Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love (8 page)

Izzy paced his chamber, too nervous to sit. The evening meal in the Great Hall had set him on edge. It was impossible to sit beside Farah and not want her. He had feigned great interest in Aubin’s many suggestions regarding the tenant farms, his thoughts wholly on the woman who sat at his side. Aubin’s ideas had merit, but he feared the man knew Izzy’s attention was not on the tenant farms. His father had told him it was obvious he burned for Farah. Aubin likely deemed him a rutting fool.

He unfastened the scabbard of his dagger and left off pacing to put the weapon on the sideboard. He splayed his fingers on the wood and put his weight on his hands. No pain! But
Dieu
they were ugly. Farah might not flinch at touching him, but how would she react if he touched her breasts or wove his fingers through the curls at her mons? Would she recoil if he slid a finger inside her?

What was he thinking? She was coming to his chamber to massage his hands, just as she had the previous evening, though he had noted on awakening that she had loosened his tunic and leggings. It was hard to believe he had fallen asleep in the presence of a desirable woman and had no memory of it. The last he remembered was a feeling of euphoric arousal. Had she drugged him? He had imbibed nothing prepared at her hand, other than the pain relieving elixir she had made for him. The aroma? Was there something in the oil she had used?

He heard her footfall outside his door and quickly opened it before she knocked. She gasped and took a step back, dropping her satchel. She knelt, breathing a sigh of relief that nothing was broken. Izzy went down on one knee beside her. “
Excusez-moi!
I startled you.”

He proffered his hand. “Let me help.”

She did not hesitate to accept his offer. “It was my fault. Clumsy!”

He rose and pulled her to her feet, his other hand supporting her elbow. They came face to face, hands clasped. Neither spoke. Fragrant aromas wafted from the satchel wedged between their bodies—the same as before, yet something more. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. He had to kiss her. “You intoxicate me, Farah. You have me under your spell.”

She shuddered and broke away, hurrying over to the sideboard. She took her preparations from the satchel and lit the infuser with trembling hands. “I do not weave spells, Izzy. I seek only to help your body lose some of its tension.”

He could suggest a way to ease a lot of his tension, but kept silent. She had come to help him and his thoughts were filled with his desire to plunge his aching shaft into her wet heat. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes, succumbing once again to the aroma of the fragrant oil.

“Please take off your shirt.”

Had he dreamt it? He opened his eyes. Farah stood at the side of the bed, an alabaster jar in her hands. “Take off my shirt?” he parroted.

Farah smiled, but seemed tense. “I have brought a special salve, made from spikenard. It is the precious ointment Mary used to anoint Our Lord. I am going to massage your body.”

Izzy feared he might burst into flames. He sat up on the edge of the bed and pulled his shirt over his head.

Despite his affliction, he had kept his body fit and ready for battle, spending many hours a day in training fields. Normandie was a perilous place for those not prepared for its dangers. Though King Henry had imprisoned his rival, his own brother, Robert Curthose, there were still those who sought to oust him from his ducal rule over Normandie. And the Angevins to the south were an ever-present danger.

Farah quickly looked away when he bared his chest, but not before he caught the gleam of arousal in her eyes. Did she feel something for him? He threw the shirt to the floor. She stooped to pick it up, but he grasped her wrist, forcing her to look at him. “Leave it!”

She nodded and touched her hand to his shoulder. “Lay back.”

The warmth of her magic touch filled him with an intense longing. He obeyed her command, fearing the rock-hard erection straining against the confines of his leggings would definitely betray him without the long shirt to cover it.

~~~

Sweat trickled down Farah’s spine as she scooped the cool spikenard ointment out of the alabaster jar. Her eyes were fixed on the chiseled muscles of Izzy’s broad chest. She feared her mouth had fallen open when the powerful bands of muscle knotted across his broad shoulders as he raised his arms to remove his shirt. The saffron hue of the garment heightened the glow of his weather-bronzed skin.

She inhaled sharply, imagining him stripped to the waist in the training fields, fighting his pain as much as his opponent. It was one thing to train his father’s men. How much more difficult it must be for him now. He strove to assert his command over men who had sworn allegiance to another lord, a baron on the opposite, losing, side in the recent war with King Henry. Perhaps if he had a lighter sword, like her
shamshir
—

She
could
lend it to him. If he found it to his liking, the Hospitallers might surely procure one for him? Would the gesture offend?

She wanted to trace her fingers along the line of dark hair that ran down the centre of his taut belly. She had used massage as a therapy for many of the broken soldiers brought to the Jerusalem hospice, but now stood transfixed, her anointed hands poised in mid-air.

Izzy lazily opened one eye. “Is something wrong?” he rasped.

She swallowed hard. “No. It’s the salve. It’s cold. I didn’t want to startle you.”

He closed his eye and she exhaled, unaware she had been holding her breath. If he looked at her again while she was touching him, he would see her desire. “Please turn over. I’ll massage your back first. Tuck your hair out of the way.”

He shrugged and obeyed, without opening his eyes.

She took a deep breath and placed her hands at the base of his neck. He shivered. “You’re right. It is cold. But your hands are warm.”

Warm? She was burning alive.

Slowly, she glided her hands down his length to the small of his back with long, flowing strokes, then from his waist to his neck, pressing her fingertips lightly into his flesh. He groaned deep in his throat. Her nipples grew hard.

With slow strokes, she kneaded the tense muscles of his neck, working out towards his shoulders. He was a beautifully formed man. Desire arrowed into her most intimate place and settled in her core. Gradually she increased the pressure. “Good,” he murmured. “Feels—good.”

If the fragrant oil and the ointment did their work, he would soon be asleep. Spikenard was prized for its ability to overcome sleeplessness, and if he slept she might rein in her emotions.

But it was the spikenard’s property to release deep seated grief and old pain that had led her to choose it. The unusual aroma of the ointment filled her nostrils, relaxing her. Perhaps in helping him she might be freed of her own troubles.

She pressed her knuckles into the edge of his shoulder blade. He moved his head slowly and looked at her, his eyes glazed. A lazy, contented smile lit his face. Her heart turned over. Her knees trembled. She braced her thighs against the side of the bed, increasing the pressure as she switched to the other shoulder blade.

Farah knew what pain was. But placing her hands on Izzy’s hips was a different torment. She longed to edge her fingers into the waist of his leggings and slide her hands down to his cheeks. Instead she stroked from hips to shoulders, shaking as tingles flitted along her skin.

His body gleamed. He had fallen asleep, one arm dangling off the edge of the bed. She sank to her knees, exhausted. She took his hand and pressed it to the scar. Wiping away a tear trickling down her cheek, she kissed his hand, then placed it on her breast.

~~~

Izzy once again blinked open his eyes to bright sunlight, confused. Where was he? Why was he lying on his stomach? Enticing aromas hung in the air. Slowly the events of the previous evening drifted back into his wits. There was no pain in his hands, but the one dangling off the bed held something soft and warm and heavy. It felt like—

He sidled over carefully to look down. Farah had fallen asleep, slumped against the side of the bed. His hand cupped her breast.

His manhood turned to granite. The urge to thrust his hips was overwhelming, but he must not move. She might waken and the moment would be lost. Her face in repose was stunningly beautiful, a Spanish madonna. How had his hand come to rest against her? What would she do if she woke and cast her eyes on his grotesque fingers at her breast?

Her nipple suddenly puckered the fabric of her garment, intensifying his torment. She licked her lips, shifting her body slightly. He lost control of his hips as they thrust into the mattress. Sweat broke out on his forehead and he turned his face into the coverlet. He feared he might spill in his leggings. He tried unsuccessfully to steady his breathing.

When he looked back at her, she was staring at him with intense longing. Her face was flushed and he felt the warmth travel to the breast he held. He opened his mouth, “I—”

Farah covered his hand and touched her forefinger to his lips. He wanted to suck it into his mouth, but she struggled to her feet, handed him his shirt, smiled wistfully and left the chamber.

Izzy groaned, shoved down his leggings, and found release at his own hand.

Farah waited nervously in the Still Room. It was hard to believe she too had succumbed to the power of the spikenard. Her body felt stiff from sleeping in an unnatural position, but the deep sleep had invigorated her.

She would never forget the contentment that had swept over her at the warmth of Izzy’s hand on her breast. His hand belonged there. She had come close to surrendering to the desire in his intense blue eyes. The temptation to climb onto his bed and let him run his hands over her body had been fierce.

Clutching the mortar in one hand, she put the pestle down on the workbench and touched her aching mons. What if his fingers—

She thrust back her head, blinking away a tear, and pressed harder. Nothing could come of their relationship, but the need she felt for the tall Norman threatened to consume her. Berthold had convinced her she was destined to return to her rightful place in Aragón, though the idea appealed less and less. She would be a stranger there, an unwelcome bastard princess.

She glanced over to the
shamshir
on the bench. She still had time to change her mind. Perhaps the idea was foolish? If she pressed a little harder—

Her heart leapt into her throat when she heard movement at the door behind her. She knew who it was. Had he seen what she was doing with her hand? She felt her face redden. This man wreaked havoc with her carefully controlled emotions. Men had always held power over her. Only one had proven trustworthy, and he was dead.

Shivers stole up her spine as she fumbled to retrieve the pestle, turning to face him. He held her satchel to his chest. The look of uncertainty on his face tore at her heart. She decided the less said about the previous night, the better. “Good morning!” she breezed. “How do you feel?”

“Er—good,” he replied. “You forgot your belongings when you left.”

She put down the mortar and pestle, wiped her hands on her tabard, and accepted the satchel from him. She clutched it to her breast, not sure what to say. “
Gracias
. My thoughts were elsewhere when I left.”

She had thanked him in Spanish!

“Excusez-moi!
It means
merci—
in Spanish,” she babbled, digging her clipped nails into the leather. “I haven’t spoken my mother’s language in a long—”

Izzy shifted his weight and raked a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but at her. After long moments of silence, he coughed and said, “Tell me about the salve you use. Spikenard you called it?”

Grateful for small talk, she replied, “The nard plant produces bulbous roots. The oil is distilled from them after they are ground up.”

He rubbed a knuckle along his chin. “Nard?”

“More commonly known as spikenard. Or some call it muskroot.”

“Interesting. I—”

Suddenly, his eyes lit upon the sword. He hastened towards it like a drowning man reaching for a lifeline. “Your sword. It intrigues me. Tell me about it. May I touch it?”

Relief flooded her. Here was the opportunity. “Of course.”

~~~

Excitement welled up in Izzy’s throat, his discomfort forgotten. Farah’s weapon had fascinated him from the moment he set eyes on it. He picked up the scabbard reverently and gripped the hilt. It was made for his hand. Slowly he drew the blade from its sheath and turned it to examine the workmanship. It was lighter than he had imagined and beautifully patterned. It had only one sharpened edge that probably needed to be honed, but he sensed that one swift stroke could cleave a man’s belly in two. How had she balanced this lethal blade on her head?

Power surged through his warrior blood. He braced his legs and slashed a wide X with the weapon, back and forth, over and over. There was barely a sound as the thin blade sliced the air. He turned it slightly and swiped a backhanded stroke. It was easy to see how the point could skewer an opponent with a flick of the wrist. If only he had such a weapon.

“Where did you get this?” he asked breathlessly.

She put her hand to her face. “It belonged to ad-Daula. It’s called a
shamshir
.”

The rasp in her voice told him that this was the weapon that had scarred her. His gut roiled. Suddenly it felt heavy in his hands. He made to put it down, but she reached forward and stopped him. “No, Izzy, please. Georges gave it to me as a trophy. I bear its signature on my face, but the dance has given it new life. I want you to use it.”

If only ad-Daula were present in the Still Room. He would slice off the important parts of the monster’s body, then run him through. He hefted the sword again. “It’s incredible. How can I get such a blade?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps you might ask Sir Berthold when he returns. They are common in the Holy Land. You can use mine if you wish, until I leave.”

Dread settled in his belly. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

She sighed. “I wish it too.”

They looked at each other for long moments. Why not ask her to stay? He was not a whole man, though a sword such as this would remedy some of his problems. But he had nothing to offer the daughter of a king. He was only the Master of a gloomy castle with a dark history. He had no land of his own, yet.

He sheathed the
shamshir
. “
Merci
, Farah. I will take good care of it.”

She showed him how to fasten the scabbard so the weapon hung properly. She was trembling and tears welled in her eyes. It must be difficult for her to relinquish the
shamshir
to him, if only for a brief time.

He stepped back for her inspection. She nodded her approval. “Perfect,” she whispered, fluttering her black lashes.

“I’m off to the training yard.” He hurried away before his erection tore apart the seams of his leggings.

~~~

Other than being in a constant state of arousal whenever Farah was near him, Izzy had to admit he felt much better in body and soul than he had for many a year.

His affliction flared less frequently, thanks he was sure to Farah’s therapy. He had more energy and suffered fewer bouts of the mild fever and fatigue that often accompanied a worsening of his affliction.

She insisted he take long walks, pointing out that while practice in the training fields was exercise, it was hard on his body.

He fell into the habit of walking to and from the village outside the curtain wall of the castle. The villagers, wary at first, greeted him when they became accustomed to seeing him pass by their cottages. He suspected many of them had never set eyes on the reclusive François de Giroux, and the fanatical Pierre could not have been an easy overlord.

Sometimes Farah accompanied him. She too seemed happier, though her eyes clouded when mention was made of her departure. She took advantage of their walks together to question him closely about his affliction.

He told her of the high fever, shaking and chills he had suffered around the time of his twentieth birthday, and of the pink rash that had covered his body.

“That was likely the start of it,” she observed. “Did the attacks begin after that?”

“
Oui
,” he confirmed. He had never associated the onset of his problems with the fever, but now he understood the connection. No-one, not even his dear mother, had probed as deeply into his illness. Hope lost long ago revived.

The time for the Knights to return came and went with no sign of them. Izzy hoped they never came back.

Farah ordered the Cook to serve salmon at least three times a week, citing the recommendations of Islamic physicians. Men were dispatched to the river. She explained that salmon was an oily fish and therefore the best, since they were too far from the ocean to catch mackerel and herring.

She gave him special white granules to dissolve in his bathwater, instructing him to soak until the water cooled. It was the first time in his life he had enjoyed taking a bath.

She fashioned a special brace for his hands, inserting into his leather gloves thin strips of oak, shaped by the castle’s carpenter to her specifications.

Overcoming his initial refusal, she convinced him to swim every day in the nearby lake, again citing the need for gentle exercise. He only wished she would join him in the bracing water. Since that was unlikely, he commanded the castle’s brigade of men-at-arms to take up the same practice.

After incredulous objections, sulks and glares, they too came to look forward to the daily swim, and boisterous antics became the norm. It was the first time he had seen many of them do anything other than scowl since his arrival. He became aware that a smile came more readily to his own face.

The improved state of his hands made it possible for him to practice with Farah’s sword, and he quickly became skillful in its use. He was rarely seen without the weapon bouncing on his hip in its leather scabbard. The men-at-arms of Giroux Castle, dispirited and decimated after their defeat at Tinchebray, developed a healthy respect for the weapon and its wielder. A new atmosphere of enthusiasm gradually pervaded the training fields. Several warriors cautiously intimated they would like to try out the unusual sword, but Izzy adamantly refused to allow it out of his possession.