Ruthless (9 page)

What she'd not learned from her own
observations, the other young girls at the castle filled in the
gaps. Men seemed to have many names for the things dangling between
their legs. Though there were three, they called the two which were
alike anything from stones, to ballocks to balls. She had told her
mother ballocks sounded more likely for large beasts such as bulls,
but not a man. Stones sounded uneven. How many stones did ye see
side-by-side that were the same in size and weight? Aye, she'd
thought balls the proper name for the smaller ballocks belonging on
a man. Now she wasn't sure.

And the other single part? It was supposed to
be a prick, a staff, a hammer, a rod, a tarse or even a cock.
Though why a man would call a part of his body after a small, male
fowl she didn't understand.

When Magnus had leaned down to pull off his
breeches, her eyes widened. And her stomach had a rather strange
feeling much like her mother had spoken about. 'Twas most
interesting, for when he moved, his, er, things swayed. They were
rather large. Perchance she was wrong about ballocks?

She near giggled then slapped her hand over
her mouth and tried to swallow it back. Oh, saints help her! He had
heard. She looked up at the rafters, her fingers twisted together
and pressed to her stomach. He was so quiet she feared to move.
Hearing the soft padding of bare feet on the floor, she chanced a
quick look.

Her gaze clashed with near black eyes that
didn't seem cold any more. Was there a hint of laughter in them?
She blinked. It was. Magnus stepped into the tub with one foot then
slowly lifted the other to join it. She noticed a startling change.
What was limp and unimposing before now commanded attention. It had
thickened. When he moved, it bobbed as if nodding.

Ah! Was the motion why they called it a
hammer?

Nay. 'Twas more a staff now because it stood
upright. She squeezed her fingers together so tightly she feared
she was about to break a few. She stood between the tub and the
door. If he made any threatening moves, she would be out the door
before he lifted his foot from the tub!

Never would she be any man's vessel for bed
sport. Her mother had warned her about men when she had her first
time of the moon. A lass easily coaxed into bed without being
handfast was doomed to spend her life going from one vile churl to
the next.

Better to live alone in the forest or make
her way to an abbey or convent and beg to take vows.

She heard water splash and knew Magnus had
lowered himself to sit in the water.

Muriele felt more confident now Magnus sat in
the tub with everything safely out of sight. She tried to look
unconcerned as she walked to the bed and pulled back the covers,
fluffed his pillow and did all the little things she did to her own
pallet of a night.

"Come. Wash my hair."

It was not a request but an order. She knew
better than to deny it. She composed her face and went to stand
behind him. Unsure about how to wet his hair, she hesitated. If she
poured water over him and it got in his eyes, would he be
angry?

"Why are ye waiting?"

"It's dry. How do I wet it?"

Magnus snorted. As he lifted his legs and
slid down until his knees were over the end of the tub, water
surged and splashed. He leaned back, closed his eyes and submerged
his head in the steaming water. Muriele felt her face heat, for he
was no longer covered. His tarse bobbed atop the water as if filled
with air. It no longer faced his feet but now pointed at her. She
lowered her lids to take it from her sight.

When he surged up again, he tossed his head
like a wet dog and swiped the dripping hair from his face. He
scowled seeing she barely had her eyes open.

"Ye canna wash me without looking at what ye
are about, girl. I want this stench gone from my body. Tend to
it!"

"I had something in my eye, 'tis all." She
grabbed the small pot of soap and dipped her fingers in to take out
a goodly amount. His black hair was thick and healthy. As sweaty as
he was, it would take a good scrubbing to get it clean again.

She spread soap over the top of his head and
the hair at the back of his neck. The soap had a woodsy scent.
Perchance Grunda had not only shared her recipe with her mother but
with the head laundress at Kinbrace?

"Scrub harder. Ye'll nay get my head clean if
ye only tickle it with yer fingers."

His tone sounded so irritable she applied all
her strength into scrubbing his scalp. His head bobbed at first,
but then he held his neck firm. Sighs of pleasure slipped from his
lips and she glanced down and over his forehead to see his face.
Eyes tightly closed, a slight smile played over his lips.

She might as well wash his face and beard
while she was at it. He leaned his sudsy head against the back rim
as she brought soap around to lather his face. She liked the way he
trimmed his facial hair. She had thought it would be stiff and wiry
but it was soft and silky to the touch. Kept very short, it shaped
his jaw from ear to ear. A neat moustache came below his nostrils
around his lips down to meet his beard. It too was short. Judging
from the stubble beginning to grow there, he shaved his cheeks each
morn and the small area from his lower lip down to the hair framing
his chin. It gave his face a neat appearance and went well with his
thick brows.

Wetting a cloth in a nearby bucket, she wiped
the soap from his face and eyes then pulled back.

"If ye sit upright, I'll rinse yer hair."

He nodded and straightened with a reluctant
sigh. Careful not to waste the water, she slowly poured it over his
head as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"'Tis enough. We'll get what's left in the
last rinse."

She handed him the cloth and he wiped the
water from his face then returned it.

"Scrub my back and I'll finish the rest."

She sent a silent prayer of thanks that he
didn't expect her to bathe him like a bairn. Washing his back was
no hardship. At first. She lathered the cloth and started over his
broad shoulders, liking the feel of the muscles beneath. From his
shoulder blades on down, his skin roughened. He leaned forward to
give her access, baring his flesh to the candlelight in the
room.

Muriele bit her lips. Crisscrossed scars so
rough she felt them through the cloth, marred his back. Who had
taken a stick or whip to him? She couldn't believe any man would
have the nerve to try to beat him. But what about when he was a
youth? Had Chief Olaf been so cruel to a young boy when he first
came to Kinbrace?

When she hesitated, he stiffened, guessing
her reason.

"They have long since healed. They are from
well-taught lessons in obedience. You would do well to learn from
them."

He shrugged and reached behind to take the
cloth from her. She moved back out of the way of flying water
droplets as he bathed his chest and arms with quick efficiency.
When he thrust his foot in the air washing it and creating a later
down his long, hairy legs, she stared at the muscles in his calves.
Her body was well honed, but the lines of his hardened legs were
sleek. More powerful.

Why couldn't she stop staring? It was not as
if she'd never seen a naked man before. For truth, it was just
yestermorn. Of course, they were warrior scum who felt masterful by
preying on unattended women or travelers.

Men were men. One didn't change much from
another, did he? When Magnus stood to wash what had been beneath
the water, she turned her back and pretended interest in folding
her own clothing into a neat pile beside his clothing chest.

She heard his snort of disgust.

o0o

What ailed the girl? Ha! She'd seen men with
their pants dropped the day before. Had he not intervened with her
attackers, she would have cut the stones off the nearest man when
she had the chance.

Why had she appeared surprised on noting his
cock resting in the water? She'd not seemed shy when the filthy
lout's rod was near spitting with need as it bobbed with every step
the man took. Nay. Far from looking shy, she'd been ready to
kill.

Shrugging, he lifted his cock and pressed it
against his stomach to scrub the underside and his stones. He'd
sweated all day in the saddle, his heavy chain mail and clothing
near bringing his body heat to boiling. He paid particular heed to
the gash inside his right thigh, midway between his groin and his
knee.

It hurt more today than yestermorn when he
and Feradoch were ambushed by hapless ruffians. Not too hapless,
though. One had landed a lucky thrust with a rusted spear. The
bleeding had all but stopped. He pressed around the wound, causing
dark, yellowish fluid to ooze from the center. Likely debris
remained within the cut.

"Rinse me, Muriele."

She turned, her eyes averted, as she went to
pick up a fresh bucket. He motioned to the stool, meaning for her
to remove the towel and stand on the stool.

Muriele carefully clutched the wooden bucket
to her chest as she stepped onto it. Lifting the water as high as
she could, she slowly poured it as he turned around several times.
He stopped her before the bucket was empty.

"Save the rest. I noted yer neat stitches. I
have need of yer sewing to close a wound." He took the bucket from
her and put it on the floor as she got off the stool.

"I thought ye had an injury when I sewed yer
tunic, but I see none." She handed him the towel and curiously
looked at his legs.

"'Tis on the inside of my leg."

"I will have need of medicines and cloths
from the supply we brought back with us today."

Magnus wrapped the drying towel around his
waist and went to jerk the door open while bellowing for a
servant.

A maidservant carrying a tray of goblets
stepped through the solar door and hurried over to him. "Aye, my
lord?"

"Go to the spaewife's hut. Tell her to bring
salves and supplies to cleanse a wound."

The woman looked relieved as she raced off to
the stairwell. Had she seen him all but naked and thought he wished
to swive? He snorted. He didna want a woman he must plow in the
dark, else his cock would shrivel and cower against his balls for
protection! He shut the door and turned as Muriele bent over to
gather his clothing from the floor. On studying her shapely hips
and supple back, his cock was far from shriveled.

It stirred in interest.

He ignored it.

The girl busied herself doing nothing but
moving the clean drying cloths to the table beside the window. She
stood back, stared at the table, the bed, back to the table. What
was she thinking?

She grasped the table and tried to tug it
over beside the bed. He stifled a laugh when she looked surprised,
for although the table was plain and serviceable, it was made of
sturdy wood.

"Why do ye move the table?"

"So I can put the things I require close by
the bed. I canna run back and forth to work on yer leg." She
frowned as if she thought he could have figured it out for
himself.

Magnus cleared his throat so she would look
at him. She had been gazing everywhere in the room except at him.
He stood beside a small table in the right hand corner. A conical
shaped piece of wood to hold his helm stood atop a post and sturdy
base. Twas empty now until Brian cleaned and polished the
gold-plated helmet and the chain mail attachment that protected the
back of his neck.

He stood the wooden stand on the floor,
picked the table up and crossed the room. "Where do ye want
it?"

"Here, please, my lord."

Muriele kept her gaze high, avoiding looking
at his naked chest and legs. He would have laughed, but he was too
tired and had much to do afore he could retire for the night.
Thankfully, Grunda called outside the door.

"Enter." He settled the table about two hands
away from the bed.

Grunda carried a square basket of supplies.
Muriele edged past Magnus, careful not to touch his bare flesh. She
took the heavy basket and put it on the large table.

"My lord, we must see the wound to know what
is needed to heal it."

He walked over and stretched out on the bed,
not caring about the drying towel twisted around him. He watched as
Grunda went to the door and took an iron pot of hot water from a
servant who had followed behind her.

Uncomfortable from the bunched cloth, he
tugged it away, baring his body. Twisting his right leg to the side
so the women could tend it, he held back a grimace. When Muriele
gasped, he didn't know if 'twas from the sight of his flaccid sex
or the angry look of the wound.

He preferred it was his cock.

Both women came close. Muriele reached out
then drew her hand back. Her face flushed. Finally, she reached for
the cloth and slid it across his stomach and down over his left
leg. Once his bared sex no longer seemed an obstacle, she touched
his flesh with interest.

"You rode out without a proper dressing over
it?"

"Aye. 'Tis yer doing. I would have sought
care, but I had to hunt for a wayward girl who doesna obey orders."
His hard eyes blamed her for the festering wound.

She bit her lip, likely to keep back a
foolish reply. He watched as they busied themselves setting out
soft cloths, smelly ointments and bottled decoctions from the
basket.

"A hot compress of woundwort will draw out
the evil," Grunda muttered. Taking some betony leaves from a jar,
she crushed them between her hands then placed them in a small
earthenware pot. After she poured hot water over them, she left
them to seep.

Muriele leaned close and gently tested the
inflamed skin around the wound. "Pus. Flakes of rust. Do ye think
we can flush them out?" She asked but didn't expect an answer, for
she grabbed the drying cloth off him. "Lift, please, my lord."