Page 86 of A Knight’s Vengeance

Somehow.

Elizabeth sighed. She could stand the futile pacing no longer. Marching to the door, she pounded on it with her fists and shouted for someone to come. The sentries outside waited until she was almost hoarse before the door opened.

“’Avin’ a tantrum, are ye?” The guard eyed her as though he expected the water pitcher to be hurled at his head.

“I must speak with Lord de Lanceau.”

“If milord wished to see ye, he would ’ave summoned ye,” the sentry grumbled.

“Ask him anyway.” She softened her demand with a wide-eyed, plaintive, “Please.”

The door slammed in her face.

Determined not to work herself into an anxious fit while she waited, Elizabeth washed, pulled on the rose wool, and loosened her hair so her curls cascaded down her back. As she smoothed a crease out of her bodice, the door opened. The sentry tipped his head and indicated she was to go with him.

Elizabeth walked into the dark corridor. She prayed that since their encounter, Geoffrey’s temper had cooled and also his desire to punish her. If she appealed to his sense of reason, his knight’s code of honor, she could convince him there was no advantage to the melee.

Oh, God, she had to convince him. Even if it meant risking his hands on her skin and more of his sinful kisses. Even if meant risking… her innocence.

Lie with me, Elizabeth, he had whispered. Those terrifying, thrilling words had torn from him with raw honesty.

Could she save her father’s life by giving herself to Geoffrey?

The guard pushed open the solar door. She stepped in, and the door closed with a thud. The solar was shadowed and quiet, as she remembered. Drawing a shaky breath, Elizabeth started toward the hearth.

Geoffrey sprawled in one of the chairs, swirling a goblet in one hand. He stared at the crackling fire and did not glance up when she neared.

His hair looked mussed. How ridiculous to wonder how many times he had dragged his fingers through it. She expected him to be gloating, basking in the battle victory so certain to be his, but his expression held wariness.

“You dare to venture into my chamber alone again?” His gruff voice seemed loud in the room’s stillness. He tilted his head and looked at her, and his eyes glinted in the dim light.

She clasped her sweaty hands together. “I am not afraid of you, milord.”

“You should be.” His thumb brushed away a drop of red wine on the goblet’s rim. “If you have come to demand an apology for my behavior this afternoon, you will not get it.”

“I do not seek your apology.”

“I am still angry, damsel.” Distrust echoed in each word. He must wonder why she had asked to see him and thus courted danger.

Steeling her nerves, she strolled into the shadows painted by firelight. His gaze moved over her unbound hair and the clinging rose wool, and hope sparked within her. Desire still gleamed in his eyes. If he refused to heed her reasons why the melee must be canceled, she still had a chance to sway him.

She paused near his chair. “H-how is Dominic?”

Geoffrey frowned. “Why do you ask?”

“I hope he is recovering well.”

He stared at the drop of wine glistening like blood on his thumb. “He is awake, but suffering a headache and sour stomach. Mildred has not left his side. She is convinced he would recuperate faster if he drank one of her purgative tonics, but he refuses to have one.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “She has great faith in her tonics.”

Silence lagged. She fidgeted with her cuff and tried to decide the best way to broach the subject of the melee.

He sighed, an impatient sound. “What do you want? Why did you ask to see me?”

“I must speak with you.”

“Then speak.”