Page 4 of A Knight’s Vengeance

The stranger smiled. “I am the fool? I did not run into a wagon’s path.” His grin widened to reveal straight, white teeth without a spot of decay. “Mayhap your attention was claimed by more important thoughts, such as the whispered endearments of an eager suitor?”

She gasped, aware that curious townsfolk had gathered around them. Insolent knave. How dare he mock her before an audience, and her father’s people? “Do you not know who I am?”

“A lady, forsooth.” His gaze traveled the length of her cloak. “Come to market to buy a pretty trinket?”

Pride warmed her voice. “My father is lord of the keep which stands upon yonder hill, and the lands surrounding it for many leagues.”

Surprise and anger flashed in the man’s eyes. “You are Brackendale’s daughter?”

She had expected awe, not the fury and stark pain that ravaged his features. He looked wounded, cut to his soul. She wondered at the source of his anguish, even as the emotion vanished and his lips thinned into a bitter, controlled smile.

Over the crowd’s murmurs, she heard shouts and the thunder of approaching footsteps.

“Your faithful guards, milady.”

Elizabeth smothered a relieved sigh. “Good. My father will enjoy meeting a rogue who thought to kiss me.”

“Alas, I must miss that meeting, and bid you good day.”

Without warning, he caught her fingers. He bent at the waist, an elegant movement better suited to a chivalrous knight than a knave, and shiny brown hair fell over his face. Light as a feather, his lips brushed the back of her hand.

Heat skittered across Elizabeth’s skin, spiraled through her arm, and pooled in her belly. The odd sensation was both exciting and frightening.

She yanked her fingers free, and he smiled.

“Until we meet again, milady.” Without the slightest attempt at a bow, he turned and strode into the crowd.

A hand clutched Elizabeth’s arm. “By the blessed Virgin,” Mildred said, wide-eyed, her wrinkled fingers at her throat. “Are you all right?”

Elizabeth nodded. Her flesh still tingled, as though his mouth continued to ply its sensual wickedness upon her.

Indeed, her whole body tingled.

“The man who saved you⁠—”

“A rogue.” Elizabeth glared at her guards. “Find him.”

Drawing his sword, one of the men-at-arms hurried off in pursuit. The other bellowed for the throng to disperse.

As Elizabeth forced her breath to slow and fought the heat in her cheeks, the stranger’s parting words spun through her mind.

Until we meet again, milady.

Were the words a promise? Or a threat?

Geoffrey de Lanceau leaned against the mildewed wattle-and-daub wall of Totter’s Ale House, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze on the lady. He had easily eluded the guard. In his childhood, Geoffrey had scampered through Wode’s narrow streets and alleys many times, and he had not forgotten them.

The matron fussed over her charge like a hen clucking at a chick. The lady’s hands clenched into fists, her chin thrust up, and even from a distance, he saw the spark of her eyes. A willful damsel. She did not like to be scolded, even if she deserved a tongue-wagging.

He cursed under his breath, for his palms still burned where they had pressed against her slender waist, holding her, so she would not crumple into the offal at her feet. Her honeyed scent clung to him, as damning as the scorn in her voice.

Of all the things he had expected this morning, it was not she. He had come to Wode to study his enemy, to learn from the folk who frequented the market, to find Lord Brackendale’s weakness. He had not anticipated that weakness would fall into his arms in the form of a fragrant, tempting woman, whose blue eyes, lush mouth, and beauty could tempt the most pious man to commit sin.

He dismissed his ridiculous interest. She was the daughter of the man responsible for his father’s death.

He intended to destroy Lord Arthur Brackendale.

A shuffling sound came from behind him.