By His Majesty's Grace (13 page)

Oh, but he was magnificent in his nakedness, more perfectly formed than any statue of a martyred saint, and as hard in body as the carved wood of such images. He was as marked by suffering as such saints, however. A white streak that ran at a diagonal across one arm had the look of an old sword cut, and his legs carried multiple scars. His back was marked by an ugly bruise the size of a shield, while beneath it was a multitude of white, crisscrossed lines that could only have been made by a whip.

Isabel felt a peculiar shifting sensation inside her at this evidence of past battles, past pain, past hardihood. He was so different from the feminine company she knew best—her sisters and the nuns who had taught her Latin and sums and writing, embroidery and the art of preserving foodstuffs. He was larger, heavier, with long bones that must be made of steel that they had not broken as a result of his other injuries. He was angular and hard where she was rounded and soft. He could summon furious concentration as required, fighting with brutal will and every ounce of his considerable power. He lived by a stringent code that made few allowances for human weakness.

Because he had given his word, he had walked into the prison of Westminster Palace and would, if requested, submit himself to the will of his king and the unkind hands of the hangman. He would die without protest because he had pledged his honor as a knight.

It was a horror in her mind to think of him dying for no reason other than to save a kingdom for the man with whom he had shared exile. For that was his purpose in London, Isabel was almost sure of it. He was to be the scapegoat if the Frenchwoman and her child were found to have been murdered. Rand would be condemned for the crime so no blame would fall upon Henry VII.

The injustice of it was more than any man should be asked to bear. It seemed, in that moment, more than she could bear.

Rand sank into the tub, though his legs were so long that his knees rose above the water. He lathered his hair, rinsed it with a great deal of splashing and slicked the long strands back with fingers that plowed glistening black furrows. Squinting a little against the water that threatened to run into his eyes, he reached for the wine she held.

“You should not have wet your stitches,” she said as she put the goblet in his hand. While he drank, she reached for the toweling and blotted the wound dry, as well as the hair around it.

“I doubt it will matter.”

“Because…” She stopped, unable to form the words.

“Because it’s a piddling cut, and I’m fast to heal,” he said. “Did you think I meant aught else?”

“You could have,” she said defensively. She had thought he meant a cut could not matter if his life’s breath was stopped at his neck.

He tipped the last of the wine into his mouth and handed her the goblet before leaning back against the side of the tub. He rested his arms along the linen-draped edges and closed his eyes. “I’ve not lost faith that Mademoiselle Juliette will be found. And would have more if allowed to join the hunt.”

It was no doubt madness, but Isabel wished most fervently that the dratted woman would turn up. “Have you any idea at all where to look?”

“In the countryside. Her presence would have been easily marked in town, I think. The curiosity of some servant, yeoman guard or merchant must have been aroused and word brought to the palace.” He paused, glanced at the cloth she held. “As long as you have that to hand and are being dutiful, you could use it.”

It was permission to bathe him, or possibly a request. She could hardly protest as the task was expected of her. Something in his tone, the faintest rumble of anticipation, made her wildly conscious of the intimacy, however. Ignoring it as best she could, she went to one knee beside the tub and dipped the cloth in the warm water. She soaped it well as she considered where to start.

“Don’t wet your splint,” he said in soft warning.

He was watching her through the slits between his eyelids while a corner of his mouth tilted in something perilously close to a grin. He knew how she felt, she was sure of it. Inhaling with fortitude, she smacked the cloth into the center of his chest and began to scrub in tight circles.

He grunted, and a rash of goose bumps beaded his skin, flowing over his shoulders and down his arms. Regardless, he made no protest. His lashes flickered, and his eyes closed completely. His chest rose and fell as he breathed deep. After a moment, the goose bumps faded. The stiffness began to leave his muscles.

He was enjoying her ministrations, or so it seemed. That pleased her in some ridiculous fashion. Her movements slowed. She eased her pressure to a gentle glide. After a moment, she put her hand inside the cloth and slid it over the taut musculature of his chest, working the soap into its coating of hair. His nipples tightened when touched just as hers did, she discovered, though their color was like tanned leather.

While he drowsed, unaware, she was able to study his features more closely than before. How long his lashes were, how firm the curves of his mouth. It was not a brutal face for all its strength, but was limned with sensitivity and fierce intelligence. A thin scar bisected one brow and crossed his cheekbone, but he had newer injuries. His hair on the right side of his head was singed on the ends, and angry red burns ran from his jaw down his neck to his collarbone. The discoloration on his side had now spread over most of his upper back.

Easing him forward with slight pressure from her injured hand, she began to wash the area between his shoulder blades, though she used extra care on this section. “This big bruise came from Graydon’s attack, did it not?”

“Probably.” The single word was a low rumble of sound.

“I am sorry.”

“So is he, I’ll be bound, as he’ll have plenty of bruises of his own. I would not be greatly surprised if his leg turned out to be broken.”

“It was only sprained and his knee wrenched, according to David,” she replied, “not that he didn’t deserve worse.” When he made no answer, appearing half-asleep, she went on. “And these scars, what of them?”

“Scars?” He arched a brow, though he didn’t open his eyes.

“Just here,” she said, running the cloth over the mesh of fine white lines.

Rand twitched a shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

“They don’t appear nothing to me.” She eyed the marks as she rubbed carefully across them. “You must have had them a long time. They are hardly raised at all.”

“Since I was ten.”

“Ten! Who would do such a thing to a child?” She could not keep the indignation from her voice.

His laugh was mirthless as he finally gave her a quick glance over his shoulder. “A half brother not a great deal older, as it happens. William was thirteen, and none too happy with our father for having me trained as the estate’s future steward. Until then, I had been living with my grandmother and an uncle in their croft hut, but they had died of the fever. McConnell—William—thought to show me my place, so had two villeins hold me down while he used his riding whip on me.”

“He was jealous,” she said.

“Mayhap, though he had no need. He was the legitimate son, after all. Anyway, it was a mistake, as it turned out. Our father came upon him in the act. To illustrate the error of his ways, he brought me into the house to share William’s privileges and his tutor. Though not, of course, the McConnell name.”

“You took it, anyway,” she said in dawning understanding. “Or at least assumed the name of your father’s estate as your own.”

“It seemed fitting.”

He had taken Henry’s gift of his dead father’s confiscated lands and the designation of Braesford that went with it. Yet he preferred to be called by his given name, as he had so aptly proven this day. Was that because it was the way he thought of himself, still?

“You appear to deal well with McConnell now,” she said in tentative tones.

“He learned to tolerate me, as our father’s goodwill depended on it. We even became companions, of a sort, when we were both fostered at Pembroke.”

“Where Henry was kept a prisoner after the estate was taken from his uncle, I think. Was that where you met him?

“As you say. We struck up a friendship, Henry and I. When he went into exile, he asked me to go with him as his squire.”

“And not your brother?”

“William remained behind with his mother’s people. After a time, he made his peace with Edward.”

“Even though Edward IV executed your father?”

“And his,” Rand agreed with a nod, “not that McConnell forgave him. But like many a nobleman’s son in the years just past, he made accommodation with his conscience. He joined Edward’s army to make his way in the world, and in hope of gaining favor.”

“The return of Braesford, for instance.”

“Just so. He respected Edward’s younger brother, Richard of Gloucester, as a general, and served under him readily enough. After Edward died, he couldn’t stomach Richard’s grab for the crown. He bided his time, then changed York’s white rose for the red of Lancaster again. He thought Henry would be grateful enough for the support that he might return Braesford to him. What he failed to take into account was my return with Henry.”

“But not as a squire.”

Rand gave a small shake of his head. “Being outcasts together in Brittany for over a decade allowed me to gain Henry’s friendship as well as a higher place in his service. The time spent on the fringes of foreign courts, with little to do except spar with sword and lance or compete in tourneys, were ample to turn a squire into a soldier.”

She paused, spoke in dry disbelief. “You are quite sure that’s all you had time for?”

“Almost all, if you must have it.” He snorted in dry humor. “It was not a monkish life with our hosts being a Breton noble and, later, a French king, both known for the luxury of their courts. There was wine and dancing, lessons in French and Italian and for the lute and harp, also country expeditions in the company of ladies fine and not so fine. Yet Henry was then, and is now, a pious man with weighty matters on his mind. We gave more time to prayers and political maneuvering than to debauchery.”

She believed him, strangely enough. What was even more peculiar was that she was gratified by the picture he painted of his exile with Henry. “So you were knighted on Bosworth Field and given Braesford Hall. Your half brother must have resented that.”

“And resented Henry for giving it to me. Now he must resent the bride I gained, as well.”

She paused in the act of squeezing water over his shoulders, watching it run in a path down the long, lean pathway where lay his backbone. “What?”

“William had a fancy for you last year when you first came to court, and still does. Had you not noticed?”

She wished she could see Rand’s face, but all she viewed was the stiff cords at the back of his strong neck. “No.”

“It’s there. I saw how he looked at you then, as well as at Braesford and this morning. He is eaten alive with envy, also with the certain knowledge that he would have been a more worthy groom.”

“He’s said nothing of it,” she insisted.

He gave a soft snort followed by a sigh. “Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I resent him for being born legitimate and first in our father’s affection. Maybe he was coming to my aid on the field today, instead of joining Graydon in his attack.”

“How can you think otherwise?”

“Easily, when I consider that any personal attack was forbidden, but I met one, anyway.”

She skimmed her cloth over the great bruise that was shaded with purple-and-blue tints and centered by a long line of red. His mail must have been all that saved him from more permanent injury due to that blow dealt from behind. “You defeated Graydon and could have ridden him down and demanded ransom,” she said in meditative tones. “Yes, and Henley, too, I expect. Why didn’t you?”

He hunched a shoulder. “I feared I might kill rather than capture. I preferred not to add to the sins of the battlefield that weigh my conscience.”

“Sins of the battlefield?”

“The killing at Bosworth Field,” he said in quiet strain. “Men become—I become—an animal in the midst of a fight, a beast that fails to think beyond the moment. A king’s knight whose only purpose is his orders and the need to stay alive no matter the cost to other men.”

She brushed over the bruise again, deeply disturbed by the self-loathing she heard in his voice. “Yet you had the presence of mind not to kill Graydon.”

“That was different.”

She weighed the iron in his tone, spoke, anyway. “How so?”

“The melee was relatively bloodless compared to…” He halted, said again after a moment, “It was different.”

“Or you are less an animal than you think.”

“A more calculating one, most likely. But never mind. Tell me how dutiful a wife you intend to be on this our wedding night.”

She didn’t care for the deliberate change of subject when she had meant only to ease his needless self-blame. His derision that went with it, and the determined light in his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder, were also unwelcome. Tossing the cloth she held into the soap-clouded water that covered his lap, she put her good hand on the side of the tub and began to rise.

He closed one hand on her wrist, reached to catch her waist with the other. A cry of outrage caught in her throat as she was pulled off balance. Water splashed in bright droplets as she landed in the tub with her legs draped over the side and her bottom pressed firmly into the cradle of his thighs.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. “My shift will be soaked. I’ll have nothing to wear tomorrow.”

“You may need nothing,” he said, placing a hand on her abdomen to hold her down as she struggled to rise. With his other arm, he reached around her and held her firm by clasping the fullness of her breast.

She redoubled her efforts, shifting, kicking to gain purchase. “My hair will be wet, too. Let me up.”

“I’m trying to keep it dry, but you’re making it hard—making other things hard, as well,” he said, speaking against her temple while laughter threaded his voice. “If you don’t be still, you may be bedded in a tub.”

Her every muscle stiffened as she felt the shaft of rigid flesh that lay beneath the curves of her bottom. Her heart thudded against her ribs. Her chest rose and fell with the swift tempo of her breathing. “What…” she began before her throat closed. Swallowing hard, she tried again. “What do you want?”