Rexanne Becnel (16 page)

At the thought of him kissing her again, a rush of unwelcome heat moved up from the area of her belly. She took a step backward and wrapped her arms tightly about herself, desperately seeking some solution to her dilemma. But it was swiftly apparent there was none.

“Perhaps we should just follow a typical day’s routine,” he said, almost musingly. But Joanna knew this was anything but idle wondering. He meant to humiliate her in some new way. She watched warily as he touched his drying braies and then his chainse, which hung on the makeshift clothesline.

“Of course,” he continued. He turned to her with a wide grin on his masculine face. “A wife must help her husband dress each day. Let us begin with that.”

“No!” The word was out before Joanna could think. Her eyes grew huge as they fastened on his in disbelief. He could not be this hateful!

“Just imagine that I am your husband, Joanna, and it will not be so hard. I promise you, he shall be neither old nor ugly. You have my word on that.”

“No,” she repeated, shaking her head back and forth but never taking her eyes from him.

“Yes,” he retorted. “Start with the hose, and then the braies and crossbanding. The shirt and tunic come after that. And then the boots and weapons.”

“You … you can dress yourself.”

“Of course I can, but that does not signify. I will not be the one dressing your husband. You will. Now come here.”

Joanna was too undone by his insistent demand to do more than stutter in panic. “The … the … the clothes. They’re not dry.”

He grinned at her—a slashing white smile on his dark face—and her stomach lurched in a sudden feminine awareness of him. In that one moment—with that one confident grin—the true gravity of her situation was driven home to her. The heat in her belly, the frantic pounding of her heart, the damp palms and dry mouth—they might all be manifestations of fear. They might be, but they weren’t. She lusted for this man. It was as simple and awful as that. She lusted after him. Her fear was not of him but of herself and her appalling loss of self-control.

That painful admission made Joanna’s choice obvious. Better to acquiesce to his cruel demand than to let him force her. If she did not fight him, she could be done with the task as quickly as possible. If she resisted, he would kiss her until she gave in anyway, and she knew now that his kiss must at all costs be avoided.

“May I dress myself first?” she asked in a subdued voice.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Then he reached up to feel her heavy gown. “Your dress is still too wet.”

Joanna stiffened. Her dress was too wet, but his clothes were not? Yet as she angrily snatched his light knitted hose from the line and his fine linen braies as well, she knew her own coarse gown would be a long time drying. Her linen kirtle at least was dry and no longer clung to her breasts and thighs. But she would not feel comfortable until she had her gown on again.

“As you wish,” she snapped. She held his garments away from her, her arms stiff and her posture resentful.

“As you wish,” he parroted her. “Ah, now there are words sure to keep any husband content.” He sat down on a stool and crooked one finger at her. “Come closer, Joanna. We’ll start with the hose.”

Had she been an observer and not a participant in this little drama, Joanna might have laughed out loud at the scene. Her reluctance was more than evident in her lowered brow, her stiff carriage, and her snail-like progress toward him. His face reflected both surprise and triumph at her capitulation. To exacerbate the situation, each of them was so tense with a physical awareness of the other that the air fairly crackled with it.

Joanna halted before him, cognizant that she must kneel in order to help him into his hose. Yet that ignominy was easier to swallow than her fear of touching his bare skin. Feet, legs, arms—it did not matter where. She only knew she dreaded it.

She took a harsh breath, swallowed, then sank to her knees. Prayers should come naturally to her in that position, and she tried desperately to dredge up some holy words to get her through this ordeal. But nothing came. Her mind was empty of all else but his devastating presence. She lifted her gaze to his, unable to think what next to do.

“My left foot. Put my hose on my left foot,” he instructed in a voice gone low and husky.

Obediently she gathered the knitted hose in her hands then held it open near his toes. He cooperated without words, only watching her bent head as she awkwardly tugged the hose up over his foot and around his heel, then up past his ankle and muscular calf to just above his knee. The dark hairs on his leg tickled the backs of her fingers and his warm skin was in marked contrast to her icy hands.

She leaned back on her heels, gasping for breath when the first leg was completed. Had she forgotten to breathe in her nervousness? Her eyes rose briefly to his then immediately fell to her lap, for his stare seemed to burn through her. She fiddled with the second hose, fighting to control her breathing and the fierce racing of her heart.

This time in her haste she pulled the knitted hose up so fast it twisted and pulled at his knee, bunching most awkwardly.

“Adjust it at the ankle first. Then smooth it up.”

Joanna swallowed hard as a fit of trembling took her. She was too consumed with her own troubled thoughts to take any notice of his hoarse tone. She only knew she must somehow get him dressed, and the faster the better.

Unfortunately, in order to straighten his hose, she had to circle his ankle with both her hands and slowly inch the garment into place. Against her palms she felt the warmth of his skin. From the bony strength of his ankle, up the muscular curve of his calf, to the hard protuberance of his knee, she was forced to smooth the uncooperative garment. Although she tried desperately to ignore the unsettling feelings that curled in her stomach, it was a useless effort. Her eyes, too, only made things worse, for in her effort to ignore his too-perceptive gaze, she had concentrated on what she was doing. But now as her hands fell away from his knees, her stare nonetheless remained there and even moved up along his well-formed thighs to where the piece of sheeting barely covered his loins.

“Sweet mother of God,” she whispered, unaware she’d spoken aloud.

“Sweet …” he responded in an equally low and strangled voice. Then he exhaled noisily and she jerked into awareness.

“The braies—” He broke off and pointed to the garment in her lap. “The braies.”

Joanna looked down at the braies, then up at him. His face was set in an odd expression, neither angry nor mocking, nor even complacent. He seemed almost in pain, she thought through her haze of confusion.

“The braies,” he uttered one more time.

At last his words penetrated, as did the reality of what he asked. If encasing his calves in the wool hose was torture, how much worse would it be to draw his braies up past his hips and knot them at his waist? Joanna’s face paled at the thought.

“The shirt,” she gasped as she inched back from him then rose shakily to her feet. “The shirt is next.”

“No, it should—”

“The shirt,” she interrupted him, yanking it from the line. Before he could stand up, she circled him and, without allowing her courage any time to falter, threw the shirt over his head.

It was at best a rather haphazard method of dressing a man, but finesse was not uppermost on Joanna’s mind. She knew only that she must see him dressed as speedily as possible. The long shirt would cover him … down there. Otherwise she would never get his braies on him and then he would kiss her … and then she would be lost.

“Damnation! You’ve got my hair,” he growled, struggling to get his head through the neck hole as she pulled and tugged at the shirt, trying to align it properly. “Ouch!”

In an instant he grasped both of her wrists, holding her in place behind him, with each of her arms resting on his shoulders.

“You’re not doing it right,” he muttered, ignoring her struggles to be free of him. “And if you don’t do it right, we’ll just have to start over from the beginning.”

That stilled her at once. But it seemed he was not through with his chastisement, for, with a soft chuckle, he began to pull her nearer him.

“Actually, Joanna, I hadn’t thought that some men like a woman who is not too submissive. It could be that your stubborn resistance may fire your husband’s ardor even more.” With a final tug he pulled her up against him so that her stomach pressed against his back and her breasts pushed against his shoulders. He drew her arms down and crossed them over his chest, forcing her palms open against his lower ribs.

“I know it fires mine,” he added so softly she hardly heard him. Then he moved his head back to rest upon her shoulder and nuzzled her neck and jaw. “You may dress me in any manner you wish. Or undress me as well,” he murmured, nibbling at her ear.

Oh, help,
Joanna pleaded silently as a hot wash of desire licked up from deep inside her.

“Like this,” he continued. Then before she could react he slid her hands along the hard ridges of his bare stomach and chest.

Joanna could not move, she was so beset by a powerful mixture of desire, fear, and curiosity. His strong callused hand cupped her own and his fingers parted hers so that their hands were most intimately joined. Up and down, over the firm muscles of his belly and halfway up his chest he forced her to stroke. Warm skin, soft curling hairs, the uneven shape of his scar, and the rhythmic ridges of his finely honed torso—these she stroked and learned, and in truth, was not forced very hard to do so. Something blossomed deep within her, and she let out a soft sigh.

Rylan’s grip tightened at that slight sound and his hands pulled both of hers to press fully across his flat male nipples. Then as abruptly as if he’d been doused with icy beck water, he loosed her hands and flung himself forward, away from her stupefied embrace. He stood up with his back to her, hastily thrust his arms into the billowing shirt, and yanked it down to cover himself. Only then did he turn to face her.

Joanna still stood behind the stool, sagging against the sturdy seat and afraid she could not stand on her own. Her legs were shaking; her bones were surely melting. She didn’t want to think about what she’d just done—about the forbidden thrill he’d roused in her. Yet she could not just shrug it off, nor pretend to an anger she hardly felt. Thank God he’d pulled away, for she feared she never would have. Even now she was consumed with an indescribable yearning for him.

No, not him, she told herself. It was just that he was a man and she’d had no experience with men. If it hadn’t been Rylan, it might have been anyone else. Yet that thought, meant to console, only made her feel worse. Was she like Winna now? A wanton woman panting after any man who came along?

She closed her eyes at that sickening thought. Dear God, what had this man reduced her to?

More than anything else, this new knowledge of herself made it imperative that she return to the priory. Once she took her vows—once she was safe within those walls, protected from the intrusion of any men—she would be all right. She would pray for God’s forgiveness and dedicate her life to good works. Anything to erase this terrible sin of hers.

Through her misery Joanna heard him moving around, and when she looked again, he was lacing on his braies with remarkable haste. His face was shadowed in the firelight. Outside the rain beat sporadically at the thick yellow window glass, and the waves assaulted the shore with a roaring regularity. But inside all was as quiet as a tomb. She watched as he wrapped the crossbanding about his legs with jerky movements, then snatched his girdle and buckled it about his waist.

He behaved as if he were angry, she thought. Yet what had he to be angry about?

When he looked up at her, however, with his dark brows slanting together and his lips narrowed, she knew he was indeed in a fine temper.

“You,” he began in a voice hoarse with emotion. “You would
never
make a nun.” His eyes raked her with a furious thoroughness, causing her to step back in dismay. “No, quite the contrary.”

His bitter words so mirrored her own fears that Joanna wanted to weep. Yet still she denied what he said.

“I
will
make a good nun. ’Tis only because you … because you …”

“Because I what? I’ll tell you. ’Tis only because I am the one who has forced you from the rigid mold you try so hard to fit yourself to. ’Tis only because I forced you to let down your guard a little. Now you’re terrified by the feelings that have been unleashed in you.”

She shook from the force of his words—and the force of his direct stare. Despite the distance between them, she felt overwhelmed by him. His gaze. His voice. His very essence seemed to surround her until that was all there was.

“Do you want me to admit I am terrified?” she answered him in a voice filled with pain. “Very well then, I am terrified. Do you want me to admit that you … that you have made me feel … things that I’ve never felt before?” She took a shaky breath, but her eyes held with his. “’Tis all true. But even with that, you are still wrong about me. I
will
make a good nun. I have sinned, but—”

“Sinned! Christ and bedamned, woman. That was not a sin. The sin would be to resign yourself to that godforsaken priory!”

“Oh! How can you blaspheme so! God never forsakes His people, not even if they sin, so long as they repent. And I do repent! You should do so as well—”

She broke off at that ridiculous idea. He was hardly the sort to repent any of his foul actions. She stiffened her jaw. “I can see this gains me nothing with you.”

“No, nothing. One day, however, you shall admit to me how wrong you are.”

Her fingers tightened into fists. “You are a fool if you believe that!” Then she reconsidered her anger, knowing it was a useless weapon with him. Perhaps if she took a more reasonable approach.

Since he stood across the small space, fully clothed now except for his tunic, Joanna edged carefully toward her forgotten blanket. Behind her the fire glowed, backlighting her every curve through the thin kirtle, but she could not know that. She knew only that Rylan’s stare darkened, and she trembled in response, feeling as if he actually touched her with his eyes.