Sword for His Lady (5 page)

“And I assure you, my lord baron, you shall not be so pleased with your victory.”

* * *

“The brute,” Mildred said softly from her hiding place. She emerged from behind the door frame. “He enjoyed baiting you.”

Isabel snorted, not caring that the sound wasn't genteel. “That is the nature of a man, to gain what they crave. A wagon full of barley or a wife, men seem to see little difference.”

Mildred frowned. “I'll attend him with you.”

“Nay,” Isabel responded. “I am not afraid of him, nor shall I have him thinking I cannot find the courage to look upon him in naught but his skin. He has nothing I have not seen before. Best to settle this matter of whether or not I am interested in sharing a bed with him now.”

She refused to be intimidated. The brute wanted his back scrubbed? Well, she may not have much experience when it came to the marriage bed but she knew how to put a shine on a clod of dirt if need be. He'd not be so pleased with himself when she was finished. Her attention settled on Mildred's covered head.

“Let me have your wimple.”

Mildred clicked her tongue but there was a glint of merriment in her eyes. “Careful now. Play games with that man and I fear he'll not be satisfied until he has bested you. Knights who become barons often do not know how to admit defeat.”

“Neither do I.” Isabel spoke confidently. “We'd all have empty bellies if I were given to shying away from situations that appeared too difficult to manage. Or that the rest of the world felt only a man could manage.”

“Right you are about that, my lamb.”

Isabel unwrapped the cloth that shrouded Mildred's head. Isabel fit the cap over her own hair, and Mildred helped tuck Isabel's braids into the back of it as Isabel pulled the tie closed to keep her hair completely inside the cap. There was a second piece that was little more than a square of linen, folded in half and sewn to the top of the cap. Once flipped back from her face, it fluttered down to hide every inch of her neck.

“We cannot have the baron displeased with my lack of modesty.”

Mildred pressed her lips into a firm line to conceal her amusement. “Certainly not.”

Isabel lifted the front of her robes and walked down the steps before she lost her nerve. She embraced her temper, which had flared from having her duties interrupted by Ramon's demands.

It was a bath, nothing else. A courtesy the lady of the manor performed for honored guests.

That was all.

If the man wanted to bare his body in her presence, fine. She wouldn't be impressed, not a bit. Men so often considered their members to be something a woman enjoyed seeing, but Ramon de Segrave was bound to be disappointed if he thought the sight of his cock might sway her position on wedding him.

You
certainly
were
interested
in
him.

Isabel muttered beneath her breath as she got closer to the bathhouse. She was a fool.

Her husband had delighted in showing off his erect member before demanding her submission. She was obviously quite correct in her conclusions about Ramon. The man was exactly like her late husband.

Yet, he was correct about her condemning him for crimes he hadn't committed.

Guilt made her stop. She stood for a moment and listened to the sound of the baron's men making camp.

It was welcome.

She could not deny it brought a sense of relief. Tonight, her people would sleep soundly, knowing there would be no raids.

Well, she still wasn't interested in wedding the man. But she was willing to admit that there were some benefits to the baron being here. Such was logical thinking—something which had served her well.

Now all she needed to do was find logical reasons for rejecting the baron's proposal.

The bathhouse was at the end of one of the long store buildings. With the warm spring weather, the window shutters were open. Isabel had to add wood to the hearth and push it into the ash to touch the coals, because no one needed a fire during the day at this time of year. The sound of the river rushing by filled the long room, and she could hear several women singing as they washed clothing. It was a short walk outside the bathhouse to the stone embankment her father had built to keep the water from changing its path by eroding the bank during the spring melting of snow.

The river rushed up to the edge of the stones, and there were long poles for lifting buckets of water. Women used the surface of the stone walkway for scrubbing clothing, and the strong scent of lye soap lingered in the air. The soap kept the mold from growing on the stones and making the surface slick. The stone wall allowed the river close but kept the rushing current from eroding the land that the bathhouse was built on.

Long troughs leaned up against the outside wall. Isabel lifted one and fit it into a standing trough that was near the edge of the wall. She would haul the water up from the river and dump it into the trough so that it would run into the bathhouse through the window. For bathing in the spring, it made the chore much easier. In winter, she would have to haul buckets of snow.

She walked back into the bathhouse and pushed the large kettle into the flames of the fire. It was always hanging off a large hook, ready to be heated. The flames licked at the drops of water on the exterior, making them sizzle.

“Lady?”

She turned to find two youths holding a bathing tub that was far larger than any Thistle Hill had.

“The baron's tub, lady. Where would you like it?” one of the boys asked.

She lifted one hand and pointed toward the open window. “Put the foot beneath the end of the trough.”

The window cell was notched to keep the trough steady and the boys looked at it once they had set the large tub down.

“That's a clever design,” one of the boys remarked.

“Must save wear on the hands for sure.” They continued talking to one another as they left. Isabel frowned at their backs, annoyed at the way they had left her to the task of bathing their lord. Her irritation doubled when she remembered that it was Ramon de Segrave who had decided she would be the one washing his back.

Along with several other intimate duties, if she wasn't clever enough to outwit the man.

Isabel walked closer to the tub and looked at it. It was quite large, but she realized that Ramon de Segrave would have had to sit with his knees against his chest in the tubs that she had to offer. She frowned—the tub was confirmation that he had come to her land with the intention of staying.

If he had gained the king's favor, she would have to wed him.

That thought sent a chill down her back and she didn't care for the weakness that was seeping into her. She was already thinking of yielding and it simply wouldn't do. Moving quickly, she tried to use the chore of filling the tub to dispel her dark mood. She'd learned to stay busy so as not to dwell on the fact that she hadn't cared for her husband's touch, because the more she thought about it, the worse she dreaded sunset.

A hiss came from the hearth and the water she had left to heat. It was boiling over the sides of the kettle. Reaching for a length of iron that had a hook on the end, she used it to pull forward the arm holding the kettle so she might grasp the handle. She poured it into the tub and set more water for heating.

“How curious to see you wearing a wimple now that we are in private.” A shiver crossed her back and rippled down her body. The man's voice was like a sliver of a summer midnight, when the cool breeze was a welcome thing. Something you wanted to sink into and be wrapped in. Isabel bit her lip to contain her gasp. She resisted the urge to reach up and touch the veil that now covered her head.

“There was no reason to wrap my head when I was working in the keep with only my women about.” She gave him a stern look. “And I certainly cannot have a baron disappointed with my conduct.”

The baron pulled off one of his leather gauntlets, tugging on each fingertip until he removed the garment. Her gaze lingered on the bare skin of his hand for a moment that seemed far too long.

“You are already contradicting yourself, Lady Isabel.”

The baron's dark eyes moved to the edge of the linen that she had wrapped around her hair. The bathhouse suddenly felt small with him here. He moved across the space between them and reached out to finger one lock of hair that was stubbornly curling outside the fabric. “For I find this moment quite pleasing.”

This time her gasp was quite loud. She jumped back, retreating from his touch.

“Your hair is quite comely, Isabel. You have set me the challenge of seeing it again. I enjoy a challenge.”

She sucked in a harsh breath, reality cutting through the weakness in her knees. “Of course. Such is the nature of a man. To conquer challenges.”

One of his dark eyebrows rose. “You believe me shallow. And yet, if I were a man who spent his days spinning tales of what he was going to do, while never accomplishing any of those things, would you not label me something worse?”

Isabel turned away from him, guilt needling her. She dipped one hand into the water to test its temperature. There was no point in arguing with him. “Your bath is prepared.”

“But I am not.”

She turned back to face him and frowned when she discovered him watching her with eyes that challenged her. He tossed his other gauntlet aside and flexed his fingers. The knuckles popped, sounding too loud, her senses overly aware of every detail. He curled one finger, beckoning her forward.

“Come here and offer me your hospitality.”

She was tempted to refuse him. The urge to disgrace her mother's teachings was almost too strong to ignore.

God's teeth! The man affected her intensely.

Which was all the more reason she had to face him with her shoulders squared.

He was naught but a man, and she knew what was hidden under his clothing.

“Since that is what you wish.”

He was watching her, the weight of his stare feeling too hot.

“Do you wish me to tell you that I shall enjoy having you touch me?” His voice was deep and coated with male satisfaction.

She jerked her attention away from the ties that closed his tunic. “Have done with teasing me. I cannot imagine why it amuses you so much. We are strangers.”

His fingers stroked across her cheek. It was a whisper of a touch, and yet she felt it as though it had been as loud as thunder cracking directly above her head.

“I intend for us to be much more intimate, very soon.”

“I have not agreed to wed you, Baron de Segrave.” Isabel propped her hands on her hips. “You seem to have been in the company of women who are easily impressed with a few smooth words; women who would allow you to touch them without seeking anything from you except compliments. I am not such a woman.”

He crossed his hands over his chest, which made his biceps look larger. “I know full well you have not agreed that a union between us would be best. Since you have failed to use logic to make the best decision, I am employing other methods of swaying your mind.”

There was a hard determination flickering in his eyes that horrified her.

“Then I owe you no hospitality, my lord, because you are not maintaining your knightly virtues.”

He laughed and his features transformed momentarily into something she found quite attractive. His eyes sparkled with his amusement, reminding her of her father and the days when there had been much merriment at Thistle Hill.

“You have a romantic view of the chivalric code. It reminds me of a new squire.” His smile faded. “One who has yet to endure the harsher side of being a knight in the service of the king.”

“Many things are better when spoken of, than during the time they must be endured. Just as the squire learns the harsh realities of war, the bride discovers the disappointments becoming a wife yields.”

“You did speak truly.” His tone had hardened. “You were a wife.” It gave her no solace to hear his agreement. She felt devastated. Ramon de Segrave would be far more accustomed to having his every instruction followed because the man was used to commanding an army. He was as solid as the armor he'd been wearing; even now his face was devoid of any hints to his true thoughts. She caught herself staring at him, trying to find any trace of the merriment that had been there so short a time ago.

There was none.

She looked back at the ties that laced his tunic closed, to avoid looking at him any longer. In the pit of her belly she felt a growing sense of vulnerability that sickened her. How simple it might be for him to take everything he wanted from her.

Well, she could choose whether she wanted to allow herself to be frightened of him.

She refused.

But still, the man unleashed a weakness in her. One she must never allow him to see.

The laces slid free easily, leaving his tunic gaping open. She focused on the task before her. Trying to imagine he was one of her father's friends.

A very ancient one, with rotten teeth and stinking feet.

“You will have to sit on the stool so I may remove your tunic.”

He grunted and a moment later he pulled the garment over his head with one swift motion.

“You will learn that I am a man who enjoys doing some things himself.” He dropped his tunic over the stool he'd refused to sit on.

“Or one that cannot stomach doing anything a woman suggests he do.”

He snorted, but the corners of his lips rose into a grin. “You truly have been without a master.”

Her temper flared and her hands went back on her hips. This would have earned her a slap from her husband, but Ramon de Segrave only chuckled.

“Go on, lady, I dare you to argue with me while we have no one to witness where our passions might take us.”

“Temper has naught to do with passion.”

“I disagree.” His voice came out in a sultry tone that sent a ripple of emotion through her. “Dare you proceed and test which of us will prevail as the victor in this subject?”