Dark Champion (22 page)

Where was she? He could not allow this.

He left the empty room, walked briskly along the corridor and ran up the winding stairs to the pretty tower room that had housed the Treasure of Carrisford, the place where they had fought their battle of wits. Even without its hangings and glass window it had been an exquisite setting for a jewel, symbol of her life before disaster. She doubtless felt at ease there.

His jaw tightened. If she wanted a pretty casket, he would give her one, but it would be one they shared.

The drone of praying voices stopped him outside the door.

“
Ut nosmetipsos in tuo sancto servitio confortare et conseverare digneris
…”

Imogen replied, “
Te rogamus, audi nos
.”

To strengthen and preserve us in thy holy service…

We beg thee, hear us.

“
Ut mentes nostras ad celestia desideria erigas
…”

“Te rogamus, audi nos.”

To raise our minds to desire the things of heaven…

We beg thee, hear us.

FitzRoger made a fist against the rough stone wall. After a moment he swung on his heel and returned to his room.

Toward Imogen he felt only impatience and pity, but he would like to throttle that guilt-mongering priest.

There was a bathroom in the bailey at Carrisford, fitted out with tubs and a cistern of hot water. Lord Bernard had doubtless stopped off there to render himself pure before even entering his keep. Henry and the rest of the men were there now, scrubbing, and enjoying the whores. FitzRoger had been in no mind to join them and endure more of their lewd jests, and so he had come here, not even thinking that he might confront Imogen in this state.

That lack of thought bothered him.

He had always intended to command a tub in his room, and now he did so. He stripped off his soiled garments, then stood deep in thought as he awaited the bath.

Just what should he do about his bride? He was certain it would be better to rid Carrisford of the priest, but he had promised that Imogen would rule here, and he would keep his word if he could. An inconvenient chaplain was not a matter upon which he had the right to overrule her, unless the priest interfered in military matters.

The more pressing issue was whether he should consummate the marriage tonight despite her pleas and protests.

The way her body had tightened up against him dismayed him. He supposed force would work, but at what cost? The thought of painfully ripping into a terrified girl brought bile to his throat, but this situation was very dangerous. Henry could not afford to have anyone but FitzRoger hold power in this corner of England, and Henry would expect his friend and liegeman to achieve that purpose in any way possible.

FitzRoger turned his mind to a simpler matter: that of compelling her to move back into this room. That was essential if they were to conceal the situation.

He flinched even from that.

There was something very wrong with him.

The tub and water arrived, brought by servants who glanced in nervous awe at his naked, scarred body. When Imogen had first seen it she had not been frightened, but that was before. Afterward, she had refused to look at him.

He waved the attendants away and eased with a sigh into the hot water. As he scrubbed himself clean, he pondered his situation.

He supposed they could sleep apart. It would appear strange, but that was not the sort of factor that ruled him. One advantage of his life in Henry’s libidinous train, and his reputation in combat, was that no one would think to question his virility.

Wouldn’t they be amused, though, to hear that his bride remained an unsullied virgin? Well, not completely unsullied.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes to contemplate sweet, painful memories of Imogen writhing beneath his touch, and to consider the mess that had developed out of a straightforward grab for power.

The door opened. He opened his eyes instantly.

Imogen went pink to see him in the tub. She had her arms full of clothes. “Oh, I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, half retreating, then bumping into a girl who followed her with a small chest.

“Come in,” he said. “We’re married, remember?” He was experiencing an astonishing wave of relief. She was moving her belongings in here. She had never intended to desert him.

Eyes averted, she entered and put down her burden, directing the maid to place the chest against a wall. She was delightfully pink, and with her ravishing hair floating long and loose, she looked every inch the virgin she was. His body immediately wanted to rectify that, but he had never been ruled by his body before, and would not weaken now.

Even if he could practically feel her warm silky curves under his hands…

Her modesty amused him when she’d lain naked with him the night before. Was this a natural reversion—he’d never known such a gently raised lady before in his life—or a result of new exhortations by the priest?

She headed for the door again. “I’ll come back in—”

“Stay.” It came out as more of a command than he wished, but she halted.

“Girl,” he said. “You may go.”

The wide-eyed maid left and closed the door. Imogen appeared frozen.

What now? “Perhaps you could wash my back,” he said.

She approached the tub nervously. With a bathhouse and bath attendants, he supposed there had never been any question of the Treasure of Carrisford bathing a guest.

“The king?” she asked in sudden anxiety.

She was right. Normally the presence of the king would demand the chatelaine’s attention. “He will not expect your attentions, never fear. There are plenty of women in the bathhouse.”

“Whores,” she said with a look.

“Yes. Better the women who are happy to serve than the ones without a taste for it.” He saw the expression that flitted over her face and almost regretted the words. Then he thought with irritation that a bit of guilt and jealousy might do her good.

She was standing there, undecided. He leaned forward to give her access to his back.

Imogen walked behind her husband and considered him.

His back was an impressive piece of sculpture: hard with bone and muscle, so hard, but scarcely marked at all except for what looked like a burn scar over one shoulder blade. The splash of shiny scar tissue almost looked like a badge of honor.

His skin was darkened by the sun to the color of rich, golden wood, but darkened more above the neck. She supposed it was paler lower down but couldn’t remember. She’d only looked at him once, and her mind had not been on skin coloration.

Imogen took a cloth and dipped it in a dish of soap, then began tentatively to circle the cloth over him. He felt as hard as he looked. Why had fate linked her with such a hard man?

Because she needed one. And he wasn’t always hard and cold. He’d shown her kindness and warmth, and her woman’s instinct told her there was more, much more, if she could only find the way.

She remembered how good it had felt last night when he had stroked her back. That delicious stroking had not felt particularly lustful, just very sweet. Would he experience the same pleasure if she did it to him?

She rinsed the cloth and added more soap, then rubbed the soapy cloth on his back in circles. She watched for his reaction. He had rested his head on his knees, and he
looked
as if he was enjoying it. She began to use longer, sweeping strokes of the cloth, covering the whole of his back and wide shoulders. It was strangely pleasant to be doing it, almost as pleasant as when it had been done to her.

Had he enjoyed touching her last night? Had there been more than lust in him?

Imogen grasped her courage. She knelt and rolled up her sleeves. She let the cloth fall, and dipped her fingers directly in the soap. She used her slippery hands, both of them, to massage him, thumbs up the spine, hands splayed over the ribs. Up, around, down. Out across the ribs, following the fine lines of his muscles. Up and over the shoulders, hesitating momentarily at the roughness of scar tissue marring him there, then sweeping down again. She relaxed in delight at the silky feel of his resilient muscles flexing beneath the pressure of her hands.

Since it didn’t seem to hurt him, she pressed harder and harder, exploring him down to the bones, and the feeling from it crept up through her hands and arms and into her soul, entrancing her…

She became aware that her legs were cramping under her.

She eased away and up, her last touch being an irresistible gentle tangle with one of his damp curls. Back in reality and thought, she wondered nervously what he would say.

“Thank you.” It was very soft, almost sleepy. “You’re very good at that.”

She smiled. It fact, she grinned. It was sweet in her heart that there might be something she could do for him that was pleasant for them both.

“Shall I rinse you now?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She trickled a little of the clean water down his back, washing away the traces of soap.

He seemed to come to life. He stretched slowly, muscles rippling, then rose to his feet in a stream of soapy water. Imogen could not help but take a step backward, clutching the jug.

He glanced at her, and if there had been any relaxation, it was immediately disguised by the mask. “The cloth?” he said.

She quickly put down the jug and passed him the large cloth, trying to keep her eyes from his body. How silly she was. She noticed that he
was
paler, very pale, around the hips, that his male member was in its unalarming state.

She breathed more easily.

“Perhaps you could find me some clean clothes. I don’t mind what.”

Imogen was pleased to turn away and bury her head in his chests. “Plain or splendid?” she asked.

He sounded slightly amused. “You choose.”

Imogen investigated his three chests, and found it was not an easy choice. There was clothing here of all sorts from leather to tissue. He could outshine the king again, or appear almost peasant-plain. She knew it wouldn’t matter; FitzRoger’s presence did not depend on gaudery.

In the end she chose black braies, a white shirt, and a black tunic embroidered with green and gold. It was rich but not particularly showy. She added a pair of linen drawers and some green bands for his cross-gartering.

She turned to present them to him.

He was sitting on a bench with the drying cloth loosely wrapped around his hips. She should be getting used to his body, but she wasn’t, and knew her face was coloring.

“When you’ve patched me up a few times, you’ll doubtless find me unalarming.”

“Patched you up?”

His eyes sharpened. “Don’t you treat the sick? Why not?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “But not… I haven’t generally tended wounds. I know how… I think.”

“You think,” he echoed dryly. “Doubtless more of your father’s pampering. Was he keeping you from the wounds, or from the men?”

“You are not to mis-say my father!”

“I will say what I please, Imogen. Perhaps your father could afford an ornamental woman. I cannot.”

She tossed the clothes at him. “Then you shouldn’t have forced me into marrying you, should you?”

He stood so the cloth dropped and pulled on the drawers. “I didn’t force you, Imogen.” He added pointedly, “In any sense of the word.”

Imogen bit her lip at that.

He began to put on the braies. “And any man, even the noble Earl of Lancaster, would want a wife’s tender care if injured. That presupposes, of course, that the earl would put himself in a situation to be wounded in the first place.”

Imogen wished she had something else to throw at him. “Do you sneer at
everyone
? How wonderful to be so superior! Is it Lancaster’s fault that he didn’t have to claw his way up off a dung heap?”

He was cross-gartering his right leg and his hands did not falter, but she saw his jaw tighten. “Imogen. Take care.”

Days of being attacked, bullied, coerced, and used boiled up in her. “Why? What will you do to me now? Hit me? For telling the truth?”

He knotted the laces and looked up. His eyes were wide and cold. “Come here.”

A jolt of fear shot through her. What had possessed her to taunt the dragon like that?

“Come here,” he repeated.

Imogen wanted to run, but her dignity would not permit that. She walked over to him, liquid with fear.

“Sit down,” he said, indicating the bench.

Imogen almost collapsed with relief onto the bench. She kept her eyes on her own tight-clasped and none-too-steady hands.

“Imogen,” he said levelly, as he resumed his gartering, “I intend to be gentle with you, but you can make that very hard. I am not…”

At the hesitation, she looked up, wondering. She’d never thought to witness FitzRoger less than certain of his every move. He was not looking at her, but seemed focused on the work of his hands.

“I am not well acquainted with gentleness,” he continued, “whereas harshness and clawing my way off the dung heap are deep in my bones.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you…”

His eyes flicked to hers, still icy. “You didn’t
hurt
me. You hit a nerve to which I have an instinctive response. That is a very dangerous thing to do. If you are wise, you will not raise my birth and background when you want to fight.”

“I don’t want to fight,” she protested.

He finished the second bow. “How strange, then, that you do it so often.”

“You provoke me!”

“You are easily provoked.”

“Only by you!”

He twisted suddenly.

Imogen’s wrists were snared by one hand, her hair by the other. His leg held hers captive. She was completely helpless in the trap of his rock-hard body. Her heart galloped and she let out a whimper of fear.

“See,” he said softly. “Know with what you deal.”

Her terror subsided as she realized he still intended her no hurt. “I never doubted you could best me physically, FitzRoger.”

“And every other way, Ginger.”