Page 62 of A Knight’s Vengeance

Wariness crept into her thoughts. “How?”

He looked at her spoon poised over the custard bowl, then at her. “Why did you help Elena this afternoon?”

Elizabeth rubbed her lips together. She had not expected this question. Cupping the bowl between her hands, she said, “Elena was upset because she had many other duties to attend. The embroidery was a simple task for me.”

“Elena is a servant,” he said in a biting tone.

“What of it?”

His gaze darkened. “She is duty bound to work as long and as hard as I wish. That is her way of life. She was born a villein and worked the demesne fields with her husband until he died in a storm last month.”

“How terrible.”

Geoffrey stared at the flames. “A tree fell on their cottage and crushed him while he slept.”

“I did not know,” Elizabeth whispered. At last, she understood the woman’s timidity.

“I took pity on Elena and her son Roydon and offered her work in the keep. Yet, she is still a servant. Far below your noble caste.”

A cold sweat dampened Elizabeth’s brow and she shrugged. “I consider her a friend. She has shown me kindness and compassion, and I was glad to help her in return.”

His eyes glowed as bright as the candle flame. “Ah. Elena wins greater respect than, say, a gallant stranger who saved your life at the market?”

Elizabeth’s stomach did a sluggish turn. Too late, she sensed his carefully laid trap. She set the custard bowl on the table and snatched up her wine goblet. “’Tis not a fair comparison, milord. As well you know.”

“Do I?”

Words tumbled from her lips. “You insulted me. You took advantage of your chivalry and demanded a kiss.”

“I demanded naught. Even so, ’twas not much to ask considering I had saved your life.” He paused and set his goblet on his thigh. “Tell me, would you have given it?”

A shivered breath caught in her throat. “A kiss?”

“A kiss.”

Her gaze darted to his mouth. She could not halt the sinful memories. His lips gliding over hers. His warmth. His taste. “I ... I cannot say. I did not know you were a lord.”

He scowled. Setting down his wine, he steepled his fingers together. “Let us pretend you never discovered my identity. Would you have condemned me to Wode’s dungeon because you objected to my harmless jest? Because I teased you about what is natural between a man and a woman?”

Warmth drained from Elizabeth. That morning at the market, he had shocked her with his boldness, and she had spoken without forethought. She felt his verbal snare tighten. “You provoked my anger and⁠—”

“You avoid the heart of the issue,” he growled. “Aye or nay?”

“N-nay.”

His breath roared through his lips. She could not tell if he were glad of her answer, or even more furious.

Elizabeth’s hands shook. “Is there a point to your questioning, milord?”

“The point, damsel, is I find you puzzling. You flaunt your privileged birthright with annoying haughtiness, yet you also show compassion for a servant who is not of your household, which implies a tender nature. Which is the true Lady Elizabeth Brackendale?”

She stared down at her white-knuckled fingers, locked around the goblet as though the silver could lend her strength. “Does it matter?”

“I find it does.” Torment and loneliness threaded through his words. A place deep inside her cried out, and she steeled herself against the foolish empathy.

“I had no reason to withhold my help from Elena,” she said, “and would do the same for any servant at Wode. I was taught that lords and ladies should show equal measures of kindness and discipline toward their subjects. Otherwise, they will never win their subjects’ best work, respect, or loyalty.”

Geoffrey nodded. “Wise words.”