Read Online Medieval Rogues by Catherine Kean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Kean
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end to the day’s ride, a change of clothing, and a hot, tasty meal free of flies and lumps.
As they clattered through the streets of the town nestled around the fortress’s wall, villagers peered out of their wattle-and-daub homes. De Lanceau spurred his horse to a canter, and the other men did the same. As they approached the massive wood and iron portcullis, locked under the gatehouse, he shouted to the sentries in the watchtowers. The wooden drawbridge thumped down over the moat, the portcullis winched up with a squeal, and the inner wooden doors opened.
Flickering reed torches lit the inner bailey. Men emerged from straw-roofed buildings, some young, some old and battle hardened. They smiled and, as de Lanceau reined his horse to a halt, welcomed him with cheers and handshakes. His face eased into a boyish grin, and an odd pang gripped Elizabeth. She looked away.
Troy slid down from the roan and led it through the crowd toward the stables. She struggled to calm her pulse. What would happen to her now? The boisterous chatter around her swelled, and she laced her clammy fingers together over her lap. She must keep her wits about her. Any man who tried to harm her would learn she was the daughter of a powerful lord, and would regret his actions.
As Troy slowed the mount near the stables, the noise seemed to rise again. She glanced over her shoulder. De Lanceau had dismounted and stood watching her, his gaze as keen as a predatory hawk’s.
He handed his destrier’s reins to a stable hand. “Will you need help getting down from the horse, milady?”
His words hummed with challenge. She shoved back the soaked hood, and, ignoring the icy rainwater trickling down her arms, shot him the frostiest stare she could muster. “Not from you.”
She stretched her stiff legs and prayed for ladylike grace as she drew one leg over the front of the saddle. Despite her bravado, she winced.
De Lanceau muttered under his breath. He shrugged out of his wet cloak and drab tunic, tossed them to a servant, and headed toward her. The sea of men around him parted.
A tremor shook her. He could not mean to help her himself. The thought of his hands upon her—
She should not stare at him. ’Twas not proper. But, she could not seem to wrench her gaze away. His common garments had concealed a black tunic, a garment that rivaled even her father’s costliest clothes. The damp cloth molded to de Lanceau’s chest, outlining broad swells of muscle. Exquisite filigree embroidery accented the tunic’s collar and cuffs. Light glittered off the gold thread. How he captivated.
As he neared, his jaw taut with purpose, she jolted her exhausted body into motion.
“Lady Elizabeth!” Troy cried. “Wait.”
She held the edge of the saddle, turned, and slid down.
The instant her slippers touched the slick, hard-packed ground, her legs collapsed. She clawed for the saddle. “Oh!”
Arms swooped around her from behind. De Lanceau’s embroidered cuff brushed against her wrist. He drew her back against him, supporting her weight with his. Her bottom pressed against his thighs. Her cloak tangled about his legs.
Awareness hurtled through her. She squirmed, tried to pull away, but dizziness thwarted her. She sucked in a breath, ripe with the scents of man and sweaty horse, and fought to clear her whirling mind.
Potent, invisible tension unfurled in her belly.
His breath stirred her hair. “Can you stand?” Next to her ear, his voice sounded unsteady.
She nodded.
He pushed her away, and turned her to face him.
“Does your arm still pain you? What of your forehead?” Concern glinted in his eyes.
Drawing herself up to her full height, Elizabeth refused to acknowledge the slightest gratitude for his compassion. He had abducted her as part of his plan for vengeance, and no doubt intended to use her as leverage against her father.
De Lanceau did not care for her well-being.
“I am fine,” she said.
His laughter grated. His eyes darkened
As they clattered through the streets of the town nestled around the fortress’s wall, villagers peered out of their wattle-and-daub homes. De Lanceau spurred his horse to a canter, and the other men did the same. As they approached the massive wood and iron portcullis, locked under the gatehouse, he shouted to the sentries in the watchtowers. The wooden drawbridge thumped down over the moat, the portcullis winched up with a squeal, and the inner wooden doors opened.
Flickering reed torches lit the inner bailey. Men emerged from straw-roofed buildings, some young, some old and battle hardened. They smiled and, as de Lanceau reined his horse to a halt, welcomed him with cheers and handshakes. His face eased into a boyish grin, and an odd pang gripped Elizabeth. She looked away.
Troy slid down from the roan and led it through the crowd toward the stables. She struggled to calm her pulse. What would happen to her now? The boisterous chatter around her swelled, and she laced her clammy fingers together over her lap. She must keep her wits about her. Any man who tried to harm her would learn she was the daughter of a powerful lord, and would regret his actions.
As Troy slowed the mount near the stables, the noise seemed to rise again. She glanced over her shoulder. De Lanceau had dismounted and stood watching her, his gaze as keen as a predatory hawk’s.
He handed his destrier’s reins to a stable hand. “Will you need help getting down from the horse, milady?”
His words hummed with challenge. She shoved back the soaked hood, and, ignoring the icy rainwater trickling down her arms, shot him the frostiest stare she could muster. “Not from you.”
She stretched her stiff legs and prayed for ladylike grace as she drew one leg over the front of the saddle. Despite her bravado, she winced.
De Lanceau muttered under his breath. He shrugged out of his wet cloak and drab tunic, tossed them to a servant, and headed toward her. The sea of men around him parted.
A tremor shook her. He could not mean to help her himself. The thought of his hands upon her—
She should not stare at him. ’Twas not proper. But, she could not seem to wrench her gaze away. His common garments had concealed a black tunic, a garment that rivaled even her father’s costliest clothes. The damp cloth molded to de Lanceau’s chest, outlining broad swells of muscle. Exquisite filigree embroidery accented the tunic’s collar and cuffs. Light glittered off the gold thread. How he captivated.
As he neared, his jaw taut with purpose, she jolted her exhausted body into motion.
“Lady Elizabeth!” Troy cried. “Wait.”
She held the edge of the saddle, turned, and slid down.
The instant her slippers touched the slick, hard-packed ground, her legs collapsed. She clawed for the saddle. “Oh!”
Arms swooped around her from behind. De Lanceau’s embroidered cuff brushed against her wrist. He drew her back against him, supporting her weight with his. Her bottom pressed against his thighs. Her cloak tangled about his legs.
Awareness hurtled through her. She squirmed, tried to pull away, but dizziness thwarted her. She sucked in a breath, ripe with the scents of man and sweaty horse, and fought to clear her whirling mind.
Potent, invisible tension unfurled in her belly.
His breath stirred her hair. “Can you stand?” Next to her ear, his voice sounded unsteady.
She nodded.
He pushed her away, and turned her to face him.
“Does your arm still pain you? What of your forehead?” Concern glinted in his eyes.
Drawing herself up to her full height, Elizabeth refused to acknowledge the slightest gratitude for his compassion. He had abducted her as part of his plan for vengeance, and no doubt intended to use her as leverage against her father.
De Lanceau did not care for her well-being.
“I am fine,” she said.
His laughter grated. His eyes darkened
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