A Knight's Vengeance (11 page)

His rough laughter mocked her. "Watch her," he had told Viscon in a tone cold enough to freeze stone. "If she draws attention to us, or escapes, you forfeit your payment."

Elizabeth sensed the mercenary's gaze dart over her now like the flick of a serpent's tongue. "Keep yer head down," he snapped.

She dropped her chin, but only until his attention slid from her to a dog bounding through a field dotted with clusters of bundled sheaves. Raising her lashes, she looked through the haze of dust and floating dandelion spores to where de Lanceau rode ahead with Dominic. They spoke in low voices, their words punctuated by occasional laughter.

Both had donned concealing cloaks, as had the guards. The easy sway of de Lanceau's hips proved he was comfortable riding a horse. She scowled. Of course he was. On Crusade, he had galloped headlong into battle against the Saracens.

He had become a hero.

He was no hero now. He was a man robed in deceit. He kept his horse to a walk, adding to the illusion they were a convoy of unhurried travelers. The farmers and peasants they passed on the road would not suspect him of kidnapping their lord's daughter and spiriting her off to his wretched keep.

Elizabeth fought the sting of tears, and glared at de Lanceau's back.
Knave.
She could never replace her treasured brooch. Would he return it, or keep it as part of his cruel revenge?

She could not bear to think of never wearing the beautiful ornament again.
       

Viscon grunted and swatted her cloak's sleeve. "Head down."

De Lanceau swiveled in his saddle, his expression wary. She dropped her gaze to the roan's tangled mane and bit back an unladylike oath.

As the day wore on, she shifted in the saddle to ease a cramp in her thigh. Twice, de Lanceau took bread and mead from his saddlebag and passed it back to her and his men. Twice, Elizabeth refused. Her bottom hurt. Her arm pained. Her head ached so much that her stomach churned, and she could not have swallowed the food if she tried. Hugging her arms across her grumbling belly, she tried to forget the mead's tempting scent and her parched mouth.

Swollen clouds blackened the afternoon sky. As raindrops splattered on her hood and shoulders and peppered the road with dark spots, de Lanceau barked an order to quicken their pace.

She burrowed into the cloak's folds. While the garment provided her with an extra layer of warmth, it did not stop the water from soaking through. Her shift plastered to her skin. The road transformed into a sheet of mud. Ahead, de Lanceau and Dominic huddled against the driving rain. Their chatter and laughter ceased. Over the gusting wind and
clip-clop
of hooves, she heard harsh commands to keep moving.

Her teeth chattered, and she pulled the cloak tighter around her body. Dizziness courted her, and tempted her to close her eyes and yield to soothing darkness.

It seemed only a moment later that a hand shook her.

"Milady."
Troy's voice sounded distant. "Wake up."

"Mmm?"
She forced her leaden eyelids open and pushed wet strands of hair from her cheek. As the smells of horse and wet earth flooded her consciousness, she blushed, mortified to find she had slumped against Troy's chest.

She sat up, and froze. Twilight had fallen. Ahead, a fortress perched on the edge of a natural rock incline. Silhouetted against the sunset's vibrant reds, oranges, and gold, the stone walls looked black as midnight. The squared keep thrust up past the crenellated curtain wall like an ugly dragon rearing its head, and a water moat curled around like a tail.

Branton Keep looked a forbidding place. She had no wish to ride into de Lanceau's lair, but her body screamed for an end to the day's ride, a change of clothing, and a hot, tasty meal free of flies and lumps.

As they clattered through the streets of the town nestled around the fortress's wall, villagers peered out of their wattle- and-daub homes. De Lanceau spurred his horse to a canter, and the other men did the same. As they approached the massive wood and iron portcullis, locked under the gatehouse, he shouted to the sentries in the watchtowers. The wooden drawbridge thumped down over the moat, the portcullis winched up with a squeal, and the inner wooden doors opened.

Flickering reed torches lit the inner bailey. Men emerged from straw-roofed buildings, some young, some old and battle hardened. They smiled and, as de Lanceau reined his horse to a halt, welcomed him with cheers and handshakes. His face eased into a boyish grin, and an odd pang gripped Elizabeth. She looked away.

Troy slid down from the roan and led it through the crowd toward the stables. She struggled to calm her pulse. What would happen to her now? The boisterous chatter around her swelled, and she laced her clammy fingers together over her lap. She must keep her wits about her. Any man who tried to harm her would learn she was the daughter of a powerful lord, and would regret his actions.

As Troy slowed the mount near the stables, the noise seemed to rise again. She glanced over her shoulder. De Lanceau had dismounted and stood watching her, his gaze as keen as a predatory hawk's.

He handed his destrier's reins to a stable hand. "Will you need help getting down from the horse, milady?"

His words hummed with challenge. She shoved back the soaked hood, and, ignoring the icy rainwater trickling down her arms, shot him the frostiest stare she could muster. "Not from you."

She stretched her stiff legs and prayed for ladylike grace as she drew one leg over the front of the saddle. Despite her bravado, she winced.

De Lanceau muttered under his breath. He shrugged out of his wet cloak and drab tunic, tossed them to a servant, and headed toward her. The sea of men around him parted.

A tremor shook her. He could not mean to help her himself. The thought of his hands upon her—

She should not stare at him. 'Twas not proper, but she could not seem to wrench her gaze away. His common garments had concealed a black tunic, a garment that rivaled even her father's costliest clothes. The damp cloth molded to de Lanceau's chest, outlining broad swells of muscle. Exquisite filigree embroidery accented the collar and cuffs. Light glittered off the gold thread. How he dazzled.

As he neared, his jaw taut with purpose, she jolted her exhausted body into motion.

"Lady Elizabeth!" Troy cried. "Wait."

She held the edge of the saddle, turned, and slid down.

The instant her slippers touched the slick, hard-packed ground, her legs collapsed. She clawed for the saddle. "Oh!"

Arms swooped around her from behind. De Lanceau's embroidered cuff brushed against her wrist. He drew her back against him, supporting her weight with his. Her bottom pressed against his thighs. Her cloak tangled about his legs.

Awareness hurtled through her. She squirmed, tried to pull away, but dizziness thwarted her. She sucked in a breath, ripe with the scents of man and sweaty horse, and fought to clear her whirling mind.

Potent, invisible tension unfurled in her belly.

His breath stirred her hair. "Can you stand?" Next to her ear, his voice sounded unsteady.

She nodded.

He pushed her away, and turned her to face him.

"Does your arm still pain you? What of your forehead?" Concern glinted in his eyes.

Drawing herself up to her full height, Elizabeth refused to acknowledge the slightest gratitude for his compassion. He had abducted her as part of his plan for vengeance, and no doubt intended to use her as leverage against her father.

De Lanceau did not care for her well-being.

"I am fine," she said.

His laughter grated. His eyes darkened to steel gray.

Elizabeth gnawed her lip. He
knew
she lied, but if it took every last bit of her strength, she would not admit weakness.

"For a moment," he drawled, "I thought you looked pale and unwell." His smile turned lazy and, as his gaze traveled over her sodden cloak, her breath settled like a rock between her ribs. "I would hate to think my prize had been damaged during the day's journey. Your value to me might be lessened, Lady Elizabeth, if that were so."

She swallowed. She scrambled to find words with which to battle, scathing remarks to wound and scar.

Yet she was so very, very tired.

Darkness beckoned. She closed her eyes, unable to resist.

The bailey's noise faded to a drone.

A hand caught her elbow. Steadied her, though she did not realize, until then, how close she had been to collapsing.

"Troy, escort her to her chamber."

When Elizabeth opened her eyes, de Lanceau had gone. He stood across the bailey, speaking to an old woman drawing water from the well. Elizabeth strained to see past the stable hands crowded around the other riders, to see what had become of Mildred, but Troy set his hand in the small of her back and urged her toward the keep's forebuilding.

She stepped inside. The dank air smelled of cheap tallow candles and a century of secrets.

Her strides stiffened. De Lanceau intended to throw her in his dungeon. A shiver rippled through her, and she steeled herself to face rats and iron shackles. Yet Troy led her up into a cramped, winding stairwell. At the end of three flights of stairs they came to a chamber. A short, plump maidservant with wide brown eyes and hair the color of honey stood inside. She turned as they approached. After setting down a stoneware pitcher, she dipped in a timid curtsey and hurried out.

Troy motioned for Elizabeth to enter.

She paused on the threshold, held back by a sense of misgiving. "Whose chamber is this? Why have you brought me here? Tell de Lanceau I—"

Troy shoved her forward, mumbling an apology. The door thumped closed. A key grated in the lock.

"Troy!"

Elizabeth fisted her hands and hammered on the door. He did not answer. She yanked on the iron handle, twisted and turned it, but the metal refused to budge.

With a furious sigh, she spun away from the door. Her fingers shook, yet she managed to shed the cloak. It slapped into a heap on the floorboards. She ignored the ache of bruised muscles and stalked around the chamber. If there were a way to escape, she would find it.

She threw open the
window's
wooden shutters. A wrought iron grille barred the opening, and held firm when she gave it a good tug. She slammed the shutters closed.

Turning on her heel, she crossed to the high oak bed near the door. The worn sheets had been patched in places, as had the woolen blankets. They would not hold up if she ripped them to shreds and braided them into a rope. Desperate laughter bubbled in her throat. Since she could not squeeze past the grille, that plan had no merit anyway.