Free A Knight's Vengeance by Catherine Kean

the opposite wall. She should remove her garments before she got a chill or soaked her blankets. Yet all strength had drained from her body.

Her eyelids drooped. Wretched de Lanceau. He had not sent a bath to ease her aching muscles, wash her wounds, and scrub away the wagon's filth. He had not offered her a meal, lumpy or not. She wrinkled her nose. The pillowcase, no doubt stored before it had dried, smelled sour; and the linen scratched her skin.

Her eyes closed. Elizabeth fought the ever-present dizziness. She must not rest. She must not sleep.

She must find a way to escape.

*      *      *

Geoffrey stood in the chamber doorway and listened to Elizabeth's rhythmic breathing. Hers was a sleep of sheer exhaustion, free, for now, of emotional distress and memories that gnawed at one's soul until it bled.

How he envied her.

His leather boots creaked as he crossed the threshold. Moonlight slipped in through the cracks in the shutters and painted the room in an ethereal, silvery light. The maidservant Elena had left a candle burning beside the bed, but he did not need its light to see. Still, he did not snuff the flame.

Softening his strides, he approached the bed. He stared down at Elizabeth. Studied the beauty he had snared.

Willful damsel. She had surprised him today with her defiance, but in the end she had only made the journey more difficult for herself.

She lay on her back, her hair tangled across the pillow, the bedding tucked about her shoulders. She had not stayed awake long enough for Elena to bring food or water to wash. The damsel had not even roused when the damp clothes were stripped from her body. When Elena had applied the last of the healing salve he had saved from the hospital at Acre to Elizabeth's temple, she had moaned, but not awakened. Not once.

His gaze skimmed over her cheek, brushed by moonlight. Did his eyes trick him, or did she look ill? Frowning, Geoffrey bent over her. Her lids were the color of cream above the dark fans of her lashes. Her mouth formed a gentle pout, innocent of the biting words she hurled at him at every

opportunity . Elena said the lady had no fever, but he set his hand on her forehead to see for himself. Her flesh was warm, pulsing with life, but not hot.

She stirred. Sighed.

He jerked back, and his face stung. He hoped he had not woken her. What would he say?

If he tried to leave the chamber now, he would wake her for certain.

Still as a tombstone, he counted his throbbing heartbeats. Waited. Her head drifted to one side, and her breathing slowed.

Relief whooshed through his body. He should leave and tend to the other matters demanding his attention this eve.

Yet the delicious warmth of her skin shimmered on his palm.

He longed to touch her again.

Caution blazed through him. Still, his traitorous fingers trailed a feather-light path down the side of her face. How smooth her skin felt against his, and as soft as the silk hawked in the crowded Venetian markets.

Her warmth curled up his hand. Reminded him, with arousing potency, of how good she had felt in his arms.

He ground his teeth and drew away from the bedside.

She had found a weakness in him. How he hated her for it.

The candle extinguished on his coarse oath. He could not afford weakness. Not when years of anguish and rage
    had led him to this pivotal point, and victory was so near.
    This beauty was his enemy. He admired her boldness, but he would not let her weaken him. Not through desire. He turned and strode to the door. . Lady Elizabeth Brackendale would never touch his soul.

Chapter Six

Through a sleepy haze, Elizabeth became aware of two people speaking. The man's voice seemed familiar, but she did not recognize the woman's.

"Milord, the head wound does not appear deep," the woman said in hushed tones. "'Twill be clearer once I wash away the dirt and blood."

Elizabeth's groggy mind stirred. Who had been injured?

"Troy told me she faded in and out of consciousness."

Concern poked