Page 39 of A Knight’s Vengeance

“Jenna spoke true,” he rasped.

Triumph glimmered in Veronique’s eyes, as bright as the blaze behind her. She dropped to her knees before him and trailed slender fingers up his right calf. He shivered. With artful strokes, she caressed his corded leg muscles through his hose. After easing his knees apart with her body, she ran her palm up to his thigh.

Dominic cleared his throat and took a noisy sip of his ale, a reminder that what took place in the hall was public spectacle.

Geoffrey caught Veronique’s hand, stilling the movement.

Her lashes flickered down, concealing a glimmer of disappointment. “Milord? What⁠—”

Setting aside his ale, he linked his fingers through hers. He drew her to her feet, and grinned at the flush of anticipation that warmed the chalky layer of flour dusted over her face. With a curt goodbye to Dominic, he led Veronique up the wooden staircase to his solar.

Sunlight fingered over the coverlet on the massive bed set against the wall. Without breaking his stride, Geoffrey led her across the room and pushed her down on the mattress, crushing her body beneath his. His limbs tangled with hers, a passionate contrast of black and red. He kissed her with fierce hunger.

He had to unleash his need, or it would devour him from the inside out.

“Geoffrey,” Veronique moaned against his lips. “Ah, Geoffrey.”

Elizabeth had made a similar sound. With stunning clarity, he remembered the moment she had surrendered and opened herself to him. When, with hesitant thrusts of her tongue, she had begun to kiss him in return.

Confusion muddied his desire. He shoved thoughts of Elizabeth from his mind and brushed his lips down Veronique’s perfumed throat. She would assuage his need. She always rendered him weak, gasping, and slick with sweat, the last time the night before he had left for Wode.

From their first tryst in a farmer’s field outside the fair at Bruges, with stars glimmering in silent witness, Veronique had proved herself mistress of his body. She, unlike other wenches, had not cringed at the sight of the hideous, puckered scar that ran down the side of his chest, a permanent reminder of the battle wound that had almost killed him. Lusty, creative, she had given him pleasure, and he had offered her a life far richer than that of a poor cotter’s daughter.

His jaw tightened on a shudder. He wanted Veronique to shatter him with pleasure now, to vanquish the tension coiling in the pit of his stomach.

With feverish urgency, Veronique guided his hands to the ties that fastened her bliaut. Between one slippery kiss and the next, the red silk slid to a pool beside the bed, followed by her chemise. Breathing hard, Geoffrey pulled Veronique into his lap. She straddled his legs. He smothered her gasps with his lips and buried his hands in her hair.

Skeins curled between his fingers and around his wrists. Her hair felt coarser, heavier, than Elizabeth’s tresses. He inhaled and savored the scents of rosewater and willing woman.

Elizabeth’s fragrance had been as arousing.

Why did the damsel plague him so? Why?

She meant naught to him.

Closing his eyes, he willed himself to recapture his need for Veronique.

Her throaty laughter blew over his ear. Squirming against him, she skimmed her hand down between their bodies. She lifted his tunic’s hem.

Before she could release the points of his hose, he shoved her back and caught her hands.

“You are in a mood to dally?” she purred. “Pray tell, how do you wish me to tease you?”

“Nay,” he muttered.

Veronique’s lashes lowered on a delighted smile. “You shall tease me.” Pressing her palms flat, she arched back and lowered herself to the coverlet. She spread her hair across the bed, into the gleam of sunlight. “Come.” She dragged her toes along his thigh. “I await ravishment.”

Forcing Elizabeth from his mind, Geoffrey leaned forward and trailed his fingers over Veronique’s smooth, naked belly.

He shook. Cursing, he balled his fingers into a fist. He rose from the bed and strode to the window, his ragged breaths echoing in the silence.

“You do not want to couple with me, milord?”

Geoffrey heard incredulity in Veronique’s tone, underscored by anger. Self-condemnation and disgust seared his throat and threatened to choke him. He well understood her scorn.

Indeed, he could not explain his thoughts.

He could never tell Veronique that when he looked into her face, the eyes staring back at him were sapphire blue, not amber.