Carolyne Cathey (6 page)

"Aye.  She's
ample.  But I'd not fall asleep in too much haste, I promise you that." 
With humor in his eyes, he sauntered toward her.  He seemed to emerge from the
fire that leapt behind him, a shadowed silhouette against the light.  
"Are you jealous, Eleanor?"

Her heart picked
up its rhythm.  "Nay.  I only warn you so that you don't suffocate if she
pulls you to her bosom."

Lord Kyle
laughed.  "You lie, woman."  He stopped in front of her, legs apart,
hand on hips, the broad planes of his chest revealed for her eyes to feast
upon.  "What happened to your honesty?"

What, indeed? 
Heat burned her face.  At least he no longer appeared somber.  Confused by her
reaction, she determined to change the subject.  "Let's have this bath of
yours over and done with."  Then a different temptation enticed her.  His
bath.  Her hands on his body.  Her desire. 

Well, curse.

He pulled over a
stool, then sat, a lop-sided grin on his sensual face.

Else she melted
into a puddle at his feet, Eleanor knew she must ignore her wanton responses to
his every movement.   After all, Lord Kyle had seen her naked body, fairness
demanded she see his.  The thought jolted her pulse.  At the convent, the only
male she had known was the old gardener, and he had never sauntered about
naked.  Yet, how different could a man's body be?  So far, except for her
breasts and Lord Kyle's muscles, they were much the same, part-wise.

He held up a
booted foot.

Eleanor tugged at
the leather and placed the shoe on the floor.  His chausses.  Surely he didn't
mean for her to remove the woolen hose from his legs. 

She glanced up at
him and he nodded. 

With a lump in
her throat, Eleanor studied his chausses to see how they might be attached. 
Her hand trembled as she slid her icy fingers up his wool-covered leg to
mid-thigh where his hose disappeared under the hem of his braies.  She halted. 
Perhaps he should remove his braies first, before his hose.  Or, perhaps not,
for then he would be even more naked.  However, his complete nudity was the
goal. 
Heavens have mercy.

Eleanor didn't
look at his eyes.  She couldn't.  "I don't know how to do this, my lord. 
I don't know how---"

Lord Kyle grasped
one leg of his linen undergarment and pulled it up his muscled thigh, which
unveiled even more of his desirable body to her curious gaze.  Sparse hairs
glinted copper atop creamy skin. 

"My hose are
fastened by tabs to a hidden belt, as are my braies."

Eleanor bit her
lip.  She would have to touch him again to release the tabs.  Did her touch
burn him as his touch had seared her?  She knew she stared, but her eyes were
drawn to his flesh as a flower to the sun. 

"You are a
grown man, Sire.  You should undress yourself." 

"Aye.  But I
wish you to undress me."

The throbs of her
pulse leapt into her ears.  Eleanor shook her head.  "'Tisn't right.  At
the convent, I overheard ladies say that maidens are not required to tend to a
man's bath.  Your squire should bathe---"

"He's
dead."  Anger shoved out with his words.  "Killed in an ambush as I
returned from Wales.  I've yet to replace him."

Detecting the
agony in his tone, she raised her gaze to his face, curious to know more about
his past, his hurts, his sorrows. 

He stared over
her shoulder as if into another time, another place, sadness in his clouded
eyes.  He sighed.  Then his gaze met hers and arrogance curved his mouth. 

"Perhaps
Beth won't mind the task."

Eleanor wanted to
appear untouched by his attempt to rile her, yet she realized she narrowed her
eyes and clenched her jaw anyway. "Beth may also be untouched, my
lord."

"Aye.  And
mayhaps not.  But either way, me thinks she will still be eager to please her
master."

A bitter laugh
exposed her ire.  "Aye.  Most likely she would, at that.  Shall I call
her?" 

He cocked an
eyebrow as if surprised, then shook his head, slow and dangerous. 
"Nay."  His voice whispered his answer. "I want you."

Her breasts
tingled.  Eleanor closed her eyes against the impassioned lure of his stare. 
She must behave as a woman grown, quell her desire and tend to her task with
dignity.  If her frigid fingers froze his skin, so much the better.  As much as
she willed otherwise her hands still quivered.  Concentrating on the rolled top
of his chausses, she forced herself to touch a tab, and then she trembled even
more.  Her fingers fumbled against his bare flesh as she worked the fastener.

He gripped her
wrists.  "Cease, woman.  Your touch feels like snowflakes against my skin,
yet they heat me beyond my endurance.  Let me unfasten the tabs, then you can
pull off my hose."  His fingers made quick work to release the tops of
both chausses, then he nodded to her again.

Eleanor flicked
her tongue over her lips, then gulped.  'Twas wicked what he wanted her to do. 
A part of her rebelled against his use of her, yet part of her ached to be
wicked.  Oh, the dilemma.  She took hold of the edge of one hose and drew it
down his splendid thigh, past his knee.  She remembered how his legs had flexed
against hers when he had controlled his stallion. 

"Why do you
not guide your steed with your hands, my lord?"  Eleanor focused on her
task as she pulled the hose from off his foot and folded it into a neat square,
then placed the hose atop his boot.  The aroma of leather, smoke and maleness
filled her senses, a pleasant scent.

Lord Kyle shifted
on the stool as if disturbed, then cleared his throat.  "In battle, I must
keep my hands free for my weapons and shield."  His voice whispered deep
and gravelly.  "Valiant is my most valuable ally.  He is trained to obey
by the feel of my muscles and heels and not become distracted by the sounds and
actions of war."

"How
satisfying to control such a disciplined animal.  'Tis a feeling I shall never
know, yet I'd love to learn to ride with such power."

He lifted his
other booted foot.  "I intend to teach you to ride this disciplined
animal---tonight.  The power and control you'll have over me will feel
satisfying, indeed."

Shock at his
suggestive threat flushed her face.  Her gaze flew to his.  "Nay!  'Twas
not what I meant!"

He flashed a
grin. 

Conceited ass. 
She grabbed hold of the other boot and yanked.  Then Eleanor remembered the
hard knife she had felt hidden beneath his clothes.  She could still see its
rigid form beneath his braies.  If she could sneak the weapon into her gown she
could defend herself if he became too insistent she share his bed.  Unless, of
course, Beth plopped herself into the middle of his mattress and made Lord Kyle
forget all about his predestined advisor. 

Well, curse
him.

And Beth as
well.

"Hand me
your dagger, Lord Kyle, and I'll put it aside for you."  She flinched at
the lie.  The world outside the convent seemed to be rapid in its conquest of
her sinless nature, or mostly sinless.  According to the nuns she had always
had a few flaws.  Several flaws.  A holy terror, according to some.  And to
others, a witch.  Eleanor shuddered from the memory.

His grin changed
to confusion.  He tilted his head.  "Dagger?  What dagger?"

"I felt it
when you held me."  His studied stare caused her to squirm.  "Please,
don't make me seem as an idiot, Lord Kyle.  I felt the hardness of your weapon
beneath your gown, and I can see it now as well, so 'tis no secret."

"But, I
don't . . ." Then he threw his head back and burst into laughter.  He
placed a hand atop each glorious thigh and rocked back on his stool, his sides
in convulsion with his insulting mirth.  When his humor at her expense slowed,
his eyes gleamed the fire's flame.  "Ah.  My dagger."  He studied her
face as he pulled off his other hose and tossed it aside. 

With slow purpose
he pushed to his feet and stood in front of her, his linen braies loose about
his hips.  "Aye.  I'd like you to take my dagger in your hand.  But you'll
not remove it from me.  I'm too attached, you see."

"But, 'twill
rust."

"Nay.  My
weapon will not rust." 

He dropped his
braies to the floor.

"
W
hat think you of my
dagger?"

Eleanor gasped
and swallowed at the same time, then choked.  Her face burned, her feet as cold
as wintry stone.  Stunned, she sat and stared at his stiff manhood.

"Men are
different, after all."  She didn't know she had uttered the words aloud,
but Lord Kyle laughed, so she must have.

"Have you
never seen a man's body before, lass?"  He shook his head at his own
question.  "From the look upon your face, I can tell you've not.  I never
thought to see such an incredulous expression.  You look aghast, as Eve must
have appeared after she bit the apple, then looked upon Adam." 

Eleanor could
only clasp her trembling fingers and stare.  She wanted to look away, but her
curious eyes betrayed her.

Lord Kyle laughed
again as he removed his braiel, the tabbed belt that had held his braies and
chausses.  He leaned down to brush the bottom of one foot and stepped into the
tub, then he brushed at his other foot.

Eleanor watched
the rippled liquid creep up his flanks to his chest and the thighs of his bent
legs as he sank into the water.  She would have never believed such a
description of male anatomy if anyone had told her, which no one had.  'Twas
not a subject discussed among the nuns at the convent.

He held the lye
bar in front of her eyes and spoiled her view.  "You will need this,
lass."

Flustered, she
grabbed the soap.  After dousing a dipper of water over his head, she rubbed
the bar on his golden strands and washed with haste so as to finish the task
and be away.

She heard him
laugh.  "Take care, woman.  You'll scrape away my hair."

"Good."

His laughter
mocked her annoyance.

She gritted her
teeth and forced her fingers to not grasp his hair and yank.  "Pray tell,
Sire, what do they call you on the battlefield?  The Merry Knight?"

He only laughed
harder.

Eleanor dumped
another dipper-full over his head and he jerked with a strangled cough. 
Smiling, she soaped the cloth and scrubbed his back as hard as she could.  If
she rubbed him raw, then he would never again ask her to . . .

The water on his
broad shoulders flashed fiery reflections.  Her pace slowed.  The hills and
valleys of his muscles stretched beneath her fingers.  She ran the linen with
more care over each contour of his back and shoulders, then down the valley of
his spine.  Rivulets of water glowed bright with entwined red and gold as they
twisted and snaked over his sinewy expanse.  A jagged ridge of whitish skin ran
in a diagonal across his shoulder blade.  With the tip of her forefinger she
traced the scar and felt the lump beneath her touch.

"How did
this happen, my lord?"

He hissed an
intake of air.  His knuckles whitened where he gripped the side of the tub.

"Did I hurt
you, Sire?"

He sat for a
moment as if to steady his ragged breaths.  "Nay.  A broadsword hoped to
cleave me in two.  'Tis but superficial."  His voice sounded forced,
throaty.

He fell silent
and Eleanor sensed he fought for control, but she couldn't imagine why, unless
he hadn't told the truth about the discomfort.  She determined to be more
gentle.

With the cloth
re-soaped she stroked the fabric across his curved shoulder and down one
steel-like arm, then wondered how his skin would feel to her bare hand.  She
had to know, so she splayed her fingers on his muscled bulge above his elbow,
then slid her hand down the wetness to his wrist.  Crisp hairs glimmered as
they ruffled beneath her touch.  The inside of his arm felt hard and slick with
soap and water, most enjoyable.

Eleanor turned
his hand and ran the cloth over his callused palm and then each tapered finger,
one at a time. 

So strong.  So
splendid.  The man sat, glorious, as if carved from wet clay. 

Eleanor moved the
soapy cloth across the hard, smooth planes of his chest.  A growth of wiry
chest-hairs tapered to beneath the water.  His nipples hardened from her
touch.  What a marvel the creation beneath her hands.

Steam warmed her
already heated face.  Eleanor inhaled the soapy fragrance mingled with the
fire-smoke and Lord Kyle's male scent, a heady combination.  She leaned forward
and rubbed the cloth across his powerful chest to his other mound of a shoulder
and caressed---

Lord Kyle
snatched her wrist, jerking the cloth from her hand.  "Never mind,
Eleanor.  I'll finish."  His words spoken through his clenched teeth
sounded angry, hoarse.

Her gaze flew up
to his and she forgot to breathe.  Lord Kyle's eyes blazed blue heat.  His
facial muscles stretched tight across his cheek-bones, his mouth a straight
line.

"I'm sorry
if I don't please you, my lord.  I have never bathed---"

"You please
me too well, woman.  If you touch me any more, I'll not be able to control
myself and I'll drag you into this tub with me, clothes and all.  Now sit still
and don't touch me.  At least, not now, not yet.  Later."

Her heartbeat
leapt into her ears and pounded out his name.  To sink down into the warm
wetness atop his slick body might feel superb indeed.  Then her mind jolted.

Later?

"Eleanor,
move back."  He whispered the command, his tone as tense as his muscles
which trembled against her arm.

"Then you'll
need to release my wrist, Sire."

Lord Kyle closed
his eyes and opened his grip.  Beads of moisture misted his face.  His chest
rose and fell with several labored breaths, then he opened his eyes again and
dipped the cloth.  Emitting a ragged moan, he lifted his foot and scrubbed up
his shin to his knee.

Why she felt
disappointment, Eleanor didn't know.  The sensations his body had stirred within
her, she had not expected, and yet, she didn't mind.  In truth, she had enjoyed
her first exploration of a male.

He lifted his
other foot and worked the cloth up to his thigh . . . his beautiful, sculpted
thigh, a gift for her eyes.

A sigh slipped from
her throat.  Eleanor pretended to shake open a folded towel while she watched
the movement of his hands over his superb body.  If he hadn't insisted he bathe
himself, then her hands would be gliding over his contours.

"Satan's
curse, Eleanor.  Close your eyes."  He plunged the cloth into the water.

Eleanor
flinched.  He had noticed her perusal.

"'Tis all I
can do to remain the knight you expect me to be, although why I should even
try, confuses me."

"Forgive me,
my lord."  Eleanor spun on the stool to face the hearth, not certain which
glowed more hot, her face or the fire.  "I never meant to be so brazen. 
But I never dreamed a man's body could be so handsome."

A tight laugh
escaped his throat.  "And I've never met a woman before now without lies
and pretense.  'Tis refreshing, for certain.  Although your honesty may be both
of our undoing."

Eleanor stared at
the flames while her master finished his bath.  Nothing had gone the way she
had expected since she had escaped the convent and set out on her mission.  She
had planned to devote her life to others---to heal, to teach, to bring hope to
those in despair---but never once thought to have to fight for her virginity in
her savior's chamber.

All her ideals of
sacrifice for the betterment of mankind seemed as the fire-smoke that curled
into myriad, amorphous shapes---whenever she reached out to take hold of the
ideals, like the smoke, they had no body, no structure to grasp, and only
vanished beneath her grip.

Surely, once Lord
Kyle heard the message, he would be embarrassed and contrite how he had plotted
to seduce her into his bed instead of planning how to fulfill their destiny. 
She must tell him.  Yet, her mouth went dry at the thought.

The fire
sizzled.  Sparks exploded in scattered patterns and disappeared up the black
chimney.  Firesparks.  Against black. 

The dream
. 

Her pulse
quickened.  She must tell him about the dream.  She must make him understand.

Water splashed as
Lord Kyle bathed.  "I knew from the first moment you belonged to me,
lass.  Almost like a voice had uttered the certainty in my mind.  But from the
looks of your chin I've left scrapes from my stubble.  'Tis not a proper way
for me to treat my valuable property.  Where is my razor?" 

Eleanor turned to
see him fumbling among the towels.  She picked up the sharp steel from the
hearth. 

"Would you
like for me to shave you, my lord?"

"And have
you cut my throat?  Not likely."

She picked up a
cloth, rolled it and placed it behind his neck.  "I used to shave Richard,
the old gardener.  Don't worry, Sire, I'm quite proficient."  She pressed
her fingers against his forehead and forced his head back.

He relented, laid
his head against the towel and closed his eyes.

Eleanor rubbed
the blade across the soap.  "My lord, I must reveal to you a dream I had
before I left the convent."

Lord Kyle opened
one eye and peered at her sideways.  "What female sweetness filled your
mind while you slept?  Tender love?  A tumble in the hay by a young lad?" 
He grinned and closed his eyes.

What male
arrogance.  Female sweetness, indeed.  With his tilted chin in her hand she
pulled his skin taut and scraped the metal edge up the curve of his throat. 
Eleanor concentrated to still the tremble in her fingers.  With the telling she
sealed her future. 

"The dream tells
a tale, Sire, and is a message to us both."  She dipped the blade, soaped
it, then scraped another path.

He grinned again,
his eyes still closed.  "A message from a woman with green eyes?  Take
care, wench.  You'll have me pay heed to Brigham and suspicion you're a
witch."

Eleanor jerked.

"Ow!  Curse,
woman!  You cut me!"  Lord Kyle bolted upright and water spilled over the
edge of the tub onto the rushes.  "Whatever is the matter with you?  You
tremble like a leaf in a storm."  He grabbed a towel and pressed it
against his throat, then looked at the red stain on the white linen and dabbed
again.  "I'm fortunate you didn't sever my head.  Hand me the blade.  I'll
shave myself."

She felt the
razor plucked from her fingers, then heard the scrape of steel against
stubble.  Eleanor's quakes intensified as she wondered how to tell him about
the vision.  Must he know?  Aye.  Otherwise, how could he do his part?  She
would tell him after a warm supper and a tankard of ale.  Several tankards of
ale.  Nay, she must tell him while she had the chance. 

"My lord, if
you will but listen---"

Water sloshed
onto the floor. 

He seemed a giant
as he stood, then stepped onto the rushes, his back to her for her unhindered
perusal.  Sheets of molten liquid slid along his flesh to puddle on the floor.

Eleanor drew in
her breath.  A bronze god stood before her in the halo of the fire, the rest of
the room a black surround.  His skin gleamed like hot metal. 

He glanced over
his shoulder as he held out a towel.  "Dry me, Eleanor."  His voice
sounded throaty in spite of his command.

Even as she shook
her head to indicate refusal, her heart said “aye!”  Curse her bandaged feet. 
She placed the towel on his back as high as her reach would allow from her
seated position, then drew the cloth across his wet skin.  Such magnificence. 
No fat or loose flesh clung to his frame.  She dried his taut waist then slid
the linen down to his firm, round buttocks, then moaned, regretting she
couldn't do the task with her bare hands.  She dried his thigh, his calf, then
stroked the cloth down the back of his other leg.  Such beauty, such strength.

In the span of a
blink he spun and lifted her to her feet.  His hands branded her sides as she
gazed into eyes as smoky as the air around her.

"Satan's
curse, woman.  You touch me like a temptress.  And I'm no saint." 

Then his mouth
covered hers, and she melted against his chest.  His hands roamed her back as
his tongue roamed her lips and pressed for an entrance.

He didn't have to
ask; she opened her lips in surrender.  Then he dipped his tongue into the wet
recess of her mouth.  Her heart lurched.  Temptation slithered along her
flesh.  Eleanor's knees gave way, but he caught her and pressed her to his body
of heated steel.  Clasping her hands behind his neck, she pulled herself up to
better meet his kiss.

As she reveled in
his exploration of her mouth, his tongue brushed against hers, all slick and
warm, hard and soft.  He moved his tongue in and out, ran the tip beneath her
tongue, and sucked the breath from her body.

Then his hands
were on her buttocks and he lifted her against his warm dagger.  Aye, a most
dangerous weapon.  The feel sent a shudder along her frame.  She felt swept
along the current toward the waterfall again as when he had first kissed her,
then she plunged over the edge.  Frightened, she clutched his shoulders and
gasped for air.

He withdrew for
an instant, angled his face, then devoured her once more. 

She felt lost,
tumbled about in dark waves of sensation, sucked under to drown.  A sweet
death.  And she didn't want to be saved.

A distant thud
pounded in her ears.  Eleanor tightened her hold.  The thud sounded again,
except louder, more insistent.

Much to her
disappointment he separated his lips from hers.

Eleanor expected
a satisfied arrogance to shine from his face, but his expression glowered a
mysterious unease.  Then he released her and she collapsed onto the stool.  As
if agitated, he wrapped a towel around his waist and jerked open the door.

John, the young
servant lad, stood in the doorway, holding a tray laden with a bread trencher
and two clay tankards.  "We've brought yer supper, Lord Kyle.  And we also
came to take away yer tub."