Page 38 of A Knight’s Vengeance

“What happened?”

Geoffrey swore. He did not use the vulgar oath often, but he embellished it with other expletives.

Chuckling, Dominic shook his head. “Send the ransom demand now. If the lady is that much trouble, you are best rid of her.”

A silent bellow exploded inside Geoffrey. He wished the solution were that simple. His blood pounded with a need that only a woman could assuage. In the musty hall, tempered by the tang of old rushes and smoke, he still smelled Elizabeth’s perfume that clung to her skin and hair.

He had gone to her chamber intending to frighten her and subdue her into respect for his authority. The moment he strode in and saw her gilded by sunlight, he longed to kiss her. She was stunning, a woman who would tempt him wearing naught but rags.

His fingers had itched to plow into her hair and feel its silk. Her bewitching blue eyes had challenged him to taste her, woo her, and coax back the radiant smile which had faded when she turned from the window and saw him.

He should never have given in to the urge to taste her lips. He should have guessed the experience would be as frustrating as her sharp tongue.

She was the daughter of his enemy, the man responsible for his father’s death. Forbidden.

He was a fool to crave her.

Geoffrey released his breath on a hiss.

“Take my recommendation,” Dominic insisted. “Send⁠—”

“We keep to the original plan.” Shrugging tension from between his shoulders, Geoffrey stalked toward the solitude of the hearth. He sprawled in one of the chairs facing the fire and cursed; his carelessness with the mug had caused a slosh of ale, which soaked his thigh.

He did not glance up when Dominic sat in the other chair. Logs had recently been added to the blaze, and the flames crackled and shot sparks across the tiled hearth. Geoffrey leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and stretched his legs toward the inviting warmth.

Ah, for a moment of quiet.

In the space of three heartbeats, he sensed a powerful feminine presence stroll into the gap between the chairs.

The rustle of silk identified her, along with the scent of rosewater. Veronique. He would never mistake the signature fragrance of the vixen who had shared his bed for the past two years. She wore only the attar of the prized Damask rose brought into England by Crusaders on their return from the East. She considered any other oil inferior.

Veronique strolled past and a heady waft of perfume filled his nostrils. The scent teased, aroused a host of wanton memories. He raised his eyelids a fraction and watched the enticing sway of her hips. Yestereve, he had heard the maids whispering of the rosewater baths she ordered at least three times a week, and how she slapped servants for pouring water too hot or too cold.

One merchant in the town of Branton stocked oils to her exclusive standards, and a few weeks ago, she had wanted him flogged for sending fragrance she did not like. Geoffrey had refused. She, in a pique, had brushed the oil into her chestnut tresses and then tormented him with the sleek strands late into the evening.

That he permitted such extravagance was almost beyond reason. That he gave her a firm hand in his household was almost beyond belief.

Almost.

As his gaze traveled up Veronique’s curvaceous figure, outlined by a scandalous bliaut of red silk, he understood.

“Good day to you, Veronique,” Dominic said.

Her voice husky, she answered, “Dominic.” Pausing at the hearth, she stretched her hands toward the warmth. “Milord.”

Firelight played over the expensive fabric and her long hair, worn loose as Geoffrey preferred. Turning her head, she met his stare. Her eyes narrowed in a bold perusal of his body, and his desire flared.

Ah, she was a beauty. Her dark brows were slim and arched, her nose small and rounded, her mouth painted crimson. Yet, he did not mistake the cunning that glittered in her amber eyes. Sometimes, when her gaze settled on his face, Geoffrey felt she could read every thought that flashed through his mind.

He experienced that sensation now as Veronique smiled. His flesh remembered her skilled touch, and he flinched.

“Veronique,” he murmured.

“I saw Jenna in the kitchen. She thought you might have need of me.” Her words were smooth and heady, intoxicating as a strong liqueur. “I pray, milord, Jenna was not mistaken.” She turned, enough to silhouette her body against the firelight and display her bosom stretched taut beneath the silk.

Geoffrey dragged in a breath. The invitation could not have been clearer if she had written it on the floor in blood.

Did she realize how his body craved release?