Page 8 of A Knight’s Vengeance

“Daughter.” Her sire hugged her, and, with a sigh, she leaned into his reassuring warmth. He pushed her to arm’s length, and frowned down at her. “You look pale. Are you well?”

She forced a smile. “Aye.”

“Thank God,” Sedgewick muttered.

Her father’s mouth flattened. “What possessed you to flee your guards? Why were you so senseless, when you know of the dangers from de Lanceau?”

Frustration welled up inside her. “Why, every day, must I be accompanied by guards? ’Tis ridiculous, Father. De Lanceau is no threat so close to Wode.”

“You were almost run down by a wagon.”

She smothered a groan, and hoped he did not suspect the poor wagon driver of trying to do her harm. “’Twas an accident.”

“Was it?” His fingers curled into her sleeves, and he seemed to struggle for patience. “Accident or not, think, Elizabeth. What might your rescuer have dared to do, if the guards had not run to your side?” She tried to speak, but her sire thrust up his hand. “I love you, and I will not risk your safety. You will accept your guards and obey them.”

She gnawed her lip. Still, after all these years, his angry voice made her tremble. “Father⁠—”

“You are all I have left.”

His anguished words tore at her. The little girl inside her cried, and Elizabeth’s head dipped in a nod. “I will obey.”

“Good.” He released her and turned on her cowering guards. “See that my orders are carried out. I want to depart as soon as we have eaten. Go!”

The guards darted for the stairwell, just as young women rushed into the hall with wooden boards of bread and platters of food. It was too early for the midday meal to be served, Elizabeth noted, but it seemed her father had arranged for him and the baron to dine. As the maidservants hurried past, the scent of spiced sauces and spit-roasted fowl wafted to her.

“Come.” Her father gestured to the lord’s table, where the servants set the fare. “The baron wishes to eat before we join the search. No doubt you are hungry too.”

She would rather eat cow dung than share another meal with the baron. Yet, if she refused, she risked not only offending him, but her father. She must not arouse their suspicions.

Forcing herself to take poised strides, Elizabeth walked through the sunlight filtering in through the high overhead windows and crossed to the table. Sedgewick’s greedy gaze skimmed over her before riveting to her breasts. His eyes gleamed, as though he imagined trailing his fingers over her naked skin and examining her breasts’ weight and feel.

Her cheeks flamed. He ogled her as though she were as valuable as a king’s ransom and as delectable as a cream pastry. Had he looked at his previous three wives that way, all of them deceased?

She slipped into the vacant chair beside him, and the baron grinned. His chipped teeth, stained from the wine, had shredded food caught between them. Shoving aside his wine goblet, he leaned in close. “My love, you look most fetching in that gown.” His thigh nudged hers under the table. “’Twill be a long seven days till we are husband and wife.”

She choked. She grabbed the nearest wine goblet and took a gigantic gulp.

“Careful.” His sweaty hand smothered hers. “I could not bear to see your life endangered again this day.”

As the wine scorched its way down to her stomach, she freed her fingers and dried them on the tablecloth’s edge. ’Twas the same hand the rogue had kissed. Sedgewick’s kiss could never be as thrilling, or as competent.

Her skin warmed, and with shocking clarity, she recalled the glint of her rescuer’s eyes. Brilliant, secretive eyes. He seemed far too clever a man to be apprehended by her father’s guards.

Sinful heat coiled through her to the tips of her toes. What would his kiss have been like? She imagined his eyes darkening to a smolder, and his lips pressing over hers. He would kiss like the heroes in the chansons. Her belly swooped.

The chair beside her creaked as her father sat. She blinked away her thoughts and fought a blush. How foolish to swoon over that arrogant stranger, when she would never see him again.

Her father smiled at her, then asked the flushed chaplain, who had only just emerged from the stairwell, to bless the fare.

Sedgewick piled a day-old bread trencher with the dishes that smelled of ginger, cumin and fresh rosemary. “What can I tempt you with, love?” He dangled a greasy bit of game hen between his fingers. “You must keep your strength for our wedding night”—his eyelid dropped in a wink—“and if your womb is to swell with my son.”

Elizabeth waved away his offering and grabbed the goblet, grateful for the wine’s numbing warmth.

Just as she set down the vessel, cool air whipped over her ankles. Bertrand de Lyons, Wode’s captain of the guard, strode out of the stairwell. He crossed to her father, bowed, and handed him a rolled parchment.

“A messenger gave this to one of the guards. ’Tis urgent.”

“Urgent?” Her father wiped sauce from his chin, then cracked the wax seal between his fingers.