Medieval Rogues (36 page)

Frowning, Elizabeth said, “I do not understand. How could you blackmail the earl? Why could he not expose you as a traitor?”

Sedgewick grinned, clearly delighted by his own cleverness. “He attended the feast that evening at Wode. For a brief while, he planned to side with the king’s son, but in the end refused. That in itself was enough to ruin him. Yet, I also learned he sought a pardon for Edouard and intended to prove my duplicity. Using my contacts at court, I had significant documents destroyed. I also pressured the king for the earl’s daughter’s hand in marriage.” Sedgewick smile turned wicked. “The earl loved her very much. With her, I ensured his silence.”

“She died not long ago,” Arthur said. “That left you free to pursue a betrothal to Elizabeth.”

“Without his daughter’s safety to consider, and when he realized he was dying,” Elizabeth continued, caught up in her father’s train of thought, “the earl could at last send the writ to Geoffrey and let him know the truth about Edouard.”

A lewd grin tilted the baron’s lips, and he held Elizabeth’s gaze. “A shame, my love, you had to fall in love with de Lanceau. It would have been simpler for us all to let the past lie.”

“Enough.” Arthur signaled to his men. “Save your breath for the king’s courts. You will need it to convince the jury to spare your head. Till then, ’twill be my pleasure to see you rot in my dungeon.”

With a strangled squeal, the baron tried to run, but Dominic stepped forward and shoved the tip of his sword against Sedgewick’s belly.

Dominic pointed to the keep. “I believe the dungeon is that way.” Smiling, he stepped to one side and let the armed sentries haul the baron, kicking and begging for mercy, toward the keep.

Arthur blew out a long sigh. Elizabeth turned to him, tears of gratitude stinging her eyes. “Thank you, Father. Dominic. How did you know I was walking in the garden?”

“One of the servants told us she saw you heading across the bailey.” Arthur returned his weapon to its scabbard and clasped her hands. “I apologize for not interceding sooner. As I left the forebuilding, a guard intercepted me and told me he had overheard you speaking with Sedgewick. I ordered him to get reinforcements while Dominic and I made our way to the garden. At first, I did not want to intrude upon your conversation for fear the baron would not finish his confession, but then . . .” He raked his hand through his silvery hair. “Then he assaulted you.”

Wiping away tears, she said, “I am not harmed.”

“I am sorry for being such a rotten judge of character. How could I have thought the baron was a suitable husband for you?”

She went into her father’s arms and hugged him. “I forgive you. Please, we must find Veronique.”

“Aye. I will order the keep searched, and will post guards outside Geoffrey’s door day and night. If he dies, ’twill not be from the baron’s poison.”
 

Chapter Twenty-Two

A whispering sound, no more than a rush of air, woke Elizabeth. Her heavy eyelids flicked open to see that the fire had burned low during the night. Her first thought was that Mildred had sent a servant to fetch more wood and rekindle the embers.

The noise came again, louder this time. With a drowsy blink, Elizabeth turned her head. Someone stood at the foot of Geoffrey’s bed, staring down at his prone form.

Alarm swept any trace of sleep from Elizabeth’s mind. The figure walked around the bed, and stark moonlight illuminated the hooded cloak that brushed the floorboards and caused the soft whisper. The hood slipped a fraction. Chestnut curls gleamed, framing a face so hard it seemed carved from stone.

Veronique!

Moonlight flashed off the silver vial in her hand.

Elizabeth lunged for the bed. “Nay!”

She collided with Veronique. The vial dropped onto the blankets and rolled down past Geoffrey’s thigh.

“Stupid!” spat the courtesan. Shoving Elizabeth aside, Veronique clawed at the bedding. She had the vial in her fingertips, but Elizabeth pushed her sideways and sent her crashing into the oak side table. The flask of elixir shattered on the floor. Liquid splashed onto Elizabeth clothes and made the floor slick beneath her feet.

“By the blessed Virgin,” Mildred shouted, rising from her pallet, her eyes huge.

“The vial,” Elizabeth yelled, struggling in Veronique’s grip. “Get it.”

“Where? I see no—”

“On the bed!”

Mildred snatched up the vial and hurried to the door. “Guards,” she bellowed down the corridor. “Guards!”

An instant later, Arthur burst into the chamber with Dominic at his heels.

“She has a knife,” Elizabeth cried. She grabbed at Veronique’s wrists, desperate to stop her from drawing the blade. With a cruel laugh, Veronique shoved her away. Elizabeth tripped on the edge of the pallet and sprawled on the floor.

The courtesan whipped the long knife from its scabbard. Elizabeth scrambled to rise.

Turning to the bed, Veronique clutched the dagger in both hands, raised it high, and plunged it toward Geoffrey’s chest.

The blade winked in its downward arc.

Elizabeth screamed.

Dominic lunged for the bed. He slammed into Veronique, knocking her off her feet. The knife tilted sideways, slipped from her hands, and clattered to the floor. Elizabeth grabbed the dagger and pushed up to standing.

Kicking, screaming, Veronique fought Dominic, but he soon twisted her arms behind her back and held her in front of him, squirming and cursing.

Arthur’s smile held genuine admiration. “It appears your skills are not affected by a few mugs of ale, Dominic, or the late hour.”

Dominic grinned. “A good thing, too.”

Fighting to steady her breath, Elizabeth said, “Were there no guards at the door? Father, you promised.”

“They are dead.” Her sire glared at Veronique. “I did not pay you enough silver, wench?”

Her crimson lips turned up in a sneer. “The baron offered me coin
and
a keep of my own. His estate in Normandy.”

“How fortunate for the villeins of Normandy that you shall never rule them,” Arthur said, his voice cold.

She spat at his feet. Dominic propelled her toward the men-at-arms waiting in the doorway. Her shrieks of protest rang in the corridor, then faded into silence.

Elizabeth set down the knife and looked at Dominic, her eyes moist with tears. “If you had not come, Geoffrey might be dead.”

“You mean, if I had not plied your father with so much drink he could not deny me another visit.” Dominic glanced past her at Geoffrey, and his reckless smile wavered. “In truth, ’twas an honor, and at last, I have paid my debt to him. I hope my friend lives to thank me himself.”

***

Daylight shone in through the shutters when Elizabeth awoke. Her neck felt stiff and cramped from sleeping on the lumpy pallet, but she shrugged away the discomfort.

The baron and Veronique’s murderous plans had been foiled. Geoffrey lived. ’Twas all that mattered.

She rose and set more logs on the fire, which had burned down since she had refueled it after Veronique’s capture. After indulging in a thorough, catlike stretch, Elizabeth smoothed the wrinkles from her crushed gown. She picked up the saddle trapping and smiled down at her deft handiwork. A few more stitches on the hawk’s left wing, and the repair would be done.

Taking care to be quiet, she crossed to the bed. Beside it on the pallet, Mildred slept, curled on one side, her mouth relaxed open. A fresh flask of elixir sat in readiness on the side table. The healer must have worked late into the night to brew it.

Elizabeth stared down at Geoffrey. He seemed to be in a peaceful sleep. His eyelids lay smooth and still, his lashes forming a dark smudge above his cheekbones. His lips were closed, but his bottom lip protruded a fraction and lent a childlike innocence to his slumber.

Stifling a yawn with the back of her hand, she drew a fresh linen cloth out of the willow basket and washed his face. In a feverish fit, he had worked his arms free from the blankets and his hands lay clasped across his chest. Above the linen bandages, his skin gleamed, reminding her again of the bold, muscular beauty of him.

How she hoped that he survived and became strong again. She would not give up hope.

As she worked, the end of her braid brushed his skin. He made a small sound, like a sigh, and turned his face toward her. Elizabeth smiled and leaned over to smooth the tendrils of hair from his cheek.

His fingers brushed her breast.

Elizabeth froze. The movement was so unexpected. Deliberate. Her hand, clutching the wet cloth, hovered in mid-air. She dared not breathe. Had she fantasized the touch? Had she wished with such desperation for him to recover that she had imagined what she felt?

His fingers moved again. A slow, tender caress.

“Geoffrey?” she whispered.

“I had to be sure I was not dreaming,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. “Elizabeth, I had to be sure.”

She drew back and looked down into eyes that were clear and gray, and shining with tears.

“Geoffrey!” She smothered him with fevered kisses on his forehead, eyebrows, cheeks, and at last on the fullness of his lips. The kiss slowed and deepened, rich with loving joy.

“I prayed you would not die,” she sobbed against his lips.

Pain shivered across his face as his warm, rough hand closed over hers. “I would never leave you, damsel.”

She blinked away tears. “Promise me.”

“I promise.” His gaze shone with passionate conviction. “I love you, Elizabeth.”

“As I love you.”

She bent to kiss him again. At a muffled snort, she hesitated. Mildred pushed up from the pallet, wiping her eyes.

“I . . . do not mean to intrude, but . . . I am pleased to see you awake, milord.”

“I have you and your herbs to thank for it?” Geoffrey asked.

Mildred nodded. “You do.”

“Whatever you wish in return, ’tis yours.”

The matron gave a proud smile. “Harrumph! Listen to you. Brave words from a man who has much healing to do. I remind you, milord, you are still my patient, and it may take
months
before you are well again.”

Geoffrey looked at Elizabeth and groaned. “Months?”

Mildred’s head dipped in a curt nod. “If you wish to thank me, you will not disobey when I tell you to rest, or refuse to drink my healing tonics, no matter how foul they look, smell, or taste. I cannot bear to see my lady in distress any longer. Agreed?”

He sighed. “Agreed.”

“Good.” She swept her frazzled gray braid over her shoulder. “Now, I believe I will tell Lord Brackendale the news. If you have any sense, milady, you will not exhaust my patient with idle chatter. He is still very weak.”

The door closed behind her.

A roguish grin curved Geoffrey’s mouth, and molten heat flowed through Elizabeth. How she had missed his smile.

“’Tis good advice, damsel,” he murmured, as she brushed her lips over his. “My mouth hungers for more than idle chatter.”

***

After many savored kisses and cherished words, Geoffrey linked his fingers through Elizabeth’s and relished her soft skin against his. Fresh tears scalded his eyes, for she was the one—the
only
—reason he had fought to live.

The pervasive, suffocating darkness had threatened to drown his consciousness, but he had struggled with every last shred of his will to surface in the light and return to her.

She nuzzled his cheek. “I have much to tell you.”

“I remember naught after I was injured.” Geoffrey shoved aside the painful memory of that moment which seared through his mind and throbbed deep in his wound. “Are we at Wode?”

Elizabeth nodded and told him of the squire Aldwin’s arrest, how Geoffrey was carted to Wode to be healed, of the baron’s manipulation of Aldwin, and Veronique’s attempted murder.

As Geoffrey listened, his anger flared. “The baron will answer to me.” He cursed his infirmity and the bone-deep fatigue that rendered him incapable of storming down to the dungeon, sword in hand, and seeing justice done.

Excitement and a curious sadness shadowed her wet gaze. “There is more.”

“More?”

She freed her fingers from his, crossed the chamber, and retrieved a rolled parchment. Uncurling it, she leaned close and held it up for him to see.

“Your hands are trembling,” he said. “Elizabeth?”

“Read it,” she said, her eyes glistening.

His gaze skimmed the document which bore an official signature, and he forced himself to read. The meaning of the words at last permeated his mind. “A royal pardon!” he whispered.

“There is also a letter from the Earl of Druentwode, explaining why he kept the document secret until his death. Oh, Geoffrey, you were right. Your father was innocent. The baron framed him for treachery, and cut him down during the siege.”

Rage, anguish, and hatred blinded Geoffrey. “I will kill him! Bring him here. Now!” The effort of shouting sent acute pain stabbing through his torso. His vision blurred. He gritted his teeth against the mind-numbing agony and tried to rise.

“Geoffrey, stop!” Elizabeth shrilled.