Free Medieval Rogues by Catherine Kean Page B

stirred. Who had been injured?
    “Troy told me she faded in and out of consciousness.”
    Concern poked at the fog smothering Elizabeth’s thoughts. Troy? She recognized the name, but could not remember from where. Why did her thoughts seem as dense as cabbage pottage?
    “Poor dove. She will have a mark on her brow for a few days, I vow.”
    The man sighed with displeasure. “What of her arm?”
    “’Tis not broken, but the bruises may cause her discomfort.”
    A breeze wafted against Elizabeth’s cheeks. Fabric rustled. She dragged up the strength to raise her lashes.
    A warm, wet cloth pressed against her temple.
    Pain!
    She gasped. Her eyes flew open.
    “Do not fret, my child.” An old woman hovered at the bedside. Her black habit and white wimple enhanced her round face wizened by sun-bronzed wrinkles. Her smile offered trust.
    Elizabeth licked her dry lips. “Who—”
    “Lie still. Let Sister Margaret finish her work.”
    The rumbled command swept the last slumberous cobwebs from Elizabeth’s mind. Memories of the previous day flooded back to her, and her stomach tightened.
    She turned her head on the pillow. Geoffrey de Lanceau leaned against the doorway, his leather-booted legs crossed at the ankle. He wore a burgundy wool jerkin and black hose, and looked refreshed and clean despite their long journey but a short time ago. He had even shaved. With his squared jaw bare of stubble, he looked even more arrogant.
    Her gaze flew back to Sister Margaret. Did the nun know that de Lanceau was a kidnapper? It seemed not. Sister Margaret’s gentle smile did not waver as she rinsed the bloody cloth in a bowl on the side table, and dabbed again at the wound.
    “Ouch!” Ignoring a wave of nausea and dizziness, Elizabeth pushed herself up to sitting. Yet, she did not lie atop the bedding as she remembered, but was snug inside it.
    The linen sheet slid from her shoulders. A draft cooled her throat. Her bare throat.
    Someone had removed her shift.
    She squeaked and snatched at the bedding.
    De Lanceau chuckled. With lazy strides, he strode to her, his boots thudding on the floorboards.
    The nun glanced at Elizabeth. Puzzlement shone in the woman’s eyes before she shook her head and picked up the bowl. “I must fetch clean water. I shall return in a moment.”
    As the door clicked shut behind the nun, Elizabeth clutched the blankets to her naked flesh.
    “What ails you, damsel?”
    A blush stung her face. “How dare you.”
    “Dare I what?” He dropped down on the edge of the bed. The ropes creaked and groaned, and she bobbed up and down like a child’s ball. With effortless grace, he crossed one muscled thigh over the other and seemed oblivious to her frantic attempts to keep hold of the bedding, though she guessed from the mischievous glint in his eyes that he knew of her predicament.
    She shot him an icy glare. “Where is my shift?”
    His grin, a slash of straight, white teeth, made her belly flip-flop. “Ah, I remember now. That filthy, ripped bit of linen? The one you wore yesterday?”
    “Aye,” she snapped.
    “I told Elena, the maidservant, to send it to one of the town peasants. He could use it for scraps.”
    “You what? ”
    De Lanceau’s brow furrowed into a frown. “Should I ask Sister Margaret to treat your hearing too?”
    “I hear as well as you.” Elizabeth choked back a shriek. “My shift could have been mended with a needle and thread. You had no right to give it away.”
    De Lanceau flicked a speck of lint from his hose. His gaze locked with hers. “’Twas not worth salvaging. The esteemed Lord Arthur Brackendale would not want his daughter to be seen wearing such an inferior garment.”
    Anguish lanced through her, but she stifled the hurt. She would not stoop to his challenge and fight to defend her father. Her sire was a brave, loyal, noble man, and when he learned of her abduction, he would lead his army to Branton and squash de Lanceau like an annoying bug.
    “By your own