Medieval Rogues (25 page)

“I will not have to force you,” he said against her cheek. “Your body is willing.”

“Then let go of my wrists.”

He laughed, and the chilling sound echoed deep inside her. “I will not, damsel. Not until I have finished with you.”

***

Lying over her, Geoffrey felt the violent shudder that rippled through Elizabeth’s body. For all of three heartbeats, he hesitated, and looked down into her proud, ashen face.

Admiration stirred in his soul. She was brave to try and thwart him, even when she knew he would not heed her pointless words. His mind filled with thoughts of how she had deceived him with the herbal potion, how she had harmed Dominic, and what her cruel father had done years ago, and Geoffrey’s wrath blazed like a wildfire.

He had every right to take what he desired.

His palm slid beneath her slashed bodice and cupped her full, warm breast. Her lips parted on a gasp. Did she, too, feel intense sensation when their skin touched? He had never before felt such exquisite torment. No woman had held such power over his senses, thoughts, and desires. No woman had come so close to touching his soul. Fury and need roared inside Geoffrey, tinged with . . . guilt.

He shoved the unwelcome emotions from his mind. The lady was his hostage. His pawn. He would do with her as he wished.

His fingers skimmed lower, toward her stomach’s curve. Her flesh tensed beneath his fingertips. She turned her face away and buried her cheek in the braided tangle of her hair. Her blue eyes glittered. She blinked, but could not hide from him the watery shimmer of tears.

A ragged breath tore from him.

She lay still and silent, resigned to her fate. Her eyes were closed now, and he guessed she blocked out the experience with whatever means were left to her. He had tried to do the same when he lay in the desert hospital. Though he had battled the horrific memories with a mental sword, ’twas a far more difficult fight than he had ever imagined.

She would learn that, soon enough.

Her dark lashes fanned against her cheek. He sensed her fear. Helplessness. The shattered pride of a woman forced to compromise when she did not want to yield.

Her lips quivered.

Her desperate plea echoed in his mind.
Please. Do not
.

Revulsion unfurled in him with shocking force. He had never hurt a woman. He had never coerced a virgin to his bed. Never in the lowest moments of his existence had he wanted to commit such a loathsome act.

What kind of beast had he become?

He felt intense shame. Craving. Desire. His shaking fingers curled into a fist against her skin. He did not want to take her in anger. He wanted her eyes open, warm with laughter and shared passion, as she welcomed him into her body’s sweet haven.

The door to his chamber creaked open.

Elizabeth jerked beneath him. Scowling, he raised his head to yell at whoever dared to come in without first asking his permission. He had warned the guards outside that he did not want to be interrupted, unless the matter was of vital importance.

Veronique strolled out of the shadows. When she saw him lying with Elizabeth on the bed, she stiffened. Her eyes flared with shock and outrage, but quicker than he thought possible, her face eased into a smile.

He expected her to curtsey, turn around, and leave. Instead, she walked toward him, her brocaded gown rustling with each of her controlled steps.

Elizabeth squirmed beneath him. His lips thinned, and he wished he could have spared both women this moment of indignity. He glared at Veronique. “I told the guards I did not wish to be disturbed.”

The courtesan paused beside the bed. “So you did, milord.”

“Why do you ignore my orders?”

Her smile turned cool. “I bring you a missive.” She offered him the roll of wax-sealed parchment clasped in her fingers. “’Twas delivered by one of Lord Brackendale’s pages. I knew you were awaiting a response to the ransom demand. I thought you would want to see it straight away.”

Exhaling a fierce sigh, Geoffrey released Elizabeth’s hands. He rolled off her, got to his feet, and snatched the parchment from Veronique. Behind him, the bed ropes creaked. Elizabeth stumbled away from him, clutching at her ruined bliaut.

Geoffrey broke the seal with his thumb and read the terse lines scribed on the parchment. He laughed. “Damsel, you are not as valuable to your sire as you might believe.”

“What do you mean?” Her fingers knotted into the green wool, holding the edges of the slashed fabric together.

“Your father refused to surrender Wode.”

Pride and relief glowed in her eyes. “I told you he would never agree to your demands.”

“He has challenged me to a melee three days from now, in Moyden Wood.”

“A
melee?
” Elizabeth’s face turned pale, and she swayed on her feet.

Her horror touched Geoffrey. Despite her pampered, sheltered upbringing, she knew of the savage mock battles that pitted one enemy against another, without the king’s knowledge or consent. Geoffrey had fought two with the Earl of Druentwode. In the fight’s ensuing thrill and blood lust, few warriors heeded the rules of chivalry that governed tournaments. Even fewer considered their opponents’ safety. Most weapons were not blunted, a fact, he expected, her father knew as well.

Anticipation snaked down Geoffrey’s spine. At long last, vengeance. If he were correct in guessing Brackendale’s intentions, one lord would be killed. The other would stand as the dust settled on the maimed and the dead.
He
would be the rightful ruler of Wode.

“You cannot,” Elizabeth shrieked. “You cannot!”

Geoffrey shrugged. “’Tis a fair challenge. May the mightiest lord win.”

Her eyes grew wide with fear. “My father is no match for you in armed combat. He will die.”

“Then he will die,” Geoffrey said with cold finality.

Elizabeth’s hand flew to her mouth. She ran for the door.

He let her go.

***

As the sound of Elizabeth’s footsteps faded, Veronique turned to Geoffrey and grinned. “Tsk, tsk. A spineless wench, is she not?”

“’Tis no concern of yours,” he snarled.

Veronique arched an eyebrow. With his hands on his hips, and his lips pressed into a line, he looked less than satisfied with his encounter with the lady. She bit back a smug laugh. Served him right for dallying with another woman.

Frustration and fury surrounded him like invisible armor. Excitement shivered through Veronique. Ah, she loved to soothe his anger. It took skill and patience to transform rage, such a volatile emotion, into unbridled passion.

But she could.

She cast him a teasing pout. With loose-hipped strides, she crossed to him and twirled her fingers into the fine hair at his nape. “You are not pleased I interrupted you, after all?” When he did not respond, she slid her flattened palms down his torso and shoved them up under his shirt.

He cursed.

With a teasing giggle, she crushed her body against his while her fingers glided over his bare skin. “Tell me, milord, that you are not angry with me.”

He growled. “You disobeyed me. The message could have waited.”

Veronique hid a scowl. If she had not entered the solar, he would have sampled another woman’s body. She dug her nails into his flesh and covered her rage with a bold, slippery kiss that should have left him enticed and malleable. “Who would see to your needs then?” she cooed. “’Tis clear Brackendale’s daughter could not.”

His hands closed around her wrists, stopping her caresses.

“I am no mood for your games,” he said, his voice so iron hard, she shivered.

As Veronique stared up into his face, half-masked by shadow, fear prickled in her veins. The night he had returned to bed after leaving her alone, he had not touched her. When she had tried to entice him, he had rolled onto his side and left her cold. Nor, over the past few days or nights, had he invited her to share his bed.

Forcing a sultry grin, she stretched up on the tips of her toes. She would prove he was not immune to her seductions.

He frowned and pushed her away. Turning his back to her, he reached for the wine jug on the side table.

With rigid fingers, Veronique smoothed her gown’s crushed sleeve. “A drink first then, to ease you?” she suggested, unable to keep the edge from her tone. Geoffrey must have heard it, too, for his hand froze on the pitcher’s handle.

“Go.”

“Milord?”

“I wish you to leave, Veronique,” he said without facing her. “Close the doors behind you.”

“You are
dismissing
me?” As she stared at the unyielding wall of his back, the significance of his rejections crashed down upon her like a crumbling wall. “Why?”

He looked at her, his gaze shadowed with regret. His shoulders raised in a stiff shrug. “I do not feel for you as I once did. I do not want to lie with you. I am . . . sorry.”

His words stung. He did not need her. He did want her. Not now, mayhap never again.

Beneath her powders and rouge, warmth drained from her face. He was forcing her away because he desired the lady.

Elizabeth Brackendale was younger, more beautiful, and her noble bloodlines made her a far richer prize than a poor farmer’s daughter turned courtesan.

Veronique’s jaw tightened with fury. “I never expected you to choose Brackendale’s daughter over me.”

Geoffrey looked at her over his wine goblet, his stare hard with warning. “I asked you to leave. Do you ignore yet another of my orders?”

Veronique forced a smile with lips that felt carved from stone. “Nay, milord.” She dropped into a graceful curtsey. “I bid you good evening.”

She sensed his gaze upon her as she walked across the chamber. How she hated the ache that crushed her heart.

As Veronique hastened down the passage to the musty antechamber she claimed as her private room, her bliaut lashed at her ankles. Her eyes burned, and not from the smoke spewing from the torches. What had happened was all
her
fault, that black-haired, blue-eyed wench’s. Veronique remembered Elizabeth’s pale limbs entwined with Geoffrey’s, and spat an oath into the shadows.

Veronique trembled with rage. Geoffrey was
her
lord.
Her
lover.
Her
warrior. No one had ever challenged her position as his favorite until Lady Elizabeth Brackendale arrived at Branton.

Staggering into the darkened chamber, Veronique slammed the door and leaned back against the splintered wood. She had followed Geoffrey across the continent to this vile, festering, run-down keep because he had ambitions of power and wealth.

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.
 

Chapter Sixteen

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 it 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 had come 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.”