chance to sway her enemy from vengeance.

She blinked away the tears. She would have no regrets.

Raising her chin, she met Geoffrey's gaze. With slow, loose-hipped strides, she crossed to him.

Caution flared in his eyes. "Elizabeth?"

A sob jammed in her throat, yet she dropped to her knees before him. The bliaut pooled around her and snagged on the worn floorboards, but she did not care if it never pulled free. She bowed her head, and her tresses fell around her face like a black veil. "I beg of you. Spare my father."

"'Tis not like you to beg, damsel."

Her head jerked up. She fought an angry blush, struggled to find the will to say what she must. "If you spare him, I will lie with you."

"Elizabeth." His voice became a helpless groan. "You must not—"

"I know you desire me. I cannot deny
I.
. .
crave you also." The truth glowed bright in her heart. She would never feel passion for another man as she felt for Geoffrey de Lanceau. "I yield not just for my father," she said, "but for me."

Torment and desire shivered across Geoffrey's face, and he shook his head. "I can make you no promises for the melee."