Page 6 of A Knight’s Vengeance

“A rare beauty, is she not?”

A rough laugh burst from Geoffrey. “The lady is a spoiled, haughty little⁠—”

“For the spawn of Lord Brackendale, I believe that is a compliment.” Dominic’s eyes sparkled.

“’Twould not matter if she were buck-toothed, bow-legged, or as ugly as sin.” Geoffrey clenched his fists against seething bitterness and anguish. “She is Brackendale’s flesh and blood. I vow he would move heaven and hell to ensure her safety.”

The mirth vanished from Dominic’s features. “Milord?”

“Wode will be mine, but without unnecessary expense or bloodshed.” Geoffrey swallowed the vile taste flooding his mouth. Over the course of a lifetime, he had witnessed more killing than any sane man could bear. He would never forget the slaughter—of innocents and warriors alike—that had stained the ground at Acre crimson with blood. He would not forget his brother’s sacrifice.

Nor would he forget the last, strangled breath that marked his father’s passing, or forgive his dishonorable death.

An armed man elbowed his way toward the lady. The second guard. Soon, word of the morning’s mishap would reach Brackendale, and if he cared half as much about his daughter as Geoffrey suspected, the town would be swarming with men-at-arms. He must not be captured.

Not now, when revenge would soon be within his grasp.

“What do you intend?” Dominic asked.

Silent laughter swirled up inside Geoffrey. “By this afternoon, Brackendale will receive word of fires in the village of Tillenham. Devastating blazes, rumored to be set by my hand.”

Dominic scratched his chin, a nervous sound. “A ruse, I trust?”

Geoffrey nodded. “A diversion.”

“And the daughter?”

She had abandoned her search for the ribbon, and her entourage was urging her to leave. She shook her head and pointed across the market. As she walked, sunlight and shadow skimmed over her, outlining her slender figure, her swaying hips, and her bottom’s fetching curve.

A primitive, sensual hunger roused in Geoffrey’s gut.

Vengeance would be delicious indeed.

“Through her,” he said, “I shall exact my revenge.”

CHAPTER 2

Raising her bliaut’s hem, Elizabeth hurried up the forebuilding’s steps toward Wode’s great hall. Her father’s voice boomed into the torch lit passage, and her pulse quickened. The guards had told him of the market mishap. He did not sound pleased.

Ten more steps and she would reach the hall. What pleasure she had enjoyed as a little girl, counting each step aloud as, hand in hand with her father, they made their way up. He had been patient and forgiving when she muddled her numbers.

He would not be so forgiving of her running from her guards and falling into the arms of a randy rogue. Nor would he be pleased that, despite the wagon incident, she had refused to leave the market until she had bought thread.

As she climbed the next step, she swallowed hard. Whatever happened, she would not regret her much needed purchase. She had vowed to donate the garments, and she would see her commitment through.

She also would not be blamed for her rescuer’s boldness.

He had spoken of a kiss, not she.

His voice reverberated in her mind, and the skin across her breasts prickled in a peculiar manner. A fit of nerves, no doubt. She brushed away the memory.

Footsteps echoed ahead. Someone descended the stairs. She edged toward the wall to allow room to pass, and a young man loped into view. Aldwin, her father’s squire, whose corn-silk blond hair always looked tangled from bouts in the tiltyards.

“Milady.” A relieved grin warmed his features. He caught her hands, and warmth flooded through her. “Your father is in quite a rage,” he said, his tone hushed. “I heard what happened. Are you all right?”

Dear Aldwin. His friendship had helped her through the anguish of her mother and baby sister’s deaths, and she adored him as if he were her own brother. He, in turn, never failed to be overprotective. Elizabeth smiled. “I am fine.”

Terse conversation drifted down from the hall.