A Knight's Vengeance (6 page)

The familiar, musty odor of the passage stirred a host of memories: boyish pranks played on the scullery maids; afternoons spent collecting stones and chasing Thomas through the maze of torch lit corridors, laughing and yelling at the top of his lungs; the siege.

Geoffrey fought a maelstrom of fury and hurt so
overwhelming,
he wanted to roar in agony. He ground his teeth, resurrected the iron wall around his soul, and forced himself to concentrate on his task.

His father had not deserved to die in disgrace.

Lord Brackendale would suffer for his misdeed.

He saw candlelight in the doorway on the left. A plump, gray-haired woman in a linen shift shrank back into the shadows.

A smile twisted Geoffrey's lips.
Lady Elizabeth's lady-in-waiting.
Mildred, if Dominic's information were correct. She had been in the market that day. She seemed to remember him, for her eyes flared and her hand flew to her mouth.

As his gaze shifted to the open doorway, his jaw hardened. The fact that Mildred stood waiting for him was very telling.

The lady had been warned.

Geoffrey halted before Mildred. Her white- knuckled hands tightened around the candle. She shivered. He could not tell whether 'twas from his stare, or the cool, pre-dawn air.

Nor did he care.

Hands on his hips, he strode into the chamber. His gaze traveled over the opened linen chest, the heap of garments and thread on the floor, and the mussed bedding. He placed his palm flat in the center of the bed and fought to ignore the linens' sweet fragrance.
Her
scent.

The bedding was still warm. She had not gone far.

Turning on his heel, he glared at Mildred. "Where is she?"

"W-Who?"

"Do not toy with me,
Mildred.
You know of whom I speak."

Her face blanched. She clearly had not expected him to know her name. Yet she held his gaze. "Milady is not here."

Geoffrey growled deep in his throat. He crossed the chamber, his boots rapping on the floorboards. "I will ask you but one more time. Where . . . is—"

A shout rang out in the corridor. Geoffrey strode to the doorway, aware of Mildred's shuddered sigh behind him.

Dominic appeared in the embrasure, his brow beaded with sweat. "Milord, Viscon saw the lady heading for a stairwell. She is trying to reach the bailey."

Triumph coiled inside Geoffrey. "Excellent." He signaled to the armed men awaiting his order. "Troy. Paul. Bring the matron. We will meet you at the stairwell."

Dominic frowned. "We intended to take only the lady."

"Mildred will ensure that Brackendale's daughter cooperates."

"Milord, is that wise
? '
Twas cramped in the wagon with ten of us. To find room for two
mo
—"

Anger flared inside Geoffrey, hot as burning oil. "Do not question me in this. Go!"

Dominic hesitated, then nodded and hurried away.

Geoffrey arched an eyebrow at Troy and Paul, and tipped his head toward Mildred.
"Now."

"I will not go with you." She retreated from the two advancing men, step by step, until she hit the whitewashed stone wall. She lashed out with the cartdle, but one of the men knocked it from her. Snuffed out, it rolled away under the bed.

Cursing, she struck out with her arms and legs. The men grabbed her wrists and restrained her.

Mildred panted. "Tell your idiots to release me, de Lanceau, or I shall scream."

"Do not waste your breath. I would regret ordering the guards to knock you senseless. Yet I will, if you try to scream or refuse to do as I bid."

"Harrumph! You do not frighten me." She inhaled.

Geoffrey softened his voice to a lethal murmur. "Do you wish harm to come to your lady?"

His theatrics had the desired effect. The color drained from Mildred's face.
"You . . . you
monster.
I will never let you harm Lady Elizabeth."

"She is far more valuable to me alive and well."

Mildred's lips pursed. "Pah! You would tell me all kinds of lies to get your way, you thick-skulled, swine-bellied—"

Geoffrey walked out the door. "Bring her."

*
    
*
    
*

Her breathing ragged, Elizabeth stumbled to a halt and pressed her hand against her pinched side. Footfalls echoed in the passageway behind her, and she wondered if they belonged to her servants, or de Lanceau's cohorts.

Wraithlike shadows, surrounded by torchlight, grew across the walls behind her. She imagined the men's jeers and coarse laughter when they trapped her.

A man who burned the harvest had no mercy.

De Lanceau would not show compassion for his enemy's daughter.

A scream burned Elizabeth's throat, but she swallowed the cry. She must not yield to fear. Her father and the castle folk depended on her.

She must not allow de Lanceau victory.

Forcing herself back into motion, she ran into an adjoining corridor. Through the wall torch's hazy smoke, she spied the entry to the stairwell. Relief washed through her like a spring rain. When she reached the inner bailey, she could shout the alarm. The door was at the bottom of the stairs.

As she entered the stairwell, her mantle's brush became amplified to a whisper. The tap of her slippers echoed. The musk of damp stone enveloped her. Her mind roused images of hideous, fanged ghouls slithering out of the cracks in the mortar. Shuddering, she squashed her imaginings and pressed on.

Darkness descended with her. The torches further down had gone out. Biting her lip, Elizabeth reached out to find the wall, and her palm skidded across mildewed stone.

Had her father not ordered the servants to keep the stairwells lit at all times?

For a panicked moment, she started to turn back.

She could not. She must secure the keep.

Her foot slid down to the next step.
Almost there.

Only a few more steps to go.

A scuffling sound came from behind her.

She froze. Someone else had entered the stairwell.

She held her breath.
Waited.
Listened.

Whoever followed tried to be quiet, but had difficulty judging the stairs' width.

A hand bumped her shoulder.

Elizabeth shrieked and bolted forward into the darkness. Her pursuer swore. Her right foot slipped out from beneath her, and she fell. Her head and right arm slammed against the wall.

Dazed, she struggled to stand. She righted herself.

Her pursuer grabbed for her again.

She must reach the bailey.

Her ankle twisted on an uneven stair. Her legs crumpled. She cried out, felt the weightlessness of air beneath her, and landed at the bottom of the stairs.

Elizabeth moaned and struggled to sit up. The stairwell filled with light, voices, and the rasp of drawn weapons. She pushed the mantle's hood from her eyes. Squinting in the brightness, she saw armed men walking in from the adjoining corridors. She did not recognize any of them.

Dread screamed through her. She scrambled to her feet.

A tall man strode toward her.

She gasped, for she would never forget his handsome face. Memories of his embrace and wicked words had lived on in her illicit daydreams since the day he saved her life.
"Your

"Geoffrey de Lanceau." He smiled and took her hand. "At last, Lady Elizabeth, we have the pleasure of a proper introduction."

*
    
*
    
*

Geoffrey watched the emotions play across her pale face: shock, anger, and fear. Her hand, clinging to his, shook before she wrenched her fingers free. He let her go. He allowed her the momentary illusion of freedom, as a falconer would indulge his favorite bird before calling it back to his arm and slipping the hood over its bright eyes.

She held his stare, and he steeled himself against her beauty. He had remembered her eyes were blue, but now, offset by the dark mantle cloaking her head and body, they were the color of a summer sky.

Her cheeks pinkened, and her gaze narrowed to a frosty glare. All hint of vulnerability had gone. Again, he looked upon the composed woman he had rescued days ago.

"I regret I could not reveal my identity at the market," he murmured. "I could not risk you telling your sire."

Rage glittered in her eyes. "A wise choice, since I would have done so. Where is my father? What have you done with him?"

A smug grin tilted Geoffrey's mouth. "He is on his way to Tillenham, I believe."

"To capture you.
You set the fires, did you not? He accepted your challenge." Her eyebrow arched. "Were you afraid to fight him, after all?"

Fury snapped inside Geoffrey like a cracking whip. She called him a coward. Years of anguish and resentment rammed against the wall of control around his heart and threatened to shatter it into thousands of pieces.

He balled his hands into fists. He would be foolish to lose his calm now, as she well knew. She had insulted his pride and prowess in front of his men, no doubt to provoke him into rash action. How clever of her, but futile. "Your father and I will fight soon, milady. When we do, I shall win."

Her expression shadowed with wariness. Geoffrey anticipated a biting reply that her sire would trample his bones into the ground. Yet, at that moment, crimson liquid dripped onto her shoulder.
Blood?

He frowned.
"Dominic, a torch."

Elizabeth jerked her head to the side, but Geoffrey was faster with the light. The curls at her brow covered a scrape that bled down her hairline and gleamed on the rise of her
strong cheekbones. She would need a healer. He stifled a pang of remorse, and wondered if she had any other injuries.