Medieval Rogues (26 page)

“If milord wished to see ye, he would ’ave 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 to 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 asked to see him and thus courted 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 glistening like blood on his thumb. “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.”

Geoffrey laughed bitterly. “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.” Geoffrey’s 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 misery 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 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 way 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.”

“Then I expect none.”

“Listen to what you say! You will sacrifice your innocence for naught.”

She shivered at the bite in his words, but did not look away. “I yield because I wish to. Because I want this one moment with you that may never come again.”

“God’s teeth,” he whispered, “you are the bravest woman I have ever known.” Admiration gleamed in his shocked gaze. He reached out and trailed his wine-stained thumb down her cheek. She did not realize she was crying, until she felt the wet path of his skin on hers. “Ah, damsel, how I wish you wept for me.”

His words were soft, tender, and Elizabeth exhaled on a rush. She fought for words to convey the emotions swirling inside her.

He cupped her face with his hand. “Elizabeth, my beautiful, headstrong damsel. I want to love you.”

“I am yours.”

“Kiss me.”

She had never seen such turmoil. Hunger. His need burned inside her.

She longed to feel his arms wrap around her, to taste him, to explore him. The yearning—a desire that surpassed the boundaries of past and future to reach pure, elemental attraction between man and woman—was stronger now than it had ever been.

He set the silver goblet on the table. His hand dropped from her face, yet he did not move closer or try to touch her, though she knelt within reach. Mayhap he feared frightening her away. Mayhap he wanted her to reconsider all that she had offered.

Whatever his reasons, they did not matter.

She would not waver.

With a shaking hand, she touched his leg. His wool hose felt smooth and warm beneath her palm, and, edging forward, she closed the space separating them. His hand settled over hers, and tingles shot up her arm. She glanced up to see if he, too, had felt them. He nodded. His gaze smoldering, he plowed his fingers into her hair.

A ragged sigh burst from him, and he leaned toward her. His breath warmed her cheek. A caress. An invitation.

Elizabeth lifted her mouth to his.

The kiss was sweeter than she ever imagined. Her lips feathered over his, explored his sensuous mouth. He tasted of red wine, a tangy, heady piquancy more intoxicating than a sip from the goblet. She kissed him again and drew back.

He exhaled with a gasp, a sound that expressed a deluge of sensations. As she licked her lips, savoring his essence, his mouth hovered close. He raised one eyebrow. When she flushed, he smiled. Anticipation shuddered through her. Before she lost her nerve, Elizabeth leaned forward and claimed his lips.

“Damsel,” he groaned. His hand, tangled in her hair, shook. She sensed his urgent need, his desire to take control, yet he did not. Instead, he coaxed her with kisses that dared her to seek more.

With a sigh, Elizabeth arched forward to deepen the contact, and her belly pressed against his leg. His fingers slid from her hair and, breaking away for less than one breath, he reached down and drew her onto his lap.

Awareness assailed her. His thigh under her bottom. His muscled arm at her back. His familiar scent. She trembled, overwhelmed, but his mouth found hers. His lips soothed, teased, and when his tongue eased between her teeth, she gasped. His kisses grew fiercer, more profound, until her pulse hammered and her body arched with wanting.

Breathing hard, Elizabeth drew back. She stared up into his flushed face, into his blazing eyes, and felt an inexplicable sense of incompletion.

“Elizabeth.” He nuzzled the hollow of her neck and trailed kisses down her collarbone. “Lie with me now.”

His hushed words were not a command, but a request, delivered with such yearning her heart almost broke in two. She snuffed a twinge of panic and regret. She would go to his bed, for she wanted him, as he desired her. If she could convince him not to plunge his sword into her father’s heart, she must.

She met Geoffrey’s ravenous gaze. “Aye,” she whispered.

He answered with a tortured groan and a kiss so brazen, Elizabeth cried out when their lips parted. Cradling her in his arms, he rose and carried her to the bed, her hair brushing the floorboards. His hands gentle, he laid her down on the coverlet. The bed ropes creaked as he stretched out beside her.

His fingers stroked her tresses. He fanned her hair out over the coverlet and pulled a ringlet over her shoulder. She smiled and, spurred by a rush of boldness, pushed her hand up under his tunic.

He tensed. His eyes narrowed in warning, and she froze with her palm pressed to his warm belly. Had she displeased him? She had never lain with a man before. Dismay whirled up inside her. If she had ruined her chance to save her father—

Geoffrey covered her hand with his, and drew it to a buckled ridge along the right side of his chest. A scar. A long, hideous scar. Elizabeth traced the line of marred flesh with her fingertips and bit back a horrified cry. What had happened to him? How had he survived such a wound?

Anguish shimmered in his eyes, and she sensed him steel himself for her rejection. With a gentle smile, she tugged the tunic up past his navel.

“’Tis not a pleasant sight,” he muttered.

“Please.” She pushed herself up to sitting.

He raised up on one elbow, drew the tunic over his head, and tossed it onto the floor.

Elizabeth sucked in a breath. She had expected the warrior strength of his physique, but not his godlike beauty, which the scar could never diminish. His skin gleamed like polished bronze. She smoothed her fingers over the swell of muscles and ribs, and marveled at the perfection of the human body. His body.

Geoffrey pushed up to sit beside her. The skin across her breasts tingled, for she recognized the wicked gleam in his eyes. His fingers drifted over her bodice, down to her waist, and as she swayed against him, her eyes closed. He took her mouth in a fiery kiss, reached down, and unlaced his boots. They fell to the floor. He did not break the kiss as he unfastened the points of his hose, removed the belt, and stripped the wool from each leg.