freedom, she had reopened her wound.
He cursed a stab of pity and lashed his leather bag to the saddle. He had no wish to coddle her on the journey.
Not when in the secluded forest, his blood had heated, his loins had hardened, and his mind had turned to less noble, but far more pleasurable, ways to slake his revenge.
He had intended for her to ride with him, where he could keep close watch on her, but the thought of her enticing body brushing against his . . . Aye, ’twould be wiser if she did not ride with him, after all.
The thud of hooves brought his head up. Troy led his horse, a sway backed blue roan, to a halt beside the wagon’s spoked wheel. “The men are ready, milord.”
“Good. The lady will ride with you.”
In the midst of adjusting the cloak, Elizabeth stilled. Her eyes widened, and she glanced at his destrier. “I thought—”
“Troy has more patience than I. He will sit behind you and keep you from falling off.” Biting the inside of his cheek, Geoffrey added, “Since you cannot ride astride.”
Her color deepened. “Why you—”
“Milady!” A cloak draped over one arm, the matron squeezed past the roan’s hindquarters and set her hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I tried to attend you sooner, but that miserable Viscon would not allow it.” Her gaze traveled over Elizabeth and her face pinched. “My poor lamb. What wretched garments we are forced to wear. I pray they are not infested with fleas, and do not bring you out in a rash.”
The matron shot Geoffrey a withering glare. His lips twitched. She thought to intimidate him? He had clashed swords with bloodthirsty Saracens and triumphed.
He raised his brows.
“Harrumph!” Mildred picked up the cloak, shook it out with a perfunctory snap, and fastened it over the black mantle.
Over glinting gold.
Warning tingled through Geoffrey. He had forgotten about the brooch. “Wait.”
He stepped forward and parted the cloak’s edges with his fingers. The matron squawked and swatted his hand, but he managed to unfasten the ornament. It dropped into his palm.
“Nay!” Elizabeth lunged forward, but Troy caught her arm. She cursed and struggled.
Geoffrey rubbed the intricate scrolled pattern with his thumb. The metalwork was of superb quality, a masterful blend of gold and artistic design.
“Give me my brooch.” Hurt and anger rang in Elizabeth’s voice.
He wondered what the ornament meant to her. Mayhap one of her adoring suitors had given it to her, or Sedgewick.
Or even her accursed father.
Elizabeth stretched out her hand, palm upturned, fingers curled like a water lily’s petals. “Give it back. I demand it.”
Words ground between Geoffrey’s teeth. “Demand? So you can use it to bribe one of my men and escape?” His fingers closed around the shimmering gold. “I think not.”
“’Tis mine!”
He locked his heart and mind against her shrieks. He would not return the brooch. By doing so, he could jeopardize his victory, and he had waited too many years for revenge.
Geoffrey turned his back to her and slipped the gold into his bag. “Troy, get her on the horse.” Over her indignant cries, he shouted, “Paul. Viscon. Bring a horse for Mildred. Be quick about it.”
***
The roan stumbled. Elizabeth pitched forward, then back against Troy’s chest. Her breath expelled on a groaned “oomph.” The cursed nag seemed to find every one of the road’s potholes and raised stones.
Elizabeth straightened and drew back the edge of the cloak’s hood which shielded her face. Viscon rode on her right, his scarred hand braced upon his knee, his saddle creaking like a hangman’s noose.
Shuddering, she recalled the gleam in de Lanceau’s eyes when he had spurred his destrier up alongside her several leagues back. He had ordered Mildred and Paul, riding on her left, to the back of the entourage. No doubt he had done so to separate her from her one ally on the journey.
Fury had whooshed through Elizabeth like a
He cursed a stab of pity and lashed his leather bag to the saddle. He had no wish to coddle her on the journey.
Not when in the secluded forest, his blood had heated, his loins had hardened, and his mind had turned to less noble, but far more pleasurable, ways to slake his revenge.
He had intended for her to ride with him, where he could keep close watch on her, but the thought of her enticing body brushing against his . . . Aye, ’twould be wiser if she did not ride with him, after all.
The thud of hooves brought his head up. Troy led his horse, a sway backed blue roan, to a halt beside the wagon’s spoked wheel. “The men are ready, milord.”
“Good. The lady will ride with you.”
In the midst of adjusting the cloak, Elizabeth stilled. Her eyes widened, and she glanced at his destrier. “I thought—”
“Troy has more patience than I. He will sit behind you and keep you from falling off.” Biting the inside of his cheek, Geoffrey added, “Since you cannot ride astride.”
Her color deepened. “Why you—”
“Milady!” A cloak draped over one arm, the matron squeezed past the roan’s hindquarters and set her hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “I tried to attend you sooner, but that miserable Viscon would not allow it.” Her gaze traveled over Elizabeth and her face pinched. “My poor lamb. What wretched garments we are forced to wear. I pray they are not infested with fleas, and do not bring you out in a rash.”
The matron shot Geoffrey a withering glare. His lips twitched. She thought to intimidate him? He had clashed swords with bloodthirsty Saracens and triumphed.
He raised his brows.
“Harrumph!” Mildred picked up the cloak, shook it out with a perfunctory snap, and fastened it over the black mantle.
Over glinting gold.
Warning tingled through Geoffrey. He had forgotten about the brooch. “Wait.”
He stepped forward and parted the cloak’s edges with his fingers. The matron squawked and swatted his hand, but he managed to unfasten the ornament. It dropped into his palm.
“Nay!” Elizabeth lunged forward, but Troy caught her arm. She cursed and struggled.
Geoffrey rubbed the intricate scrolled pattern with his thumb. The metalwork was of superb quality, a masterful blend of gold and artistic design.
“Give me my brooch.” Hurt and anger rang in Elizabeth’s voice.
He wondered what the ornament meant to her. Mayhap one of her adoring suitors had given it to her, or Sedgewick.
Or even her accursed father.
Elizabeth stretched out her hand, palm upturned, fingers curled like a water lily’s petals. “Give it back. I demand it.”
Words ground between Geoffrey’s teeth. “Demand? So you can use it to bribe one of my men and escape?” His fingers closed around the shimmering gold. “I think not.”
“’Tis mine!”
He locked his heart and mind against her shrieks. He would not return the brooch. By doing so, he could jeopardize his victory, and he had waited too many years for revenge.
Geoffrey turned his back to her and slipped the gold into his bag. “Troy, get her on the horse.” Over her indignant cries, he shouted, “Paul. Viscon. Bring a horse for Mildred. Be quick about it.”
***
The roan stumbled. Elizabeth pitched forward, then back against Troy’s chest. Her breath expelled on a groaned “oomph.” The cursed nag seemed to find every one of the road’s potholes and raised stones.
Elizabeth straightened and drew back the edge of the cloak’s hood which shielded her face. Viscon rode on her right, his scarred hand braced upon his knee, his saddle creaking like a hangman’s noose.
Shuddering, she recalled the gleam in de Lanceau’s eyes when he had spurred his destrier up alongside her several leagues back. He had ordered Mildred and Paul, riding on her left, to the back of the entourage. No doubt he had done so to separate her from her one ally on the journey.
Fury had whooshed through Elizabeth like a
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