Page 21 of A Knight’s Vengeance

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 well,” she said. “Will you turn your backs?”

The guards looked at each other. “Lord de Lanceau⁠—”

Laughing, Elizabeth pointed to the surrounding shrubbery, a tangle of bushes, nettles and vines. “Where can I go? Up a tree like a squirrel?”

The men exchanged frowns, shrugged, and faced the meadow.

The breeze gusted. Leaves rustled overhead.

Elizabeth bolted. As she hurtled through a patch of tall ferns, she came upon a worn deer trail.

A branch snapped beneath her slipper.

Shouts rang out behind her.

The wound at her temple throbbed. Dizziness threatened to blur her vision.

She must not stop running.

She dodged low-hanging branches. Jumped raised tree roots. Twigs grabbed at her shift like gnarled fingers. The linen pulled taut. Tore.

Her pursuers were gaining ground. Their harsh breaths sounded louder than her own.

Her lungs burned.

She stumbled on a root. Slowed for the barest instant.

A guttural roar exploded behind her. A hand grabbed her arm and spun her around. A hard body slammed her against an ancient oak. She kicked. Clawed. Fought the blackness that threatened her consciousness.

Smells seared her nostrils: the churned loam; the musty tree bark; the male essence of the rogue trapping her.

He caught her wrists. “Be still!”