Prisoner of My Desire (12 page)

And when she came around to kneel by his side and began soaping his chest, and he saw what she had done, it did surprise him. She held her breath, wondering if she would now have her first slap from him. But when he did naught, she finally glanced at his face—and found him smiling, a genuine smile that restored his handsomeness. Her own expression mirrored her amazement, and that caused him to burst into laughter.

Rowena sat back on her heels, chagrined. The last thing she cared to do was
amuse
the monster. But she was not getting
anything
that
she
wanted today.

When he was merely smiling again, he said, “Come, finish ere the water grows cold.”

She did, but the washing of that large male body was pure torture, could be described as naught else. It made her heart pound to do it, her pulses race, and her pointed nipples became almost painful, prodding against the scratchy wool of her bliaut. Washing him was just too reminiscent of the times she had forced him to readiness, too similar to caressing him. And his manroot had grazed against her arm enough
times that she knew it was fair to bursting before she got around to washing it, too.

Her face was on fire. His was still strikingly handsome, for he was still grinning, amused by her discomfort. She did not even care about that now, because her face was not the only thing heated. She had the sudden, mad urge to crawl into that tub with him.

She leaped to her feet instead and began soaping his hair. But she did it too vigorously, with too much soap that drifted down into his eyes.

“Enough, wench,” he complained. “Rinse it now.”

Rowena reached for the bucket, relieved that she was almost finished—and remembered there was no hot water left. “You will have to wait—”

“Nay, do it now.”

“But—my lord, the water is—”

“
Now
, blast you!”

Her lips pinched together. Well, he asked for it, did he not? With a good deal of pleasure, she dumped the icy well water over his head.

She heard him suck in his breath, along with the water streaming down his face, which then caused him to choke and sputter. Her moment of pleasure turned to alarm. He was going to beat her now, even though ’twas not her fault. He did not leap from the tub, but she still backed slowly toward the door as he wiped the water from his face—until his hands lowered and those silver eyes pinned her to the spot.

“1—I tried to tell you there was no warm water left—my lord.”

“So you did. Were my eyes not stinging, I might have listened.”

She stiffened. “So you will blame me anyway? Had you asked, I could have told you I had never bathed anyone ere this, knew not the way of—”

“Be quiet!”

He was definitely annoyed, but it did not look as if he was going to get up and beat her, so she offered, “What will you wear now? I will fetch it.”

“There is no need. I have missed my own bed and intend to go straight to it.”

“Then—may I be excused—my lord?”

The hesitation she kept giving his address was deliberate, and the look he gave her said he knew it, which was possibly why he answered, “Nay, you will dry me first,” but that was more likely her punishment for the cold water. Only he stood up as he said it, and standing far away from him, she could not help but see too much of his body.

She started to shake her head, to refuse again to obey him, but he asked first, “Are you pleased with what your ministrations have wrought?”

“Nay!” she said emphatically.

“You always were before,” he reminded her.

His voice was too husky. God’s mercy, was he going to try to seduce her into wanting him? If so, ’twould likely only be to then dismiss her and send for his Celia. He had had his like for like. He could not want her again. Nay, all he wanted was more revenge.

“I—I like rape no more than you did,” she told
him miserably. “I have told you how sorry I am for what was done to you. When will your revenge end?”

“When it no longer infuriates me to look at you. When every offense has been satisfied. When I have killed your brother for my squire’s death. When I lose interest, wench, and not before…mayhap never.”

Rowena lay on her uncomfortable bed on the floor of the weaving room, wide awake. She had put her chemise back on before bedding down. The coarse wool might be scratchy, but the even rougher woolen pallet was much worse, and so the chemise offered her some little ease. She was getting no other kind, not from her thoughts, not from her belly—and not from the disquieting feelings Lord
Vengeance
had stirred up in her.

She did not understand those feelings. She did not want Warrick de Chaville. She could not want a man she hated. Yet many times these past days he
had
made her want him, despite her hate, and her body had remembered that tonight and responded, once again, not as she wished it to.

And he had been so angry after being reminded of all the reasons he wanted revenge
against her. He had contained it well, however. It had only been seen in his expressive eyes. But that was enough to make Rowena tremble. And he liked her fear. ’Twas almost enough to pacify him—almost.

Her feet had felt wooden when she approached him with the soft drying cloth. And his cold voice had not relieved her any.

“On your knees again,” he had ordered. “And take care, wench, that you do not miss a single drop of moisture. Do I catch a chill because of your negligence, I
will
beat you for it.”

He had said that as if his other threats of beatings had lacked substance. She doubted that, but was concerned only with
this
threat. And in self-defense, she forced herself to dry him slowly, to make sure she left no patch of skin even a little bit damp.

’Twas an experience she did not ever want to repeat. Her fearful trembling had turned to another kind. And he knew. He watched her like a hawk, so he could not help but see the effect he was having on her. Of course, the effect she was having on him was even more obvious, was staring her right in the face, and her fascination with his manroot returned. Against her will, she even caressed it as she dried it.

That was when he had snapped at her to get out. She had been surprised, but had not waited around for him to repeat the order. She had run out of there, and straight up the stairs near his solar that led to the women’s quarters, which included the sewing and weaving rooms.

The latter had been dark and empty then, for
the hour had still been early, the other women down in the hall. Rowena should have just calmed herself some, then gone back down to get something to eat. Instead she had fetched a torch from the corridor to light a few candles in the room, made her pallet, put her chemise back on, and gone to bed.

Getting to sleep was another matter. She was still awake when four of the weavers came in together, spoke quietly amongst themselves for a few minutes, then all drifted off to sleep without the least difficulty. She was still awake when the noisy rumbles from her belly joined the soft sounds of the others’ sleeping. She was still awake when the door opened again sometime after matins, and a huge shape stood there, silhouetted against the light behind it.

She knew who it was. She had even somehow suspected he would come, even while she had imagined him relieving himself with Celia. Unless—did he think his Celia was here? Was it his favorite he had come for, and not her?

But ’twas Rowena he faced when he said, “Come.”

She did not doubt now that he spoke to her, even though his face was no more than a black shadow. None of the other women stirred, but Rowena did not move either, except to shake her head.

He put out his hand and repeated that single word, and she was assailed with memories of his hands on her, of the incredible pleasure his body had recently forced on hers—and she
shook her head again, violently. She did
not
want that pleasure again, not from him.

He had more words to say to her denial, quietly, for only her ears. “You are having the same difficulty as I, or you would not be still awake. I for one do not mean to suffer it any longer. Come now, or I will carry you from here.”

She dreaded the scene that that would cause, which was guaranteed to wake the others, but still she did not move, so he added, “Your screams will not matter. Have you not realized that yet?”

She had a little more dignity than that. But since she
was
likely to scream if he touched her, she got up and followed him out of the room—but no further than the empty corridor. He walked on, fully expecting her to follow him. When he finally realized she was not behind him, he came back, though he was not angry—at least not yet. His brow was merely lifted in question.

“Do you require assistance?”

His nonchalance was infuriating. “I am not going with you,” she told him baldly, stiffly. “You had your revenge on me in that way. To force me again would not be like for like.”

“Did I say you would
only
have like for like, wench? After today you should know better. However I choose to exact retribution from you, so it will be done.” And then he shrugged, just before that humorless smile came to his lips. “But this has naught to do with that. Merely has it occurred to me that you truly are no more than a serf now, and so bound to Fulkhurst as any other serf. This means you can do naught with
out my permission, and like any other serf, you owe me my due. This also means that, as with any other
female
serf, if I decide to toss your skirts and avail myself of what lies between your legs at any time, in any place, that is my privilege. So if I tell you to get yourself to my bed, you will make haste to do so. Is this clear to you?”

“Aye, but—”

“Aye, what?”

“
My lord
,” she snapped.

“You are a slow learner. But then, little better can be expected of one so stupid as you.”

“I am
not
stupid—my lord.”

“Are you not? You do not think it was stupid of you to try and steal a child from me?”

“Not stupid,” she confessed, “just very wrong—but I had no choice.”

“No one held a knife at your throat,” he said harshly.

She had been warned not to offer excuses. He was now angry, and not like to listen to them even if she dared try to make him understand. But she could not let pass what he had kept her from saying after his damning recital of her present position, even if it made him angrier.

“You know as well as I that I am no serf,
Lord
Warrick. If I were, I would no doubt agree with all you have said, and might even feel differently about a—a summons from you in the middle of the night. But calling me serf does not make it so, does not change feelings, does not let me accept what you term ‘privilege.’”

“You are fond of telling me you had no choice. Think you that you have a choice in this?”

“Then you will have to chain me again,” she assured him, “for I will never come willing to your bed.”

He laughed cruelly at her confidence. “Those chains were for your benefit, wench, not mine. I would prefer it do you fight me, for I do not want your willingness. Nay, I want your hate, and your shame when you finally succumb. Mayhap I will even make you beg this time—for what you do not want.”

She paled at those words, though he did not see it in the dim light. But she could remember clearly the last time in his bed, when he had played with her and made her so wild, she had thought she would beg him to take her if she were not gagged. And that would be more humiliating than all the rest combined. But she had been chained then and unable to prevent all of those intimate caresses. Unchained, she would fight, so he would be unable to bring her to that pitch of need again—nay, he could not make her beg him. Never.

Armed with that conviction, she was about to make the foolish mistake of telling him it was impossible, which was the surest way to make him prove otherwise, when her belly broke the silence first with a loud rumble. Even
that
embarrassed her, particularly when his eyes dropped to stare at the offending noisemaker.

“When did you last eat?” he demanded.

“This morn.”

“Why? You had ample time—”

“Not before your bath, I did not, and after, I—I just wanted to hide and lick my wounds.”

“You will not blame me for a missed meal, wench, nor will you miss another. I care not if you starve yourself, but you will have to wait until you no longer have my child to succor in your belly. You have little enough meat on your bones now. Do you miss another meal, I will beat you.”

She was beginning to wonder about that threat. He sounded as if he meant it, looked as if he meant it, but he said it too frequently for it to generate much fear anymore.

“I have no intention of starving myself to escape your vengeance.”

“Good, because you will find there is no escape, not for you. Now come—”

“I am going back to my own bed.”

“You are coming with me—and did I not warn you about interrupting me?”

“You did, but since you do not subscribe to that rule yourself, I did not think you would want to be thought a hypocrite as well as a monster.”

That humorless smile was back. Actually, that smile was much more intimidating than his threats, because it had so far presaged most of his punishments.

He took a step forward. She took one back.

“You would not think to run from me, would you, wench?” he taunted.

Her chin went up. “Aye, why not? You mean to punish me anyway.”
And I cannot help but be quicker than you, you overgrown lout
.

Before he took the step that would bring him within arm’s reach of her, she bolted past him
toward the circular stairs at the end of the corridor. If she could just reach the hall, there would be countless places to hide, even among the servants sleeping there. But ’twas the storage area in the basement that she had in mind.

She raced down the stairs two at a time. She heard his curse behind her, heard the rasp of her own breath—heard the scrape of steel at the bottom of the steps. She came to a skidding halt. The man blocking her way held a candle in one hand, a sword in the other. He was no older than she, but at least a hand taller.

Rowena did not have a chance to figure out a way around that sword or the young man holding it. She was lifted off the floor from behind, and Warrick commanded, “Put that away, Bernard, and go and wake the cook.” But the moment the boy left to do as bidden, the hard voice turned softly menacing to whisper by her ear, “If you had not earned a punishment before, wench, you have now—but first I will feed you.”