Knight of Seduction (4 page)

“Don’t ever pull a weapon on me again,” he told her.  “I don’t like it.”

“I don’t care.”

“If you try it a second time, you won’t be happy with my response.”

“What will you do?  Paddle my bottom?  Send me to my bedchamber without any supper?”

“I have many, many methods for gaining your compliance.  I’ll show you some of them tomorrow night.”  Cautious, wary of another outburst, he slid away from her.  “Now then, where were we?  Oh yes, my bath.”  He walked to the tub and stood next to it, fiddling with the laces on his breeches.  “Attend me.”

“I won’t.”

“You will.”  He chuckled; she was absolutely stunning in her misery.  “Give over, Lady Rosamunde.  You can’t win against me.”

He sat in a chair and extended his leg, shaking his boot in her direction, demanding that she yank it off for him.  Though he had only thirty years, he’d commanded men for most of two decades, and he was an expert at compelling them to do what they didn’t wish to do.  She was more stubborn than most, but he’d wear her down.  Defiance was pointless. 

She fussed and stewed, then capitulated—as he’d known she would.  She stomped over, grabbed leather and pulled and pulled, working the boot down and off.  In the process, she was bent toward him so he had numerous naughty glimpses of bosom and cleavage that quickly aroused his manly passions.

It dawned on him that—if he wasn’t careful—he’d require more than a bath from her.  While he had few gallant tendencies, he wasn’t such an ass that he’d debauch her before her wedding. 

He jerked his gaze away and stared at the door, taking deep breaths, calming his ardor. 

“Will that be all?” she snapped once his feet were bare.

“No.  You’re here to wash me.  What part of that situation don’t you understand?”

He rose and his fingers went to his breeches again.  For a moment, she was frozen with indecision, galvanized by the placement of his hand, then she squealed with dismay and spun around.

“I hate you,” she seethed.

“We’ve already established that fact.”

“Get in the tub.”

“I intend to.”

He finished with his clothes, deliberately tossing them onto the floor beside her, making her jump as they landed.

“You’re skittish as a colt,” he said.

“I am a gently-bred female, who has no idea why you’re acting like this.  Why wouldn’t I be skittish?”

“Stop wincing and flinching.  I don’t like it.”

“If we wrote a list of all the things you don’t
like
,” she snottily retorted, “we could fill the north tower with parchment.”

He snorted and climbed into the water, sinking down into the heat, sighing as his weary bones relaxed.

He remembered no other life than soldiering.  By age five, growing up in Normandy, he’d been companion to Richard, his long-time friend and now his king.  Richard was reputed to be the greatest warrior in Christendom, but he never risked his reputation by sparring with Hugh.

Hugh was tougher and stronger, he took unfair advantage, he struck low blows.  Richard was too valiant, and he couldn’t win against an adversary as unscrupulous as Hugh.

As a result of the rough path he’d pursued at Richard’s behest, Hugh had been maimed and wounded more often than he could count.  He constantly ached with fatigue, and the relief he found in his hot baths was immeasurable.

His only other true solace came from a balm given to him by an Arab doctor.  Hugh knew the recipe and would have Anne mix it for him once they were wed.  He smiled, thinking of how much pleasure he would receive from having her rub it into all his sorest spots.

“Well?” she nagged from across the room, her back to him.  “What is it I must do for you?  Tell me so that I may do it and go.”

“Have you never bathed before?”

“Of course, I have.”

“I thought so.  You smell relatively clean.”

She whirled around.  “If you continue to insult me, I’m leaving.”

“I’ll chase you down the hall naked and bring you back.  Is that what you want?”

“You don’t scare me.”

“Don’t I?”

“No.”

“I should try harder.”  There was a stool next to the tub.  The maid had previously laid out supplies.  He gestured to them.  “Wash me.”

“How?”

“How would you suppose?  You pick up the soap and begin to scrub.”

“You don’t have any clothes on.”

“No, I don’t, but you’ll get accustomed to it.”  He flashed a wicked grin.  “Consider this your first wifely lesson.  You must learn to obey your husband.”

“I don’t wish to obey you.  And you will
never
be my husband.”

“We’ll see who turns out to be right.”

He dangled the cloth at her like a talisman.  She dithered and fumed, then walked over and grabbed it.  She dipped it and gave his shoulder the quickest swipe in history.  Then she threw it at him and stepped away.  He seized her wrist.

“Stop being a shrew,” he scolded.

“I’ll stop being a shrew when you stop being a bully.”

“Fair enough.”  He took the cloth, wrung it out, and offered it to her again.  “My battered body has been used hard and violently.  It is a great pleasure for me to rest in the water.  I would appreciate it if you would assist me.”

“Don’t be courteous,” she complained.  “It makes you seem almost human.  I might forget that you’re a fiend.”

Grudgingly, she accepted the cloth from him and sat on the stool.  She wet the soap and stroked it across his skin.  Once she started, she applied herself to the task, working quietly and efficiently.  He relaxed, enjoying the sensation of having a woman tend him, of having her soft fingers gliding over his torso.  

She cleaned one arm, then rounded the tub to the other.  He braced his feet on the rim so she could scour his feet and calves.  Through it all, she kept her gaze averted, afraid of what she might see if she glanced down.

“Have you ever seen a man undressed?” he asked.

“When would I have?”

“You may be a maiden, but you have a vixen’s heart.”

“I do not!”

“Perhaps you’ve been peeping in keyholes and observing what you oughtn’t.”

“Despite what you think of me, I’m not a voyeur, and I’m not interested in fleshly pursuits.  I’m going to be a nun, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

He was tempted to push himself to his knees, to give her a full view of his private parts, but he didn’t.

If he showed himself, she’d likely stomp away in disgust, and though he’d threatened to chase her down the hall, he never would.

It was a rare treat when a female coddled him—unless he was paying for her ministrations.  He wanted to close his eyes and purr like a contented cat, to drift and dream as she puttered away, but she’d already pulled a knife on him once.  If he dozed off, she might slit his throat before he was aware she was sneaking up on him.

She shoved at his shoulders, easing him forward so she could scrub his back.  She paused, and he could tell she was staring.  His body was covered with scars, marks of honor to indicate his many battles, and he supposed she was astonished to see them.  Why would she be?  Did she imagine all his warring had been fun and games?

More gently than he expected, she said, “Dunk your head.”

“Why?  So you can drown me?”

“If you dampen your hair, I’ll wash it for you.”

He plunged down, but immediately shot up, shaking droplets like a mongrel dog.

“Ah!” she fussed.  “Stop it.  You’re getting me all wet.”

“If I’ve damaged your clothes, you can take them off and set them to dry by the fire.”

“Take off my clothes?  Are you mad?”

“You’ll have to disrobe for me tomorrow night.”

“I will not, for we will not be wed, and I will not be in your bedchamber.  I will sleep in my own bed—fully attired in my nightclothes.”

He glanced over his shoulder.  She was so pretty, even frowning at him as she was.  Obviously, she was unnerved to learn that a woman would have to undress for her husband.  She truly was an innocent, and he suffered a pang of regret. 

Poor girl!  She would walk a long and torturous road, shackled to him.

She pushed at his chin, urging him to look away so she could finish with his hair.  She worked up a good lather and rubbed it into his scalp, then she had him rinse again.

He rose up, and he must have grown weary of teasing her for he didn’t shake himself, didn’t send water cascading around the room.  He riffled his fingers through his locks, guiding them off his forehead.

His bath was over, but to his surprise, she didn’t move away.  Instead, she laid her hand on the center of his back.  It was a tender gesture that tugged at something deep inside.

He’d had few affectionate encounters in his life.  He didn’t know what to make of it, didn’t know how to respond and felt oddly embarrassed.

“You were flogged,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

“By whom?”

“Which time?”

“Which
time? 
How often has it happened?”

“I’ve been flogged on numerous occasions.”

“Whatever for?”

“I’m certain you’ll be amazed to hear it, but I can be obstinate.  I don’t take orders very well.”

“You were whipped for being stubborn?”

“Yes.  The most visible scars occurred in a situation that was a bit more dire.  I was once captured by Arab slavers.”

“Slavers!”

“But they let me go.  I caused too much trouble, and they ran out of the energy necessary to keep me under control.”

His tale wasn’t anywhere near to the truth, but he never talked about what had transpired.  There were simply some experiences that couldn’t be shared.

She shifted her stool to sit at his side.  She picked up his arm and traced a finger down a long scar that traveled from elbow to wrist.

“How did you get this?”

“Sword fight.”

“You lost?”

“I’ve never lost.”

She studied the center of his palm.  “How about this one?”

“A knife throw.  It pinned me to a wall.”

She gasped.  “It went through your hand?”

“Yes.”

“Did it hurt?” she asked, then she chuckled.  “Don’t answer that.  Of course, it hurt.”

“Yes, it hurt very much.”

“The man who hurled it at you, did you make him sorry?”

“Yes, I made him very sorry.”  And very, very dead, but he didn’t tell her that.

She touched his chest, tracing a scar that lined the top of his breast.

“Another sword fight?” she inquired.

“Dagger.”  He drew her hand away, but didn’t drop it.  As if they were involved in an adolescent amour, he linked their fingers.

His bath, coupled with her tabulation of his past injuries, had created an intimacy that he would never have imagined they could generate. 

He hadn’t expected sympathy from her, and he certainly hadn’t expected any sense of closeness or familiarity.  At that moment, she seemed very kind and considerate, and her propensity for compassion disturbed him.

He didn’t want to see this side of her, didn’t want to be intrigued by her or wish he could get to know her better.  He’d never been friends with a woman, had never engaged in any relationships with them but for carnal ones, and those were typically raucous and rough and bought with coin.

Even his paramour, Charmaine, was paid for.  She would perform any lewd act he requested, but there was no joy in it.  There was just sex, and he’d never sought more than that from any female.

He had absolutely no intention of
liking
his wife, and he was alarmed by the prospect that he might come to relish her company.

“When you catalogue all my scars,” he said, “you make me feel so old.”

“How old are you.”

“Thirty years.”

“Why, you’re a veritable doddering grandfather.” 

“It often seems as if I am.”

She scrutinized his many prior wounds.  “I think you’ve had a hard life.”

“Some of it has been hard, but for the most part, it’s been satisfactory.”

“You’ve lived as a fighter.”  She appeared surprised by the discovery, as if she’d never realized that he had.

“Yes.”

“How will you adjust to being here—where nothing exciting ever happens?”

He’d wondered the same all the way to Morven.  The months of travel had given him plenty of time to ponder, and he’d convinced himself that he was ready. 

After the massacre in the Holy Land, after witnessing those Turkish heads being lopped off by Richard’s men—hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of them—he’d lost the fire he needed to continue on with Richard’s divine mission.

He’d told her that he’d never lost, but he had.  He’d lost faith in his king and his cause, in the Lord and His church.  He’d lost the rage necessary for battle, and he didn’t believe in anything anymore. 

Richard had very kindly let him slip away—with his reputation for ferocity still in place.  Hugh had never made it to Jerusalem, had never walked inside the walls.  He’d grown too disheartened, had returned to Normandy, then to England.

He welcomed the chance for peace and quiet, where the only skirmishing would be an occasional chase to track down cattle thieves sneaking across the border.  He would build a home for himself, would forget all the wars and fighting.  He would marry and have sons.  It was a wiser, saner path.

“You never took off your veil,” he said.  “My bath is ended, and I didn’t get to see your hair.”

“You’re not going to see it, either.”

“You won’t have pity on an old, bruised warrior?”

“No.”

“You’re too, too cruel, mademoiselle.”

He’d managed to coax a smile out of her. 

“Don’t use your fancy French words on me,” she chided.  “They won’t do you any good.”

“It can’t hurt to try.”

They were out of conversation, and the room was very quiet.  He gazed into her pretty green eyes, and it was the strangest thing, but he was overcome by the impression that he’d known her forever.  Suddenly, he felt as if he’d come to Morven specifically to be with her, that she’d been here all along, waiting for him to arrive.

It was a peculiar sensation, so strong that it seemed like a bewitchment and, needing to compose himself, he yanked away.

“Fetch me a towel,” he requested.