Page 42 of A Knight’s Vengeance

“I was not spying on you, but looking at the moon. I drank one too many mugs of wine with the evening meal, and fresh air is known to calm the temperament.” His tone lightened. “Which is why you are here.”

Setting his hands on his hips, Geoffrey half-turned and stared up at the moon’s bluish outline. He would not be snared into admitting his idiotic yearning for the lady.

He sensed Dominic’s gaze sweeping over his profile, and turned his face away.

Dominic chuckled. “The lady causes this restlessness?”

“The lady,” Geoffrey said between his teeth. “When I am in her presence, I wish to throttle her.”

“You desire her. She is stubborn and spirited, aye, but also quite lovely.”

“She is Brackendale’s daughter.”

Dominic shrugged. “Unfortunate for her, but not her fault.”

With stiff fingers, Geoffrey flicked wind-tousled hair from his brow. “Lady Elizabeth is a pawn, a means to win my revenge. In a few days, she will no longer plague me.”

Burying his hands into his cloak, Dominic tilted his head to one side. “Tell me, milord. Do you suffer any guilt?”

Geoffrey laughed. The sound vanished on a blast of cold air. He should not feel remorse for the way he had treated Elizabeth. Nor would he regret one mean-spirited word he had spoken to her, or forcing her to kiss him. Not when his father’s death demanded retribution from Lord Brackendale.

“I suffer no guilt,” Geoffrey said. His voice caught and betrayed him.

He thrust his face into the wind, even though it stung his cheeks and eyes. His heart throbbed, and he welcomed the familiar anguish. He would win the loyalty of the people who once paid homage to Edouard de Lanceau. He would rule the lands that by birthright he should have inherited. He would build the cloth empire of which he had dreamed, and set the once-revered de Lanceau name on the tongue of every noble and fat-pursed burgess in England.

Then, they would not call him the son of a traitor.

The lady would not stand in his way.

Dominic sighed, and the sound was echoed in the wind’s hiss. “Mayhap you should reconsider your relationship with her.”

Suspicion lanced through Geoffrey, nurtured by his friend’s mischievous smile. “Dominic⁠—”

“Why not treat her as the titled lady she is? Show her courtesy, instead of trampling her wounded pride.”

Geoffrey choked on his indrawn breath. “What?!”

“That would be too difficult?”

“I should be civil to her?” Geoffrey spluttered. “I am not the one who⁠—”

“Aye?” Dominic’s eyes glowed.

“She is a prisoner, not a guest,” Geoffrey snarled. “What will you suggest next? Five maidservants to see to her whims? Jugglers and dancing bears to alleviate her boredom?”

Dominic shook his head. “The servants have sworn allegiance to you, and know the lady is your hostage. She and Mildred cannot escape. ’Twould be generous of you to let her out of her chamber.”

“You are mad!”

“It could do no harm.”

“No good can come of it either.” Geoffrey kicked at a stone, and it rattled into the shadows near the curtain wall.

“If she must stay confined, give her entertainments—books, games, or a lute. She has naught to help her pass the days but visits from you and Elena. Her only solace is to plot escape and invent new insults to hurl at you.”

“I will think on what you said. Now, I wish to return to my bed. Unless you have more weepy tales of the lady’s plight?”

Dominic smiled his knowing smile. “Nay, that is all.”