Page 31 of A Knight’s Vengeance

“Of course not. Our plot is unfolding the way I had hoped.”

“Then what troubles you?”

“Naught.” Geoffrey sipped his ale and swirled the lukewarm, bitter liquid on his tongue. He would not be coaxed into revealing his musings on the lady. He picked up the ale jug and offered Dominic a drink, but his friend shook his head and chuckled, an all-too-familiar, knowing sound.

The jug landed back on the table with a clunk.

“Milord, I have known you long enough to know your moods”—Dominic grinned like a well-fed cat—“and when you speak false.”

A groan dragged up from deep within Geoffrey. What had he done this time to give himself away? Hold his mouth at an angle? Squish his eyebrows together?

“Will you tell me what weighs upon your mind, or must I resort to more devious measures?”

Despite his friend’s good-natured teasing, fury heated Geoffrey’s blood. He resisted a snide reply. Loyal, trusted Dominic did not deserve his scorn. “If you must know, my thoughts were of no consequence.”

Dominic snorted. “You insult me. Do you believe that after visiting your hospital bed every day for months and months, and coaxing you back to the world of the living, I have no idea what eats at your soul?”

The residual ale soured in Geoffrey’s mouth. “You visited me because you expected me to die. You felt obliged to offer me succor until my spirit left my body.”

“There were other reasons, as well you know.”

Geoffrey’s words emerged as a growl. “As I told you long ago, and many times since, you are not indebted to me for saving your life at Acre.”

“Not once, but twice. I do owe you. That is why I worry about your well-being.”

Geoffrey gave a brittle laugh. “It seems you are the one with doubts, my friend.”

To his surprise, Dominic did not refute the statement with a jest and a lop-sided grin, but nodded. “Rage is a dangerous ally. I hope in the coming days you will not act with rashness, and will consider the consequences of your vengeance. You are a good man. I have no desire to see you lose your head.”

“My father was a good man. He should not have died a traitor. Thomas, too, did not deserve his fate.” Geoffrey’s fingers tightened around his earthenware mug. “My brother deserved to be a scholar, as he dreamed.”

Geoffrey downed a long draught of ale. The anguish had not dimmed, even after eighteen years. The invisible wound hurt ten times worse than the Saracen blade that had plunged deep into his chest and left as proof a brutal scar.

“You cannot change the past,” Dominic said, “but⁠—”

“You believe I am mad to return to England and seek what is mine. I should release the helpless, suffering Lady Elizabeth, forget revenge, take Veronique to Venice, and earn a fortune from the silk trade.”

“Eloquent words. In part, they are true.” Dominic smiled. “Yet, the lady does not seem helpless or suffering. She is a woman of astounding courage.”

Geoffrey’s rage flared, and became so intense, he almost choked. “I look into her haughty eyes and know all the luxuries she enjoyed because of my father’s sacrifice. Father bled to death in a stable. A stable! I owe it to him to demand revenge.”

Regret softened Dominic’s gaze. “Milord⁠—”

“Brackendale will soon learn his daughter is missing. He will receive my ransom note, and demand my head. If he and the baron attempt a siege or challenge me to a battle, my men must be prepared.”

“Sedgewick may have ridden with Brackendale to Tillenham. He may not yet know of his betrothed’s abduction.”

Geoffrey spat an oath. “Sedgewick could not find the sharp end of a sword if it poked him in the arse.”

Dominic laughed, the sound vibrant in the quiet hall. “Still, he has the power to rouse a formidable army. His and Brackendale’s forces will outnumber yours.”

Wiping a drop of ale from the side of his mug, Geoffrey nodded. “I have not forgotten. I am not afraid.”

Uncertainty clouded Dominic’s gaze. “You asked me to scribe the ransom missive.”

“If you will. Your letters are far more patient than mine. I will not have Brackendale misinterpret my demands.” Geoffrey paused. “Yet, if you would rather not⁠—”

“I will write it. When do you wish to send it?”