Page 72 of A Knight’s Vengeance

Her fingers curled at her sides, Elizabeth watched Geoffrey stride away, light and shadow slanting over his lithe body. Through his taunting, he had admitted his desire for her. He had no right to accuse her of seducing him, when, from what little she knew of such matters, a man gripped by desire did not need further enticing.

He was far more of a threat than she realized.

Mildred touched Elizabeth’s arm. “Do not look so grim. He is leaving.”

Geoffrey disappeared behind a clump of bushes that stretched out over the path, and a moment later, Elizabeth heard the gate close. She sighed and flexed her hands.

“The sooner we leave Branton Keep, the better, I warrant,” Mildred said. She walked over to the basket and removed the linen cloth, and the aroma of freshly baked bread wafted. “There is wine, bread, and cheese. Here, milady, have a drink. Put color back in your cheeks.” As the matron poured wine into a mug and handed it to Elizabeth, she asked, “Were you injured when you fell?”

Elizabeth looked down into the shimmering red wine. “I may have a bruise on the morrow, but ’tis all.”

With her foot, Mildred nudged aside the creeper that been so difficult to pull out. She paused, then squatted and fingered the patch of upturned earth and roots. Her face glowed with excitement, and she pointed to the slender plant that had grown in the vine’s shade. “Milady, look.”

Sipping her drink, Elizabeth moved closer.

The matron gently blew dirt from the plant’s waxy dark green leaves and purplish flowers. The pretty blossoms were shaped like a mantle’s deep hood.

“Another herb?” Elizabeth asked.

Mildred shook her head. “Monkshood. It might be our way to escape.”

CHAPTER 13

“Tell me about the monkshood,” Elizabeth whispered, and pushed her needle into the trapping draped across her lap.

Looking down at her hands, the matron cleared her throat and shifted the hose she was mending. Mayhap to get better light. Mayhap to ease a twinging muscle.

Mayhap in warning.

After the evening meal, Geoffrey had sent them to sit near the hearth. They were not alone. Daring to raise her lashes, Elizabeth looked at the trestle table drawn near the fire, where Dominic and Geoffrey sat hunched over a game of chess. Dominic’s fingers hovered over the carved walrus ivory pieces as he pondered his move, his brow creased in concentration. The rogue sat with his chin on one hand, drumming his fingers on the table.

Geoffrey glanced up. His fingers stilled. His keen gaze skimmed over her, and his mouth curved into a little smile. He had looked at her that way when they passed in the stairwell, as the guards brought her in from the gardens. Exhausted beyond words, she had staggered into her chamber to find a bath waiting, an unexpected courtesy he must have arranged and for which her weary muscles were grateful.

Yet, she did not for one moment believe the kindness was an apology for his ribald teasing. Nor did she intend to apologize for calling him a wasp.

Dominic slid his rook into the middle of the board, a move which left his queen unprotected. Geoffrey shook his head and looked back at the game.

Elizabeth released her held breath.

“He watches you,” Mildred said in hushed tones.

“I know. Keep your voice down, and do not look up.”

“Harrumph! ’Tis hard to do, when I feel the weight of those gray eyes upon me.”

“I know.” Elizabeth sighed and brushed a loose thread from her rose wool gown.

Leaning forward, Mildred dipped the hose toward the firelight and pretended to tackle the split seam. “Monkshood is very poisonous,” she murmured. “’Tis safest used as a root, ground up with fragrant oils like lavender and rosemary to rub into aching joints and to dull pain. Yet, I have, on occasion, mixed a small amount with wine and honey and made an excellent sleeping potion.”

Elizabeth tilted her head, intrigued. “Sleeping potion?”

“A few swallows will make a grown man doze like a babe.”

Keeping her movements languid, Elizabeth swept a stray lock of hair over her shoulder. Holding up a chess piece, Geoffrey met her gaze. She looked down and resumed her embroidery. “That is all well and good,” she said quietly, “but how do we get the rogue to drink it?”

The matron chuckled, the soft sound masked by the hiss and crackle of the fire. “’Twill be easier than you think.”

“We cannot tip it into his ale before a meal. In the hall, he never lets us out of his sight, unless we are watched by guards.”