Medieval Rogues (21 page)

“He
is
handsome,” the matron said with a wistful sigh. “A rogue indeed, but most pleasing to the eye.”

“Mildred.”

The matron shrugged. “I may be old, but I am not blind.”

A blush stung Elizabeth’s face. “This chatter is pointless.”

Planting her feet on the weed-choked path, Mildred turned around. “I am trying to understand our day of toil. Mayhap you had a reason for your actions last night of which I am unaware.”

Elizabeth threw up her hands. “I did
not
try to seduce him.”

The healer grinned. “As you claimed before.”

“Do you believe that I could . . . that I
would
seduce him?”

Mildred seemed to mull the question, then nodded. “I think you would do whatever you must to stop him from harming your father, or reclaiming Wode.”

“You place a great deal of faith in my abilities as a temptress.”

“Milady, you are as sweet and ripe as a summer rose. More than ample temptation for any buzzing bee or hornet.” With a swish of her skirts, Mildred spun and walked off down the path.

Elizabeth blinked. She was still struggling to find a suitable retort when Mildred dropped to her knees beside a leafy plant with yellow flowers.

“Rue.” The matron pointed to the spiny-looking plant nearby. “Rosemary. This must have been the herb patch.”

Elizabeth crossed to Mildred and knelt in the carpet of coarse grass. Stringy weeds with pinkish flowers blocked her view, and she tugged at the stems to remove them.

The matron brushed her hand away. “That is sage. A healthy bunch too.”

Sighing, Elizabeth sat back on her heels. “They all look like weeds to me.”

“If you clear the path,” Mildred suggested, “I will tend the herbs.”

Reluctant to walk back and fetch the spade, Elizabeth tugged on a vine growing over the path stones. It did not budge.

Bracing her foot against a crumbling rock wall, she took the vine in both hands. She gritted her teeth, yanked, and yelped as the roots tore free. She landed on her bottom.

“Milady!” Mildred leapt to her feet. Her mouth gaped, and Elizabeth started to giggle. She could not help it. She must look a sight, sitting in a most unladylike position with her bliaut scrunched up around her knees. Filthy knees, too.

The matron’s cheeks turned pink, and then she too laughed.

***

Geoffrey wiped sweat from his brow and urged his destrier under the teeth of Branton Keep’s wood and iron portcullis. As he emerged from the gatehouse’s shadows, he waved to the sentries calling to him from the wall walk. He had dreaded taking a preliminary tally of the harvest soon to be carted from the demesne fields, but as Dominic had assured him, the rains several days ago had been lighter here than on the roads near Wode. The drying crops had sustained little damage. The yield would be higher than expected.

Before leaving the keep, Geoffrey had dispatched Troy to Tillenham with the ransom. He had also sent missives to the few knights under his command, telling them that he would require their military services.

Soon, very soon, he would have vengeance.

Shrugging stiffness from his shoulders, Geoffrey glanced at the guards posted outside the garden gate. They acknowledged him with a nod. He thought to inquire after the damsel when a sound reached him. He frowned, reined in his horse, and listened for the noise that had been dimmed by the bridle’s
clink
.

Laughter. It came from the garden.

Geoffrey had not expected Elizabeth’s merriment, but he did not mistake her voice, bright, musical, and as alluring as a summer breeze. It held none of the caution she used when she spoke to him, and he regretted being denied the pleasure of her laughter.

His fingers tightened around the leather reins. Elizabeth meant naught to him, and he did not care whether she laughed or cried. He had given her a day of work so foreign to a pampered lady she should have wilted from exertion hours ago.

Instead, she laughed.

A maidservant strolled past, carrying a basket covered with a linen cloth. She curtsied to him and approached the guards.

“Wait.” Geoffrey slid down from the destrier. He took the basket.

The girl looked bewildered. “Cook ordered me to deliver two meals to the garden. Did you not request it, milord?”

Geoffrey patted the maidservant’s arm. “I will take the food. Lead my horse to the stable.”

The gate squeaked as it swung open, but the laughter did not cease. He headed down the path, foliage hissing against his boots with each stride. A few more steps and he spied Mildred’s broad back turned to him.

He slowed. Where was the lady?

His gaze fell to the grass, and he drew a sharp breath. She sat on a broken stone, grinning like a reckless child, her bliaut raised to her knees. Her pale ankles and calves were bared to the sunlight. What curvaceous legs. Desire hurtled through his blood with the speed of an attacking hawk.

His boot hit a half-buried rock, and Elizabeth glanced up and saw him. With a startled cry, she jumped to her feet and brushed shredded leaves from her bliaut.

He cloaked his lust with biting words. “Merriment? Have I not given you two enough work?”

Mildred greeted him with a huff. “You must have seen our progress as you walked, milord—the mounds of weeds and cleared section of path.”

“You have done fair work.” As he expected, indignation gleamed in Elizabeth’s eyes. He strode forward and presented her with the basket. “When you have eaten, I expect your toil to continue.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Or what, milord?”

He scowled. “You would be wise not to tax my patience any further. You would not like the consequences.”

She snatched the basket from his hand and set it on the ground. “An empty threat.”

Her boldness surprised him. Desire surged again, hotter than before. “Must I remind you of last evening when you tried my fortitude? This time, I shall ensure that you never forget my warnings.”

Her glare could have blasted the feathers off a strutting cockerel. “You do not frighten me, and I will never allow you to humiliate me in that manner ever again.”

With lazy fingers, he plucked a leaf from her hair. “How will you stop me?”

She flushed and jerked away. “I am not such a fool as to tell you.”

“Nay, but a fool to challenge me when you know I will win.” Moisture shone on her lips. He longed to kiss her. To appease his fury with her sweet, virgin essence. The most irrational of cravings, to make her his. “Do you doubt my words?”

“Only a fool relishes his victory before he has won,” she shot back with a slight tremor in her voice.

He leaned closer. Her eyes widened, and he smiled. “You are the fool. You are but a tiny sparrow, spitting seeds at a hawk who could snare you in his talons and make a meal of you whenever he wishes.”

“A hawk?” She snorted. “Nay, you are the ugly wasp, who likes to announce his importance to all around him with his obnoxious buzz. The noise soon becomes tiresome. So much so, in fact, ’tis only a matter of days before he finds himself well and truly
swatted
.”

“Swatted?” He grinned. “Ah, damsel, then you had best beware my
stinger
.” He watched her face, fascinated by the emotion in her eyes as she pondered his bawdy words, and then understood them.

Her hand fluttered to her throat. Before he could dive in again, Mildred elbowed in between them and nudged Elizabeth behind her.

The matron wagged a dirty finger in his face. “You will cease this crude banter.”

“Crude banter?” he repeated in a bland tone.

“Do not pretend to misunderstand me.”

He caught Elizabeth peering past the protection of Mildred’s plump shoulder, and laughed. “You need not fear for her virtue. She is not appealing covered with dirt, sweat, and twigs.”

Elizabeth gasped.

Mildred’s gaze narrowed. “I warn you, de Lanceau. You had best keep your
stinger
where it belongs—in your hose.”

He smiled, turned, and sauntered back toward the gate.

***

Her fingers curled at her sides, Elizabeth watched Geoffrey stride away, light and shadow slanting over his lithe body. Through his taunting, he had admitted his desire for her. He had no right to accuse her of seducing him, when, from what little she knew of such matters, a man gripped by desire did not need further enticing.

He was far more of a threat than she realized.

Mildred touched Elizabeth’s arm. “Do not look so grim. He is leaving.”

Geoffrey disappeared behind a clump of bushes that stretched out over the path, and a moment later, Elizabeth heard the gate close. She sighed and flexed her hands.

“The sooner we leave Branton Keep, the better, I warrant,” Mildred said. She walked over to the basket and removed the linen cloth, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted. “There is wine, bread, and cheese. Here, milady, have a drink. Put color back in your cheeks.” As the matron poured wine into a mug and handed it to Elizabeth, she asked, “Were you injured when you fell?”

Elizabeth looked down into the shimmering red wine. “I may have a bruise on the morrow, but ’tis all.”

With her foot, Mildred nudged aside the creeper that been so difficult to pull out. She paused, then squatted and fingered the patch of upturned earth and roots. Her face glowed with excitement, and she pointed to the slender plant that had grown in the vine’s shade. “Milady, look.”

Sipping her drink, Elizabeth moved closer.

The matron gently blew dirt from the plant’s waxy dark green leaves and purplish flowers. The pretty blossoms were shaped like a mantle’s deep hood.

“Another herb?” Elizabeth asked.

Mildred shook her head. “Monkshood. It might be our way to escape.”
 

Chapter Thirteen

“Tell me about the monkshood,” Elizabeth whispered, and pushed her needle into the trapping draped across her lap.

Looking down at her hands, the matron cleared her throat and shifted the hose she was mending. Mayhap to get better light. Mayhap to ease a twinging muscle.

Mayhap in warning.

After the evening meal, Geoffrey had sent them to sit near the hearth. They were not alone. Daring to raise her lashes, Elizabeth looked at the trestle table drawn near the fire, where Dominic and Geoffrey sat hunched over a game of chess. Dominic’s fingers hovered over the carved walrus ivory pieces as he pondered his move, his brow creased in concentration. The rogue sat with his chin on one hand, drumming his fingers on the table.

Geoffrey glanced up. His fingers stilled. His keen gaze skimmed over her, and his mouth curved into a little smile. He had looked at her that way when they passed in the stairwell, as the guards brought her in from the gardens. Exhausted beyond words, she had staggered into her chamber to find a bath waiting, an unexpected courtesy he must have arranged and for which her weary muscles were grateful.

Yet, she did not for one moment believe the kindness was an apology for his ribald teasing. Nor did she intend to apologize for calling him a wasp.

Dominic slid his rook into the middle of the board, a move which left his queen unprotected. Geoffrey shook his head and looked back at the game.

Elizabeth released her held breath.

“He watches you,” Mildred said in hushed tones.

“I know. Keep your voice down, and do not look up.”

“Harrumph! ’Tis hard to do, when I feel the weight of those gray eyes upon me.”

“I know.” Elizabeth sighed and brushed a loose thread from her rose wool gown.

Leaning forward, Mildred dipped the hose toward the firelight and pretended to tackle the split seam. “Monkshood is very poisonous,” she murmured. “’Tis safest used as a root, ground up with fragrant oils like lavender and rosemary to rub into aching joints and to dull pain. Yet, I have, on occasion, mixed a small amount with wine and honey and made an excellent sleeping potion.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, intrigued. “Sleeping potion?”

“A few swallows will make a grown man doze like a babe.”

Keeping her movements languid, Elizabeth swept a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. Holding up a chess piece, Geoffrey met her gaze. She looked down and resumed her embroidery. “That is all well and good,” she said quietly, “but how do we get the rogue to drink it?”

The matron chuckled, the soft sound masked by the
hiss
and crackle of the fire. “’Twill be easier than you think.”

“We cannot tip it into his ale before a meal. In the hall, he never lets us out of his sight, unless we are watched by guards.”

“If we get to the kitchens,” Mildred said, “we could add it to the jugs to be brought to the tables.”

Elizabeth’s pulse jolted. “Every grown man and woman in the keep, apart from the few guards patrolling the wall walk, will fall into a slumber.”

“Correct.”

She envisioned de Lanceau’s eyes snapping shut and him slumping face first into a trencher of stew, and smothered a grin. The thought was even more appealing when she imagined his fury at being tricked by two women and a few drops of sleeping potion brewed from plants from his own garden.