Page 64 of A Knight’s Vengeance

Nodding, Geoffrey faced her. “You think me a fool. What if I turned half of Wode’s farmlands into pasture?”

“Your villeins would starve.” When his lips curved in a disbelieving smile, she snapped, “You have forgotten drought, disease, and plagues of insects. In good years, they threaten the harvests and lessen what is stored for the cold months. In the worst...” She remembered the harsh winter seven years ago. “Then, there is naught, for lord or peasant alike.”

His smile widened. “Shrewd thoughts, milady, yet I vow I would become a rich man. With that much pastureland, I could raise thousands of sheep. Some would be killed for mutton, but the rest would provide wool. Wool woven into the finest, most sought after cloth in all of England.” His eyes glinted. “For a portion of the profits, I vow John Lackland would recognize my birthright to a keep ruled by de Lanceaus for over a hundred years. Well before your father wrested it from us.”

“You cannot earn your riches, milord, if you have no means to market the wool.”

He chuckled, clearly not bothered by the disdain in her words. “Well said. Yet, I have contacts in France and the port of Venice, the center of the silk and spice trade. Good English wool is prized by the French merchants, almost as much as spices and perfumes. Where there is a demand, milady, there is profit.”

She swallowed past the ache in her throat. His plans for Wode showed great foresight. He had planned, it seemed, for many years. Unable to school the bitterness from her voice, she said, “You will trade your sword for a merchant’s tally stick? You are a hero of the Crusades. A man of war.”

He did not even flinch. “I am weary of fighting. When I ride into battle against your father, ’twill be my last.”

“True.”

His gaze hardened. “My last, because I will triumph. All that I have told you will come to pass.”

He moved back to the table, picked up the jug, and offered her more wine. She shook her head.

Elizabeth shut her eyes against a sudden headache. Demand. Profit. Revenge. All of his plans hinged upon her. She was the pivotal pawn, his way to get his fortune and destroy her sire.

Fear cut into her soul. Her father would never agree to de Lanceau’s ransom demands. Her father would die before he surrendered Wode. Battle was inevitable. Bloodshed and death loomed like hideous, fanged specters, and here, snared in de Lanceau’s grasp, she was helpless to stop them.

Her heart ached with a pain so profound, she could not bear Geoffrey to see it. Elizabeth pushed up from the chair. Ignoring his brooding gaze, she crossed to the windows and looked out. Thousands of stars sparkled in the sky and reflected back from the lake’s glassy surface. How serene the world outside looked, as though war would never scar its beauty.

She sensed, rather than heard, Geoffrey’s approach. His hands touched her shoulders, and she stiffened.

“Elizabeth.”

Where he touched, awareness blossomed. Her traitorous body still craved him, despite all he had told her. Despite all he intended to do.

With a muffled gasp, she shrugged free of his hold. “I wish to go to my chamber now.”

“You have not finished your wine, or the custard.”

“I do not want them.”

His breath warmed the back of her neck and stirred the ringlets that had escaped from her braid. She spun around. He stood so near, her hand brushed his sleeve. Stumbling back, she bumped against the cold stone ledge.

A frantic cry warbled within her. She shut it from her mind. She might be de Lanceau’s pawn, but she would not let him intimidate her. Her father refused to yield to a rogue, and so would she. “You may summon the guards now.”

“Not yet.” His rasped voice sent heat swirling down to her belly, and she swallowed hard.

“’Tis late, milord.”

“Mmm.” His knuckles brushed her cheek. Then he cupped her face with his hand, holding her captive with a gentle touch. Moving his thumb, he coaxed her chin up, until she stared straight into his eyes. She could not suppress the tremble weaving through her, and his steely gaze flickered with a hint of regret. “Do not blame yourself for the days ahead, damsel. My battle is not with you.”

His tender words rippled through her like water rings spreading across a still pond. How had he known her thoughts? She tried to squirm away, but he did not release her.

“I will not let you kill my father.”

Grudging admiration softened his expression. He caressed her cheek. “As you have said before.”

“I will stop you.”

“You cannot,” he whispered without a trace of threat. His free hand skimmed down her side and brushed over her bliaut, near the small of her back.

“W-what are you doing?”