Medieval Rogues by Catherine Kean Page A

outlined good reasons why he should allow her a bath. She must persist until she had his answer.
    “I am sure you will agree that my well being would be improved by a hot bath. I trust Elena relayed my request to you”—Elizabeth sweetened her tone in a deliberate show of respect—“ my lord? ”
    His gaze sharpened. “She did.”
    “And?”
    “And, milady, you have no right to make demands of my servants.”
    What sort of answer was that? He had not agreed to the bath, but he had also not refused her one.
    She waited for him to continue. Drummed her fingers on her arms. Swept hair from her shoulder. When he still did not reply, but watched her movements like a hungry hawk, she sighed and threw up her hands. “Well? What is your answer?”
    “I am considering your request.” He glanced at his fingernails, then back at her. “Elena mentioned to me you had another matter of concern. The gown?”
    Elizabeth pressed her lips together. How clever of him to change the subject without agreeing. Well, she would ask him again, before their talk was done. “You have given me peasant’s clothes, milord.”
    Did the light playing over his face trick her, or did his eyes spark with mirth?
    “I feel a draught at my ankles.” She gave her skirts a brisk shake. “The sleeves do not cover my arms. You know as well as I that only a strumpet would bare this much flesh for all to see. ’Tis appalling.”
    “I find the bliaut most fetching.”
    Heat scalded Elizabeth’s cheeks. The rogue tried to appease her with flattery. Yet, she could not suppress the thrill that coursed through her, right down to her toes.
    Shame crushed the pleasure. She should not savor the honeyed words of her father’s sworn enemy. “If you like this gown,” she bit out, “’tis all the more reason for me to hate it.”
    His smile faded. “Milady.” Warning hummed in his voice.
    She ignored an inner prick of caution and welcomed a rush of scorn. “You insisted before on courtesy and honor, yet you dishonor me with this gown. ’Tis clear you do not respect me. I shall never respect you, you despicable rogue!”
    His face darkened with a lethal scowl. He straightened away from the table. “Beware. I may exact an immediate apology from your lips.”
    Elizabeth thrust up her chin, even though her insides had turned as soft as pudding. She should not have insulted him, and let her pride and embarrassment overrule her common sense.
    Tiny shivers started in her belly. De Lanceau was lord and master of Branton Keep. As his hostage, she had no rights or privileges. Naught stopped him from beating her if he so desired. He could throw her on the rack, have her tortured with hot irons, or lock her in a small, lightless cell without food or water for days.
    He could rape her here in this room.
    No one would stop him.
    He took a step toward her. His boots creaked.
    Elizabeth’s pulse lurched.
    “So, you dislike my choice of garments.” The dangerous silk of his voice wrapped around her, threatened to ensnare her, and she fought the urge to step away.
    Her nervous gaze dropped to his jerkin, the color of fine Bordeaux. She doubted even her father could afford such magnificent material that looked as soft to the touch as lamb’s wool. “You picked this gown on purpose. You intended to humiliate me.”
    His heel scraped on the floor as he took another step forward. “Would you prefer to go without clothing?”
    “Of course not.” She did not like his nearness, but she also would not show cowardice and retreat.
    “You should be satisfied with what I have given you. Grateful, even.”
    “ Grateful? ”
    He nodded. His hair, curving past the edge of his collar, gleamed like polished oak. “When I came to Branton, I found it in disrepair. ’Twill take months to bring it to the standard to which a spoiled lady, like you, is accustomed.”
    Chills rippled through her.
    “Vast structural repairs must be done or this keep will crumble into a heap of