Page 30 of A Knight’s Vengeance

Relief flooded through Elizabeth.

Shuffled footsteps echoed, then a gasp. “Lord de Lanceau?” Sister Margaret’s voice quavered. “Shall I wait outside? I… I do not mean to intrude, but soon, I must return to the abbey to settle the accounts and⁠—”

De Lanceau growled under his breath. “I will hear you say it, damsel.” His hand dropped away. “Come, Sister.”

He uncrossed his legs and rose from the bed.

The ropes shifted, settled, and Elizabeth exhaled. She had won a reprieve. For now. She slumped back against the pillows, cocooning herself in the bedding.

In quiet tones, he spoke with the nun. She appeared bewildered and a little frightened, but as he continued, gesturing with his hands, the worry left her eyes. She nodded.

Elizabeth scowled. Whatever he had said, he had gilded the truth to suit his purpose.

De Lanceau smoothed the front of his jerkin. “Milady, Sister Margaret will finish tending your wounds now.”

“’Tis a pity you must leave,” Elizabeth said. Hope sparked within her like a greedy flame. If he quit the chamber, she could tell the nun of the kidnapping. Mayhap Sister Margaret would even relay a message to⁠—

De Lanceau’s laughter prowled into her thoughts. “I will wait here until she is done. I will not have you delaying her work, or telling delusional tales. A knock to the head can cause all manner of imaginings.”

As Sister Margaret strolled to the bed, Elizabeth pursed her lips and stared at the mortared wall. He might have thwarted her for now, but she would not yield to defeat.

Not now.

Not ever.

Geoffrey escorted the nun out of the chamber, shut the door behind him, and guided her down to the great hall. He ordered a maidservant to fetch the wooden chest from his solar. Once she returned, he withdrew a small bag and pressed it into the nun’s hands. “Thank you. I pray my donation is welcome.”

Her fingers closed around the bag and the coins inside clinked. Her eyes widened. “Milord, ’tis too much.”

Geoffrey shook his head. “The sisters do good work in this land. I vow the abbey has need of the coin, as you have started feeding the children who beg in Branton’s market.”

A smile spread across the nun’s face. She bowed her head, patted his arm, and then shuffled off toward the forebuilding.

He tucked the chest under one arm and watched her leave, an odd sensation warming his belly. He had indeed been generous, more so than he could afford. Yet, when he had sent a messenger to the abbey, seeking a healer, she had come right away and had not plied him with awkward questions.

Blowing a sigh, he glanced across the smoky hall to the leather-bound ledger, quill and ink he had left earlier on the lord’s table. He skirted the dogs curled up near the hearth, stepped onto the dais, and dropped into his high-backed chair. He pushed the chest aside. The shy maidservant set a jug of ale before him. He nodded in thanks, then opened the ledger.

The crisp pages, marked with lines of black ink, whispered as he fingered through them. In the blended scents of cured parchment, ale, and smoke from the fire, he caught a memory of Elizabeth’s fragrance. His brow creased into a scowl. He flattened his lips and glanced over the rows of numbers, accounting of the recent purchases of wine, spices, grain …

He wondered what Lady Elizabeth was doing now. Did she march about the chamber, damning his name? Had she wrapped herself in her blankets, one hand holding them together while she paced and plotted her next verbal battle? What a glorious sight she was when her eyes blazed blue fire.

He tapped the ledger’s edge. By now, Elena should have delivered the lady’s meal and clean clothes. A laugh tickled the back of his throat. He wished he could have seen the lady’s face when she spied her new garments. Ah, wickedness.

He blinked, and the ledger came back into focus. Sunlight slanted further across the scratched oak table. The day passed. Once he had settled the accounts, he must ensure he and his men were prepared to confront a furious Lord Brackendale.

That day would come. Soon.

Geoffrey snatched up the quill, braced an arm on the table, and leaned his head on his hand. He began to add a row of numbers. Anger simmered. He should not waste moments thinking of her, when vital details demanded his focus. He was not starved for a woman’s attentions. The lady was no more than a means to change fate and, at last, avenge that night years ago.

“Milord.” Dominic stood at the opposite side of the table, his hair snarled and coated with dust, his tunic damp across the chest. No doubt he had been in the tiltyards.

Geoffrey lifted his cheek from his numb hand. How had he not heard Dominic approach? Pointing to the chair beside him, he said, “Come. Sit.”

A wry smile tilted Dominic’s mouth. After scraping the chair back, he sat. “You looked leagues away. You were not mulling over the accounts.”

“Nay,” Geoffrey muttered.

Dominic’s gaze shadowed. He linked his hands together and rested them on the table. “Do you have doubts?”