Carolyne Cathey (5 page)

Eleanor stood at
an angle, stark naked, one foot poised over the tub, her hands clutched on the
woman's arm, stuck.

"Be gone,
you lummox!  Do you not see that...”  The look on his face swept all thought
from her mind. 

At first he wore
his smug expression, then surprise when his mouth hung slack-jawed and his eyes
widened.  Surprise changed to that indefinable intensity that made her body
threaten to wilt with mysterious emotion.  His sultry gaze roamed her nakedness
from top to toe and back up again.

Eleanor feared
she would collapse.

In two strides he
stood in front of her.  He grasped her under her arms and sent a burst of fever
into her chest, then he lifted her until both her feet dangled in the water.

Eleanor's intake
of breath, from both the painful sores and his unexpected nearness, hissed
through her clenched teeth, but he held her so that her feet didn't reach the
bottom of the tub.  Her breasts tingled from being pressed against his torso. 
Her nakedness against his clothed frame reaffirmed her vulnerability.  And much
too soon, the pain subsided.

"Are you
better, lass?" 

His breath teased
her ear and made her shudder.  His warmth enveloped her like sunshine.  She
nodded, which seemed to be the only movement she could make.

"Very well. 
Now, I'll lower you into the tub."  But he didn't, he only held her tight
against him.  "I'm desperate, Eleanor."  His body trembled and he
spoke so low that she doubted the old woman could hear his plea.  "My need
is great.  Don't refuse me."

Heaven help her. 
How would she dare deny her master when he entreated her submission?  And
instead of wench, or woman, he had called her by her name, a dangerous omen.

Lord Kyle knelt
until she sat in the water, then he released her.  He pushed to his feet and
seared her with a gaze even more intense, although she had not believed it
possible.  With apparent reluctance he moved to the other side of the screen,
then she heard a thump as if he had kicked something in frustration. 

Nurse Kincaid
leaned down to pick up a folded linen clout.  "The master is filled with
lust for ye, child."  She groaned as she struggled to straighten her back
again.  "Ye will make this first night bearable for my lord."  The
nurse laughed.  "Nay, more than bearable, from the looks of ye."

"Is that the
name of the look he has in his eyes?  Lust?"

The woman plopped
down on the stool.  "Holy mother.  If ye have to ask, then ye must be an
innocent.  How did ye get in this predicament?"

Eleanor opened
her mouth to say 'twas predestined, then thought better about the matter. 
"Nurse, when you experience a pain in your chest because someone pays
undue attention to a person for whom you care naught, what is that
called?"

Nurse Kincaid
tilted her head then smiled as she might to a young one.  "If its pain ye
feel, then ye do care about the person.  And the pain is called jealousy."

"Nay. 
'Tisn't jealousy.  'Twould be a sin."

The woman laughed
and poured a dipper of water over Eleanor's head.  Warm wetness sheeted over
her body and trickled into the tub.   Then the woman rubbed a lye bar over
Eleanor's hair and scrubbed.

"Are you
finished yet, Nurse?  I grow weary of this delay."  Lord Kyle's voice cut
through Eleanor's brief reprieve.

The old woman
scrubbed her again but with more zeal.  "Give me a moment, milord."

Eleanor wished
Nurse Kincaid didn't labor with such haste, yet of a sudden, her body and hair
were scrubbed and rinsed, a delicious experience tinged with nervous
foreboding.

With the linen
wrapped around her wet hair, she hung her feet over the side of the round tub
so that the nurse could smooth herbs and balms on her sores.

The woman drew in
a noisy breath.  "Yer feet look burned!"

Eleanor almost
swallowed her tongue. 

"Burned?" 
Lord Kyle appeared around the end of the screen with the haste of the devil
after a newly-fallen angel. 

Eleanor pressed
her naked breasts against her wet thighs and hoped to disappear.  Between the
discovery of the nature of her injury and his persistent excuses to view her
nudity, her pulse might never cease to race.

He knelt and took
her foot in his strong hands, his studied examination a mixture of curiosity,
suspicion and exploratory lust. 

His touch bolted
sensations up her leg to her heart, then the strange feelings sank like a hot
rock into her privacy.

"Explain,
woman."

"Uh..."
Eleanor cleared her throat, wondering how to tell the truth without being
branded a witch.  "The nuns thought to purify my soul.  'Tis over now. 

"I would
hear the reason."  He caressed the pad of his thumb over the arch of her
foot.  He seemed unaware of his action, but the movement of his flesh over
hers, heated her more than the fire.

"There is
much of great import I must relay to you, Sire, and the news is for your ears
alone.  May I dress first?"

He dropped his
hand to his side.  "Aye.  But never fear, woman.  You will tell me."

"I promise,
my lord." 

He stood and
moved to the other side of the screen.

What would be his
reaction to the reason for her punishment?  Did he already suspect? 

Muttering under
her breath, Nurse Kincaid smoothed balms on Eleanor's injuries and wrapped
clean cloths around her feet.

The scent of
roses wafted into Eleanor's conscious thought.  She lifted the back of her hand
to her nose and inhaled the heady scent, then sighed.  Despite the tension, the
bath and the balms made Eleanor felt better than she could ever remember.

"Are her
feet treated, Nurse?"

The woman
gathered her jars and the clothes, then groaned as she pushed to a stand. 
"'Tis done, Sire."

"I thank you
for your care, but I'll tend to her now."

Panicked, Eleanor
reached for Nurse's hand to stop her, but the woman hobbled around the end of
the screen with her bundle.  Eleanor sat in the tub, her bandaged feet over the
edge, with no clothes to don when she stood, and a man who claimed desperation
on the other side of the barrier--a man who controlled her destiny.

Eleanor heard the
clank of jars as if Nurse shifted her basket.

"Milord, ye
could seduce the crown from the Queen, herself, if ye are but determined, and
yet I ask ye to consider--"

"Enough,
nurse." 

"Sire, the
child's a virgin."

"She’s my
concern now.  You're dismissed."

H
e was coming!

Eleanor ducked
her head and flattened her torso against her thighs.  She hurriedly pulled the
linen from her wet hair, then barely had time to stretch the cloth over her
back and head like a turtle-shell before he halted beside her legs that dangled
over the edge of the round tub. 

"Tis time to
dry you before you catch a chill, Eleanor." 

He snapped away
her protective cover, and with a sick dread she heard the towel drop to the
rushes.  Cold swirled over her flesh and into her thudding heart.  Wool bushed
her shins.  Fabric moved against fabric as if he knelt.  Then she felt him urge
his fingers between her neck and thigh. 

She caught at a
sob and buried her head tighter against her rose-scented legs.  He would touch
her privacy again!  And mostly likely do other obscenities to her body,
although she couldn't imagine what. 

He cupped her
chin.  "Look at me, Eleanor."

She tried to turn
her head, but he forced her chin upward.  Through strands of her wet hair she
saw his face, and her heart skipped a beat.  Lust remained in the blue of his
eyes, but also something of a softer emotion.  His parted lips revealed even,
white teeth.  A lock of his hair hung in a curl on his forehead and tempted her
to coil the strand of gold around her finger.  In truth, she could stare at him
forever and not grow weary.  Perhaps he might allow her to stare at him until
she sat in the water and shriveled to non-existence.

"Don't fear
me, lass."

  He attempted a
compassionate smile much as a cat might offer to a trapped bird, right before
he ate it. 

"Now, I'll
lift you to your feet.  Do you think you can stand until I dry you?" 

Eleanor's chest
tightened.  "Nay, my lord.  You must not.  I'll push up, then sit upon the
stool while I dry myself, but I have nothing to wear."

Lord Kyle
appraised her, then stood and moved to a hip-high wooden chest that sat against
the stone wall beneath a shuttered window.  He stared at the carved top as if
hesitant to view the contents.  Then with a release of his breath, he lifted
the lid and rummaged inside.

Panicked that he
would witness her nudity, Eleanor shoved up and over the edge of the tub to her
throbbing feet, frantically grabbing the wet towel from the rushes and wrapping
it around her, straw and all. 

Lord Kyle leapt
toward her.  "Nay, you'll become dirty once again."

 He dropped
buttercup and cream fabrics on the stool and reached for a clean linen, then
jerked away her cover and slid his arm a tingly path around her waist, pressing
her damp flesh against his hard body. 

"I'll dry you,
lass.  Now, stand still."

Eleanor knew she
had no choice, so she clutched his shoulders for support and stared past him at
the draped bed of gold and red.  Gold like his flaxen hair that hung in curls
at his neck.  Red like the hot embers that smoldered in her depths.

He stroked the
towel up the back of one thigh, then the other, and she held her breath.  He
brushed the linen across the round of her buttocks, then back again in a slow,
tortuous circle.  Sweet heavens.  Her knees threatened to give way.  She
clutched tighter with her hands and closed her eyes.

  He moved the
towel to the small of her back, pulled her closer against the hard dagger that
hung low in his belt, then held her there a timeless moment.

Resting her cheek
on the stone-like expanse of his chest, she listened to the beat that thumped
in her ear, although she didn't know whether the pulse sprung from her heart or
his.  Her skin tingled as he brushed the cloth up her spine to her shoulders. 
How strange.  Her body had never felt such sensations when she had dried
herself.  A great desire urged her to force her frame to his until she became
attached in some way.

"Now, stand
still while I dry the rest of you." 

His words came
out so low and throaty that his breath could have melted a crust of ice on a
winter pond.  He stepped around her, then pressed his body against her back and
slipped his callused hand around her waist to hold her close, hot against her
cooled flesh.  Surely she would die from ecstasy.

"Your
clothes dried the moisture on my front, Sire."  Why did her voice sound
all soft and small?

"I must make
certain, Eleanor."  He whispered into her ear, and she shuddered. 
"I'd not want you to become ill."

She knew the
towel must be more wet than her skin, but she no longer cared, only melted
beneath the inflamed sensation as he drew the linen up the front of her
thighs.  Then he rubbed the damp cloth in a swirl over her abdomen.  A whimper
escaped her throat.  How could she bear the tension that twisted inside her and
screamed for release before it snapped?  Eleanor grasped his forearm to prevent
his further travels, but his hand moved higher.  He brushed the towel against
the underswell of her breasts and a quiver rippled through her body.

He groaned, then
cupped his cloth-covered hand over her breast.

She inhaled,
quick and tight.  "My lord."  Eleanor didn't know whether she
breathed his title or called to a higher power for strength.  And her gasp for
air only intensified the pressure into his palm.

He took an
eternity to dry each rounded breast, and she moaned with each circle of the
towel.  His careful labors made her extraordinarily aware of her ordinary body;
her breasts felt heavy, swollen, her flesh, extra-sensitive, her curves, more
feminine, her womanhood, throbbing.  If he had not secured her so snugly she
would have fallen, for her bones had dissolved.  How odd.  She had never felt
such sensations when she had dried herself.

Of a sudden, Lord
Kyle turned her to face him and splaying his bare hand on her buttocks, he
lifted and pressed her against his dagger, then his mouth covered hers, warm
and wet.

The serpent of
temptation slithered through her body.  She wrapped her arms around Lord Kyle's
neck and lifted herself to her toes.  Sweet misery tortured, as did the soft
scrape of his whisker-stubble against her face.  His tongue teased, bathed the
outline of her lips, then nudged through to touch her teeth.

 "Open your
mouth, lass."  As he whispered the plea, his lips moved against hers, all
moist and hot. 

She felt as if washed
downstream toward a waterfall.  Some distant instinct warned her to pull out of
the torrent before she drowned.  Reluctant, she lowered her chin until her
forehead rested on his mouth.  Her heart lurched inside her ribs.  Her ragged
breaths mingled with his. 

"Is this . .
. seduction, my lord?"

"Aye." 
He hugged her tighter to his body and released a tremulous sigh.  "What
think you of this pleasant agony?"

Eleanor closed
her eyes and struggled to steady her intakes of air, her rapid heart. 

"Now I know
how temptation truly feels, my lord.  I never dreamed the lure to sin could be
so strong.  When I need my willpower the most, my wits desert me and leave me
defenseless."  She took a shaky breath.  "Now I am forewarned."

Lord Kyle
enfolded her in his persuasive embrace. 

"I warn you,
Eleanor.  Before this night is over, I will have you."

She closed her
eyes against her inner battle between virtue and temptation, uncertain which
would win.  He emanated seduction as naturally as the blink of his incredible
eyes, but he toyed with her destiny on a lust-driven whim, while she must live
with the consequences for eternity. 

 "Not until
we plight our troth, my lord."

He stiffened,
then stepped back, his expression startled, desperate.  "You know that
cannot be."

"Aye. Which
is why you cannot have me." 

"I need you,
Eleanor.  You are mine alone.  I won't have to share you with other men.  I
won't have to worry about the pox, or hold my breath around the whores’
unwashed stench."  His eyes hardened with determination.  "You belong
to me, woman.  You will do what I say."

She fought to
hide her fear, for he outweighed her, outpowered her, and could do with her
whatever he willed.  Her nudity humiliated her further, yet she lifted her chin
and pretended dignity.

"I'll scrub
your floors and tend your garden, Sire.  I'll do aught you ask of me, except
share your bed.  'Twould be a sin."

"I could
force you, you know."

"I've heard
of ravishment.  Are you the type to perform such a deed?"

 "I had
never thought so."  He snarled the words as his gaze raked to her toes and
up, then lingered on her breasts.  "Until now."

Eleanor drew in a
breath and jerked against his grip.  "I mistook you for my savior, but
you're no better than Brigham."

 The liquid heat
of his eyes cooled to a glaze.  Then he released her and yanked a white cloth
from the stool. 

"Hold up
your arms, wench."

"I'll dress
myself, Sire."

"Either you
hold up your arms, or you'll stand there, naked, until you die.  Now, do as I
say."

Her heart jumped
into her throat.  She raised her arms toward the smoke-hazed rafters, but the
submissive movement stretched her breasts and tingled her nipples, and she felt
even more displayed for his unholy examination.

His eyes
narrowed, then darkened before the white covered her vision.  The linen of the
chemise he slipped on her body felt softer to her skin than any fabric she had
ever worn.  Only rough peasant wool had touched her flesh, not the fine cloths
of nobility.  Then he pulled the buttercup gown over her head.  The fabric felt
light as a sunbeam, as soft as a summer breeze.  Curious, she rubbed the weave
between her fingers.

"What is
this fabric, my lord?"

"'Tis
silk."  He clipped his words. "'Tis also short on you.  You're of a
taller frame than my wife."

"Nay, 'tis
fine."  He most likely thought her ungainly in comparison.  "Am I
very different from your wife?"

"Aye."

She glanced up at
his face and saw the anguish in his eyes as if from an unpleasant memory, and
she knew in that instant how much he had loved her.  Still loved her.  Any
female body would suffice for him that night.  Convenience, that's all Eleanor
meant to him.  The realization slashed like a scythe, hard and indiscriminate.

Lord Kyle swept
her up in his arms and lowered her onto the stool, but before she could protest
his lurid intentions, he turned away from her and stared at the fire as it
crackled and sputtered.

"Cathryn was
all gossamer and light.  Her hair, pale, like her skin, glowed a halo around
her head.  She almost sang instead of spoke her words.  A wraith.  And I
destroyed her."  He placed both hands on the hood of the fireplace and
lowered his head.  "Our unborn son grew too large for her delicate form. 
She suffered hell for three days before she . . ." 

His voice broke. 
Firelight writhed on his cote as if in sympathetic torment. 

"'Twas
cruel.  She was no knight in protective armor.  And there was naught I could do
to help her.  When our son split her flesh to enter this world, his body was
too bruised from the effort to survive.  This is my first night of return since
their deaths four years past." 

Eleanor wondered
how she could be jealous of a dead woman.  Although she had never realized
until that moment the need within her, she longed for a man to feel for her in
the same way he had his wife, not merely for lust or to satisfy a desperate,
momentary need, but with love, and for always. 

Anything she
might say to him in comfort seemed shallow for such deep distress, so while the
wind whined and the thunder rumbled, she pondered his dark image and drowned in
regret he would never be hers.  Fate had decreed for her a different life-path,
more spiritual, more noble.  Aye, she must remember her mission. 

Lord Kyle spun
from the fire as if to avoid unwanted images within the flames.  He jerked an
empty bucket from the floor and plunged it into the bath water, then
unshuttered the window and tossed the dirty liquid into the night air before
refilling the tub.  Stripping to his braies and chausses, he tossed his clothes
aside, then studied the flames again as if in deep thought.

Eleanor drew in
her breath as yellow light from the fire sculpted his bare torso into
highlights and shadows.  His broad shoulders tapered to trim hips and powerful
legs.  He possessed a warrior's body, all muscle and sinew.  She gaped, in
awe.  A higher power had carved magnificence and named him Kyle.  The heat that
she still felt from his kiss, his touch, sank like a hot rock to burn between
her legs.

"I should
not have given Beth to Jerrod.  I should have saved the lass for me."

He might have
only meant to taunt her, but still the pang she tried to deny, stabbed deeper. 
Between the description of his wife, and now the thought of Beth, Eleanor felt
like a weed among wildflowers.  She leaned down to pick up the bar of soap from
the stack of linens and turned it in her fingers, picturing Lord Kyle's
searching hands on Beth's willing body, his fevered mouth on hers that the
temptress would surely open when he asked.

Remember the
mission
.

"Jerrod and
I have taken turns with camp followers.  Perhaps he won't mind if we---"

Eleanor threw the
soap and hit his buttocks.

He spun to
confront her, shock on his face.

"You'd fall
asleep before you finished drying her after her bath, she's so ample, my
lord."  What shrewish woman had spouted that hateful comment?  Surely, not
she.  Embarrassed, she let her mouth fall open.

Lord Kyle
grinned, and Eleanor's heart stumbled over its own beat. 

Half naked, he
glowed in the fire's light, a few damp curls in disarray on his forehead.  He
leaned down to pick up the errant weapon, then stood again and nodded.