Page 92 of A Knight’s Vengeance

She shivered. Her lashes fell, and she covered her breasts with her arms.

A grin tugged at his mouth. She interpreted his words as a dismissal. Did she believe he had grown weary of her? How very foolish.

“You wish me to leave.” Her body rigid, she sat up, flipped her hair over her shoulder, and peered over the bed, as though to find her garments.

He caught her around the waist. Tossed her back against the silk pillows. Hovered over her.

“Did I tell you to go?” he growled against her mouth.

“I thought⁠—”

He smothered her words with a kiss, one so blatant a blush stained her cheeks. Her eyes glowed. Her face looked luminous against the black silk of her hair.

“What do you desire now, milord?”

Geoffrey grinned. “You.”

“All is ready, Lord Brackendale,” Aldwin said. “The men await your command.”

Astride his destrier, adjusting his mail gloves, Arthur narrowed his eyes against the dawn sunlight. He glanced past the squire to the smoking embers and swath of trampled grass, the remains of their camp in the field beside the earl’s keep. Aldwin had been efficient, as usual.

The squire’s hands curled and uncurled on his horse’s reins. His face set in a frown, he turned his horse in tight circles on the dew-laden ground. Since the lad had learned of the ransom demand, he had not stood still. He was impatient to be on the move.

A scowl twisted Arthur’s mouth. He felt the same.

He and his men had spent yesterday replenishing supplies from the earl’s stores and riding to the far edges of Tillenham’s boundaries to rouse the local knights, who had agreed to fight with him in the melee. He would not be defeated by de Lanceau.

Drawing on his simmering fury, Arthur shouted, “We ride!” Thrusting his fist into the air, he signaled his army onto the winding ribbon of dirt road that would lead them to Moyden Wood.

The men behind him rode in silence, their sullen mood matching his. Arthur stared at the fields around him and bit back a furious bellow. Geoffrey de Lanceau may have succeeded in his deception, but he would learn his folly.

The knights were angry, their tempers thinned by cold, sleepless nights and wretched fare. Of them all, green and seasoned alike, Aldwin had made the fiercest vow that de Lanceau would suffer. The lad saw no honor in de Lanceau making a pawn of one of the fairer sex, and condemned him for not declaring an outright challenge to battle to settle his claim to Wode.

The sun’s heat had evaporated most of the morning dew when, on the crest of a distant hill, Arthur spied two figures on horseback. He squinted through his helm’s slits. One was a woman clad in a fur-trimmed mantle, the other a man.

Squat, brutish, the ogre looked familiar. Viscon. Arthur’s jaw tightened. ’Twas rumored the mercenary had sold his services to de Lanceau.

As the couple drew nearer, the woman’s features became clear. Chestnut curls showed at the edge of the mantle, framing a face of such beauty that Arthur’s blood ran a little hotter. Yet, as he straightened in the saddle, disquiet rippled through him. Bitterness tinged the smile curving her lush, crimson lips, and ruthless determination gleamed in her amber eyes.

She held his gaze over the last yards separating them. This lady sought him out for a reason. Why did she associate with the vicious, grinning brute riding at her side? Why did she not lower her gaze in respect? Arthur’s surcoat identified him as a powerful lord.

His annoyance swelled, for she was bolder still to travel dangerous roads with only one escort. Despite Viscon’s reputation, a gang of thieves or bandits could wrest the fine mantle from her back and slash her neck before he had time to draw a weapon.

Arthur ordered the army to halt. As the woman reined in her horse in front of him, sweat beaded his forehead and plastered his hair to his scalp. He took a deep breath, his senses on alert. He smelled flowers. Roses. A lady’s scent.

“You are Lord Brackendale of Wode?” she asked, her voice strong in the morning air.

“I am. And you are, milady?”

“Veronique,” she answered, her tone husky.

As her slender fingers tightened around her horse’s reins, and the mantle’s edges parted, Arthur saw the luster of yellow silk. “You are the lady of Branton Keep?” he guessed.

She replied with a throaty laugh.

“She is no lady,” muttered Aldwin. Arthur knew the slur was intended only for his ears, but the sound carried. Veronique turned her head and glared at the squire, but from one blink to the next, her fury transformed to blatant sexual interest.

As she took a long, thorough look at the lad, Arthur shuddered. “Did de Lanceau send you?” he demanded, reclaiming her attention.