Page 55 of A Knight’s Vengeance

Confusion and pleasure spiraled within Elizabeth like windblown leaves. He gave her a choice. She looked down at the frayed silk.

Rebellion nagged. She should refuse. He was her enemy, and she owed him naught but hatred. Yet, she would rather linger in the hall with Mildred than be cloistered in her chamber.

Nor had she forgotten her vow to escape.

“I will finish it.”

“I thank you,” he murmured.

The maid curtsied and hurried away.

Brushing a crease from the tunic, Elizabeth turned back to the chair by the fire. De Lanceau did not take his leave. She sensed his stare, and glanced over her shoulder.

Light played over his face and softened the hard line of his jaw. His gaze narrowed, and her fingers curled into the silk.

Emotion blazed in his eyes, yet she could not define his expression. Did he suspect her motives?

A strange half-smile touched his lips.

“Milord?”

“You never cease to amaze me, damsel.”

His husky murmur sent tingles skittering down her spine. Forbidden heat rushed through her. With shocking intensity, she remembered his lips upon hers, his caress, as well as the regret in his eyes when she had told him of her mother.

Her legs became unsteady. She dropped into the chair. With stiff fingers, she smoothed out the tunic and yanked the threaded needle into position.

De Lanceau strode away.

Geoffrey returned to the trestle table where Dominic waited. He sat, swallowed some wine, and bade Dominic to continue reviewing the last points of the ransom demand, yet Geoffrey’s thoughts refused to settle.

He imagined Elizabeth’s slender hands moving over his favorite tunic, and the whisper of silk against her fingertips.

Her task seemed intimate, somehow. Or his potent imagination mocked him.

As Dominic’s voice droned on, Geoffrey dragged his gaze from the parchment and looked to the hearth. She sat with her lady-in-waiting, their heads bowed in conversation. How she had hated Mildred telling of her embroidery skill. Yet, the lady had an exceptional talent few possessed. Her skill deserved more important projects than mending a tunic.

He had such a task.

Painful memories careened into Geoffrey’s mind, and he steeled himself against the agony. He had not forgotten and neglected the work, but had saved it until he met an embroiderer with the skill to renew its glory.

Of all ironies, Lady Elizabeth Brackendale had such skill.

A sour taste flooded his mouth. She would never agree, not when she understood why. Yet, now, more than ever, he wanted the work done.

He would not allow her to refuse.

Shoving his chair back, he rose. Dominic’s head jerked up from the parchment, and he looked puzzled. “Milord?”

“Wait here. I will return in a moment.”

Elizabeth shoved the tunic down on her lap, swiveled in the chair, and glared at her lady-in-waiting. “How could you? Why did you tell that rogue about my mother’s skill, and mine?”

“I am sorry.” Mildred sighed. “I did not mean to upset you, but I did not think you would mind.”

Elizabeth scowled.

“’Tis not so terrible, is it?” Folding her wrinkled hands together, the matron smiled. “Now he will treat you with the respect you deserve. He seemed impressed by the revelations.”