Page 33 of A Knight’s Vengeance

He remembered well the heat of his captive’s eyes, and her stinging words. “What did she say?”

The maid drew a breath. “She… well, she did not respect your generosity, milord.”

“Go on.”

“She said you provided the gown of a strumpet.”

Geoffrey chuckled. Dominic hooted and slapped his palms on the table, and Elena jumped, her gaze as wide as a startled hare’s.

“Did you borrow from fair Veronique’s wardrobe?” Dominic asked.

“I dared not risk her wrath. I took a spare gown from one of the maids.” Geoffrey dried his eyes with his cuff, yet Elena did not curtsey and take her leave. “There was more?” he said.

She looked about to wilt in fright.

“For God’s sake,” Geoffrey snapped. “What?”

“She… she…”

“Tell me!” He did not mean to shout, but from Elena’s demeanor, he guessed the lady made another demand on his patience. She rankled him more than he ever imagined possible for one of the fairer sex, who had been in his company for less than a full turn of the sun.

“She demands… a bath,” the maid squeaked.

“Demands?” Dominic sounded astonished.

Geoffrey scowled. “Does she, now?”

“I told her she needed your permission, milord, for the water must be heated and brought up from the kitchens, but she insisted.”

Biting back his fury, Geoffrey jerked his head in dismissal. “I will deal with the lady. Tend to Mildred, then help prepare the evening meal.”

Elena dropped into a quick curtsy and scurried away.

“The next few days will be full of adventure, milord,” Dominic said with a grin.

“I do not think so.” Geoffrey shoved his chair back with such force it crashed to the floorboards. He stepped off the dais and stormed across the hall, dried rushes and herbs crunching under his boots. The sleeping dogs scrambled to their feet and darted under a table.

As he climbed the stairs to her chamber, his blood boiled.

The damsel would learn her lesson.

CHAPTER 7

Pacing the floor of her tiny chamber, Elizabeth brushed her hand over the gown Elena had helped her into, a plain garment fit for a serving wench, not a noblewoman. “Knave,” she muttered as she walked. When she next saw de Lanceau, she would ask why he deliberately insulted her by sending her common clothing.

Her irritated gaze settled on the rough-hewn wooden door warmed by morning sunlight. If he had chosen the garment to torment her, or bend her to his will, he would soon learn she would not be manipulated or coerced.

She spun on her heel, and her leg pinched. With gentle fingers, she massaged the spot, and winced, for every muscle in her body screamed from yesterday’s horseback ride. Her limbs were as stiff as a wooden doll’s.

Reaching her arms over her head, she stretched and groaned.

A soak in steaming water perfumed with rose petals, lavender, and herbs, like the splendid baths Mildred arranged for her at Wode, would remedy the aches and pains.

Yet, de Lanceau did not seem a man to care about a prisoner’s wishes. Most of all hers.

Worry gnawed at Elizabeth. She wondered what had happened to Mildred. She hoped the matron was all right, and being shown the courtesies due a woman of her aging years.

When asked about Mildred, Elena had refused to answer. De Lanceau must have forewarned her not to divulge any details, and it seemed she took her duty to her lord with utmost seriousness. Elizabeth’s attempts to chat with the maid had won her a shy, guarded “aye” or “nay,” and no more. The conversation had dwindled to tense silence.