in his hands. As he stared, drawn by the sunlight playing over her tresses, she brushed strands off her throat.
His loins stirred. She was a magnificent creature.
She was Brackendale's daughter. Forbidden.
A tiny stone slipped down his throat.
Choking, he groped for the flask, raised it to his mouth, and took a sip. The mead was warm. Sweet as a virgin's first kisses. As sweet as Elizabeth's lips.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and cursed his mind for wandering where it should not.
Elizabeth took another step, and Geoffrey frowned. She swayed a little. It clearly took effort for her to keep her balance. She cradled her right arm.
Unwelcome guilt tore through him. In the Earl of Druentwode's tiltyards and on Acre's bloodstained battlefields, he had seen enough wounded to recognize physical injury. She had hurt more than her forehead when she fell.
He gripped the flask and chewed more bread. He would see her wounds healed, but would not feel sorry for her. The lady had enjoyed a privileged life, without the slightest want or need, and had done so because his father had died.
His honorable sire had never deserved to be named a traitor.
He had never deserved to be slaughtered.
Geoffrey forced himself to swallow the mouthful. If he shut his eyes, if he allowed the despair and memories to surface, he again felt his father's icy fingers gripping his own, and smelled blood-soaked straw . . .
"Have you finished with the mead, milord?" Mildred asked.
Geoffrey's eyes snapped open. He quelled a violent tremor, and glanced at Mildred. "What?"
"A drink, if I may?"
He tossed her the flask and looked back at Elizabeth. She bent to pick a flower. By abducting her, he could well end up with his head lopped from his neck. Yet he could no longer live the bitter lie which had haunted him since he was ten years old.
He could not find proof to exonerate his father—and by God, he had tried—but the simple truth remained. His sire had wanted him to rule the de Lanceau legacy, the lands granted to his proud Norman predecessors by William the Conqueror, and passed down through the oldest male sons.
And so he would.
By force and cunning, Wode and all its lands would be his. He would have his inheritance, and revenge.
A grim smile touched his lips. No one would stand in his way. Above all, Brackendale's daughter.
* * *
Grasses rustled behind Elizabeth, and she tensed. Moments ago, she had sensed de Lanceau's brooding gaze upon her, prowling over her body in a manner that shot goose bumps over her skin. She had ignored him and hoped that, like an irritating wasp, he would be distracted and go away.
A futile wish.
"We leave now," de Lanceau said. His voice held command and a warning not to disobey.
Elizabeth refused to look at him. Her hands tightened around the cornflower she had turned in her fingers. She had heard him order the men to water the horses at the stream, but had not expected to be departing so soon.
She tried to think of some way of escape.
Without success.
Her pulse thudded against her ribs. If she had any hope of eluding him, she must act now.
Gathering her reserves of courage, she turned and faced him. He stood with his hands on his hips, his hair tousled by the breeze. His flinty gaze told her he expected her to do as he ordered.
Elizabeth stole a glance at the shadowed forest. One could get lost in those woods.
An idea flooded into her mind. A brilliant idea.
Why had she not thought of such a request sooner?
Smoothing all excitement from her voice, she asked, "May I have a moment of privacy?"
Suspicion glinted in his eyes, but then he nodded. "Be quick about it." He summoned two armed men and thrust a hand toward the forest. "Do not let her out of your sight."
Elizabeth started toward the trees. When she marched into the shade of outlying ash and birch trees, and headed for a patch of blackberry vines fringed with ferns, the men shouted. "That is far enough."
"Very
His loins stirred. She was a magnificent creature.
She was Brackendale's daughter. Forbidden.
A tiny stone slipped down his throat.
Choking, he groped for the flask, raised it to his mouth, and took a sip. The mead was warm. Sweet as a virgin's first kisses. As sweet as Elizabeth's lips.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, and cursed his mind for wandering where it should not.
Elizabeth took another step, and Geoffrey frowned. She swayed a little. It clearly took effort for her to keep her balance. She cradled her right arm.
Unwelcome guilt tore through him. In the Earl of Druentwode's tiltyards and on Acre's bloodstained battlefields, he had seen enough wounded to recognize physical injury. She had hurt more than her forehead when she fell.
He gripped the flask and chewed more bread. He would see her wounds healed, but would not feel sorry for her. The lady had enjoyed a privileged life, without the slightest want or need, and had done so because his father had died.
His honorable sire had never deserved to be named a traitor.
He had never deserved to be slaughtered.
Geoffrey forced himself to swallow the mouthful. If he shut his eyes, if he allowed the despair and memories to surface, he again felt his father's icy fingers gripping his own, and smelled blood-soaked straw . . .
"Have you finished with the mead, milord?" Mildred asked.
Geoffrey's eyes snapped open. He quelled a violent tremor, and glanced at Mildred. "What?"
"A drink, if I may?"
He tossed her the flask and looked back at Elizabeth. She bent to pick a flower. By abducting her, he could well end up with his head lopped from his neck. Yet he could no longer live the bitter lie which had haunted him since he was ten years old.
He could not find proof to exonerate his father—and by God, he had tried—but the simple truth remained. His sire had wanted him to rule the de Lanceau legacy, the lands granted to his proud Norman predecessors by William the Conqueror, and passed down through the oldest male sons.
And so he would.
By force and cunning, Wode and all its lands would be his. He would have his inheritance, and revenge.
A grim smile touched his lips. No one would stand in his way. Above all, Brackendale's daughter.
* * *
Grasses rustled behind Elizabeth, and she tensed. Moments ago, she had sensed de Lanceau's brooding gaze upon her, prowling over her body in a manner that shot goose bumps over her skin. She had ignored him and hoped that, like an irritating wasp, he would be distracted and go away.
A futile wish.
"We leave now," de Lanceau said. His voice held command and a warning not to disobey.
Elizabeth refused to look at him. Her hands tightened around the cornflower she had turned in her fingers. She had heard him order the men to water the horses at the stream, but had not expected to be departing so soon.
She tried to think of some way of escape.
Without success.
Her pulse thudded against her ribs. If she had any hope of eluding him, she must act now.
Gathering her reserves of courage, she turned and faced him. He stood with his hands on his hips, his hair tousled by the breeze. His flinty gaze told her he expected her to do as he ordered.
Elizabeth stole a glance at the shadowed forest. One could get lost in those woods.
An idea flooded into her mind. A brilliant idea.
Why had she not thought of such a request sooner?
Smoothing all excitement from her voice, she asked, "May I have a moment of privacy?"
Suspicion glinted in his eyes, but then he nodded. "Be quick about it." He summoned two armed men and thrust a hand toward the forest. "Do not let her out of your sight."
Elizabeth started toward the trees. When she marched into the shade of outlying ash and birch trees, and headed for a patch of blackberry vines fringed with ferns, the men shouted. "That is far enough."
"Very
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