Page 23 of A Knight’s Vengeance

“Harrumph!” Mildred picked up the cloak, shook it out with a perfunctory snap, and fastened it over the black mantle.

Over glinting gold.

Warning tingled through Geoffrey. He had forgotten about the brooch. “Wait.”

He stepped forward and parted the cloak’s edges with his fingers. The matron squawked and swatted his hand, but he managed to unfasten the ornament. It dropped into his palm.

“Nay!” Elizabeth lunged forward, but Troy caught her arm. She cursed and struggled.

Geoffrey rubbed the intricate scrolled pattern with his thumb. The metalwork was of superb quality, a masterful blend of gold and artistic design.

“Give me my brooch.” Hurt and anger rang in Elizabeth’s voice.

He wondered what the ornament meant to her. Mayhap one of her adoring suitors had given it to her, or Sedgewick.

Or even her accursed father.

Elizabeth stretched out her hand, palm upturned, fingers curled like a water lily’s petals. “Give it back. I demand it.”

Words ground between Geoffrey’s teeth. “Demand? So you can use it to bribe one of my men and escape?” His fingers closed around the shimmering gold. “I think not.”

“’Tis mine!”

He locked his heart and mind against her shrieks. He would not return the brooch. By doing so, he could jeopardize his victory, and he had waited too many years for revenge.

Geoffrey turned his back to her and slipped the gold into his bag. “Troy, get her on the horse.” Over her indignant cries, he shouted, “Paul. Viscon. Bring a horse for Mildred. Be quick about it.”

The roan stumbled. Elizabeth pitched forward, then back against Troy’s chest. Her breath expelled on a groaned “oomph.” The cursed nag seemed to find every one of the road’s potholes and raised stones.

Elizabeth straightened and drew back the edge of the cloak’s hood which shielded her face. Viscon rode on her right, his scarred hand braced upon his knee, his saddle creaking like a hangman’s noose.

Shuddering, she recalled the gleam in de Lanceau’s eyes when he had spurred his destrier up alongside her several leagues back. He had ordered Mildred and Paul, riding on her left, to the back of the entourage. No doubt he had done so to separate her from her one ally on the journey.

Fury had whooshed through Elizabeth like a summer fire, for she had indeed planned to conspire with Mildred to leave clues behind—a dropped shoe, or even a torn bit of shift. When de Lanceau had addressed her and asked if she were all right, Elizabeth had stared off at the fields and refused to answer.

His rough laughter had 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.