Page 43 of A Knight’s Vengeance

As the solar door closed, Veronique dug her fingernails into the coverlet. Anger burned her mouth dry. In all the years she had loved Geoffrey, he had never deserted her late in the evening.

Tonight he had rejected her seduction.

Tonight he had abandoned her.

Kicking aside the bedding, she flung herself onto her back and stared up at the darkened ceiling. Cool air swept over her bare skin, another reminder that Geoffrey was not there to warm her.

She remembered two nights ago, when he had stood naked and aroused before her, his body a rippling length of toned, corded muscle. He had wanted her then. Veronique smiled and shuddered at the memory of his body straining over hers. Of his hoarse cry as his seed had pulsed into her. Of his satisfied kiss.

She would not allow him to cast her aside.

Geoffrey de Lanceau was hers.

With a husky laugh, Veronique stretched her arms over her head and curled her toes into the feather-filled mattress. She would sob, sulk, and seduce, whatever she must to keep him hers.

She would stand at his side when he ruled Wode.

She would share his power, fame, and the profits from his cloth empire.

For all the nights she had spread her thighs for him, she deserved a share of his wealth.

Much later, footsteps thudded outside the door. Veronique pulled the bedding under her chin, curled onto her side, and closed her eyes. The door creaked open. Fabric rustled, boots and garments dropped onto the floorboards. As Geoffrey climbed in beside her, the mattress sagged.

“Mmm,” she moaned. Feigning a sleepy stir, she rolled over to snuggle against him. By sheer force of will, she resisted a smug smile.

Geoffrey de Lanceau was hers.

CHAPTER 9

“He what?”

“Milord asks that you join him for the midday meal.”

Elizabeth turned from the window, where she had been watching the robins glide on the breeze, and stared at Dominic. A gust of wind blew hair into her eyes and she tucked the ringlets behind her ear, wondering as she did so why de Lanceau would ask her to dine with him.

By now, Elena and the guards must have informed him of her attempted escape yesterday, which made his request even more suspect.

Frowning, she studied Dominic. His soft brown eyes were the same hue as his straight, silky hair. She steeled herself against his compassionate smile and the overwhelming burst of hope she might be allowed out of this dreary room. Her gaze traveled over his brown wool tunic, hose, and scuffed boots caked with mud, mayhap from a morning of swordplay near the river. If she had hoped to discern a motive for the invitation, she found none.

“You will pardon my suspicion,” Elizabeth said, “but I cannot believe your lord wishes for more of my company.”

Dominic’s pleasant smile did not waver. “My role is to bring the message, milady. Yet, the idea must have more appeal than being locked in this tiny room all day. Alone.”

He sounded eager for her to accept. Did she really have a choice in the matter?

What a perplexing predicament.

The green wool gown swirled as she moved to the trestle table and pointed to the bread and cheese Elena had brought earlier. “If I were hungry, I would have eaten the food your lord sent to me.”

“Ah, but ’tis more than a meal.” Dominic spread his hands wide. “He has made a concession. A truce, if you will.”

“A truce? How ridiculous.” She crossed her arms and cast him what she hoped was a lofty dismissal.

He chuckled. “Milady, he asked me to be sure to convey the full extent of his message.”

“Mmm?”

“If you dine with him, he will grant you the bath you desire.”