Chapter Three
Geoffrey Longford stood at the threshold of Penswyck’s great hall—his great hall—and surveyed the spoils of his latest venture. Servants rushed to and from the kitchens providing a repast in honor of his arrival. His soldiers lounged around trestle tables, filling their bellies with food and ale. Rich tapestries hung from the walls, brightening the somber stone. Embroidered cushions adorning high-backed chairs near the hearth added a feminine touch and boasted of elegance. Panes of glass blocked the chilly autumn wind, while fresh rushes scattered across the floor left a pleasant aroma in the air. As the bastard son of a lesser lord and camp follower who stood to inherit naught of his father’s inferior legacy, he’d done rather well for himself.
For years, he toiled and trained to earn his spurs, thereby winning a place at Court. He amassed ample wealth as a good sword arm for many rich, desperate nobles and in the beds of their ignored, pampered wives.
But what good was a landless knight? Naught, that’s what.
Everything he desired—nay, deserved. Everything he deserved was within reach at long last. Smiling, he nodded, pleased with his latest acquisition, or rather, his soon-to-be acquisition. Once he wed his charge, the stratagem he set in motion a year before would at last bear fruit. The vast estate of Penswyck would be his, as well as the comely Lady de Percy.
From the first moment he’d set eyes on her, the quiet defiance reflected in her green eyes had begged him to tame her—to break her. The task should’ve been simple—wed and bed the wench—but the vexing female had spurned his attentions. She’d gone as far as to turn her brother, Iain, against him, sullying his hard work, but he was not one to recoil from a challenge.
Quite the contrary, in fact.
Though, his sole regret in the whole affair was the death of Lord de Percy. He’d rather admired Iain, with his quick wit, charm, and skill with a sword, but the young lord’s life had been forfeit from the start.
Shrugging off any trace of remorse, Geoffrey quit the hall and mounted the main stairs in search of his charge. In all likelihood, she’d spent her days grieving the loss of her brother. The spirited, little dove surely needed comfort and he’d be delighted to offer it to her—for a price.
As he moved down the passageway, two of his men posted outside her tower chamber nodded at his approach. He motioned for them to unbar the entrance and the thrum of his pulse quickened as the door swung open. He strode inside and glanced around the chamber, expecting to find her weeping miserably in front of the hearth. Instead, the long dead fire held naught but a pile of ashes.
His gaze darted over the cold, lifeless room, noting the differences since the last time he’d stepped foot in her chamber. The bed was out of place, shifted closer to an adjacent window where the fur covering lay disturbed. As his suspicion grew, he paced the chamber, hunting for any sign of her. At a trunk in the corner, he bent forward and lifted the lid to search her belongings. Inside lay a heap of knotted bed linens and garments.
Hair prickled at his nape and a slight tremor filed through his limbs. He raised the bundle from the trunk. A rope—the blasted wench had fashioned a rope. He might’ve laughed at the sleight had Arabella not hindered his plans, yet again.
In truth, he should’ve foreseen such a move. Lady de Percy was unlike the other vain, empty-headed females at Court. She’d proven her cunning on more than one occasion. From demanding her old maid shadow her every step, foiling his attempts to steal a private moment with her, to dining in her chamber when he was in residence, Arabella had taken measures to distance herself from him before she’d poisoned her brother against him. The clever, irritating woman saw through his guise from the start.
His grasp on the cloth tightened. Oh, he could guess her course. Straight to that damned heathen uncle of hers.
Spitting out a curse, Geoffrey flung the bundle in the trunk and kicked the heavy lid shut. He spun around to face the useless soldiers who stood in the doorway warily regarding him.
“Where is she, you dull-witted fools?” he hissed in a furious rush.
Confusion clouded the pair’s features until the meaning of his words sunk into their pea brains. Their gazes darted around the room before one mustered the courage to speak.
“My lord, she was here. I swear it. We’ve not left our post. Not once.”
He pointed at the entryway. “Who has passed through that door?”
The soldier swallowed visibly. “Only her old maid, my lord.”
Each stuttered admission fed the anger simmering inside Geoffrey. He spoke his next words with deliberate precision. “When was the last either of you have seen Lady de Percy with your own eyes?”
“Uh…” The guard’s uneasy gaze flitted away to land on the floor.
Their lack of words cracked open his restraint and freed a storm of fury. Their negligence had cost him. His temple pounded in accord with the swift drum of his heart. His limbs shook with rage, driving him to lash out.
He grabbed a wooden side table and hurled it over, its contents clattering to the rush-strewn floor. Kicking out at a small stool, he sent the seat splintering against the stone wall. He snatched the jeweled dagger from a sheath along his belt and charged the soldier who’d spoken. Fisting the guard’s tunic, he jerked the gaping fool toward him and buried his blade deep in the soldier’s throat. The man’s eyes widened to expose an expanse of bloodshot white, while his mouth worked to draw breath. Geoffrey wrenched the dagger free from the guard’s flesh, unmoved by the warm splatter of blood dotting his face and surcoat, and shoved the dying body to the ground.
He sucked in long drags of copper-scented air in a bid to calm the fire smoldering inside him. With one last fortifying breath, he faced the remaining soldier, who stared wide-eyed at his prone companion.
“Bring me the old woman and send a troop north,” he bellowed, causing the guard to flinch. He stepped closer, narrowing his gaze at the soldier’s pale features. “Find her. Your life depends upon it.”
The man wasted no time backing out of the chamber, leaving Geoffrey in solitude. The bloodied dagger slipped from his hand and clanked on the floor at his feet. He inched backward until his thighs bumped the bed’s oak frame and he slumped on the edge. Suddenly weary, he sank back into the feathered mattress and stared at the cross beams overhead.
The dead guard cooling at his heels mattered little to his conscience. He had far more pressing troubles than the death of one undisciplined wretch. First and foremost, he needed Arabella. Without her, he would never gain lawful control of Penswyck. She was the one, crucial piece to achieving his goal.
Despite the girl’s constant defiance, he had to admit her spirit impressed him. But some wills were made to be broken.
The image of her on her knees, a broken, little dove yielding to him as her master stirred his manhood to life. He relished the thought of her submission. May the Saints show her mercy, for once he got his hands on her, he would have none to offer.