Page 51 of A Knight’s Vengeance

She made a disparaging sound. “Milord⁠—”

“When I came back down the stairwell, I heard my father shouting. His bellow frightened me as a boy, and I felt real fear then. I crept down to the bottom stair, held my box to my chest, and listened.” He swallowed, the moment reviving in his mind. “I heard him condemning a plot to support the king’s son and rebellion. My sire refused to take part. He ordered all of his guests to quit the hall and never set foot within Wode’s walls again. Two days later, your father attacked Wode.”

He had shocked her. Her eyes were wide, her mouth agape.

Her cheeks pinkened, and she looked away. “Mayhap you remember what you wish to believe. ’Tis no sin to remember with fondness those who are dead.”

“I did not invent my memories. I will never forget my father’s face when he strode past me, or his silence when I found him in the chapel later.” Geoffrey brushed tangled hair from his brow. “Do you believe I speak false of the treachery? Of my father’s words?”

For a long moment, she did not answer. “I cannot pass judgment on what I do not know.”

“What could not be proven,” he corrected. He had tried, as had the Earl of Druentwode, but had found naught.

She closed her eyes against the gusting wind, her lashes dark against her milk white skin. Geoffrey sensed confusion undermining her anger. Again, he fought the urge to touch her.

His emotions ran high because he had spoken of the past and reopened wounds that bared his soul.

He could not care for Brackendale’s daughter.

He did not dare.

“I have no doubt you loved your father,” she said, her words hushed by the wind, “as I loved my mother.”

“It seems so.”

“A bitter irony, milord, that we have this in common.”

He nodded. “If I could return your mother’s brooch, I would.”

Her gaze cooled. “Spare me your gilded lies.”

“I do not deceive you.”

“Nay?” She whirled, and her skirt flared out around her slender legs. “You know why I treasure the brooch, yet you will not give it back. How foolish that I shared my mother and sister’s memory with you. I wish I had not.”

Tears shone along her lashes. “Your heart is as corrupt as your father’s. I do not doubt his treachery. I do not doubt my father’s guilelessness. Nor do I doubt my sire will rescue me and crush this keep into a heap of blackened rubble.”

De Lanceau’s eyes hardened to the gray of chilled stone. Relief shivered through Elizabeth, for the compassion in his gaze had vanished. She had to hurt him. She had to reinforce the emotional barricade between them, before she dissolved into a sobbing mess and begged him to wrap his arms around her.

“So be it, milady,” he snarled. He turned and walked toward the guards.

Elizabeth turned her face into the breeze and inhaled the scents of wind-scoured stone and wheat. Regret washed through her. Her vision blurred, and she blinked to halt fresh tears. She had laid her heart bare to her enemy, and, God help her, he had understood.

She had shared her grief over her mother’s passing with Aldwin and Mildred, but no others. Not even her father, who had changed from the day of her mother’s death into a different man. He had shown little outward suffering, but had attacked his duties as though his estates were being overrun by demons of chaos. He had been too busy with demands of the estate to hug her as she wept.

De Lanceau, in turn, had told her of his sire and possible betrayal. Could his words hold any truth?

Nay.

Yet, even if they did, her sire had acted with honor and obeyed his duty to the king.

Voices cut through the wailing wind. Behind her, the door slammed. She turned to find the guards waiting, their expressions impassive.

One man pulled the door open, and Elizabeth preceded them into the stairwell. The air smelled smoky and stale, but the familiar scents revitalized her spirit. They reminded her anew of her captivity, her vow to escape, and her foolishness.

How could she have craved the embrace of her father’s enemy? She must find a way out of Branton Keep as soon as possible.

Squinting in the dim torchlight, Elizabeth guided her descent with a palm on the wall, the guards a few paces behind. To her surprise, they did not escort her to her chamber, but to the great hall. Most of the castle folk had gone, and the tables were covered with empty trenchers, ale mugs, and spilled gravy.