Sharon Schulze (17 page)

Clean and fed, she waited.

For Nicholas to return?

After days in his company she should be heartily sick of him, but she missed him. Life seemed flat without him
there. He provided the spark to her temper, intensifying her reactions, her emotions, bringing to life feelings she’d believed long dead.

His touch didn’t bring Madog’s mauling to mind, but she had no idea how far she could go without rekindling the horrible memories.

Yet Nicholas had already carried her deeper into passion than she’d ever believed it possible for her to go. In the past, she’d found the mere thought of a man’s touch repugnant.

Nicholas did not repulse her…in any way.

Perhaps he could erase the memories of the past, replace the shadows with the bright glow of passion. Not that it could ever lead to anything, she reminded herself.

A knock on the door jolted her. “Come,” she called, staring into the fire.

The solid tread of boots on the floor told her this wasn’t Tildy bringing her clothes. Tugging the linen towel higher over her breasts, Catrin shifted in the chair until she could see the door.

Nicholas closed the door quietly and crossed the room. He, too, had bathed; the shirt and chausses he wore, while threadbare, were clean. His hair was combed away from his face, but a damp curl drooped over his brow. Her fingers itched to smooth it back.

His violet eyes skimmed over her, hesitating a moment where the damp linen clung to her bosom before coming to rest on her face. She’d been idly brushing her hair when he came in. Kneeling beside the chair, he took the brush from her unresisting fingers and drew it through her hair.

She felt as though she were caught in a dream, held there by the passion burning in Nicholas’s eyes. Each leisurely stroke of the brush sent a ripple of sensation from her scalp to the soles of her feet. He touched her so gently
she scarcely noticed when he began to trace the fingers of his other hand over her neck and shoulders.

All she noticed was the sensations he aroused.

Laying the hairbrush aside, he gathered her hair in one hand and draped it over her shoulder, allowing the long tresses to pool in her lap. His hands gentle, he turned her slightly in the chair so that he was behind her. He skimmed his lips over the back of her neck, carefully avoiding the bandage, then nipped lightly on her earlobe.

Shivers coursed over her skin, sensitizing her flesh. Closing her eyes, Catrin let herself wallow in Nicholas’s touch.

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice causing an insidious warmth to grow within her. He continued to stroke her neck, his fingers dipping lower with each caress until they slipped beneath the edge of the linen.

I should tell him to stop,
she thought, but it felt so wonderful she couldn’t force the words past her throat Her breasts seemed swollen; she wished his hand would dip lower still and ease the throbbing ache.

“Nicholas,” she murmured, reaching behind her to sink her fingers into his hair.

He slipped around the chair to face her. “What do you want? Shall I kiss you?” Bending his head, he glided his tongue along the seam of her lips, nudging them open to allow him entrance.

His kiss was an act of possession, his tongue enticing her to follow his lead. All the while his hands maintained their teasing caresses, until she yearned for more.

She moaned when he released her lips, blindly reaching out for him. “Open your eyes, Catrin.” She obeyed his low-voiced command, staring in wonder at his flushed face and the intensity of his gaze. He took her hand and placed it atop his. “Show me what you want. Shall I do
this?” He drew his fingertips over her collarbone until they came to rest in the shadowed cleft between her breasts. “Or this?”

Catrin moaned as he dragged his lips over her aching nipples, nibbling at them through the cloth. “You taste so sweet,” he said, reaching for the top of the material. “Let me—”

The sudden pounding at the door was like an icy torrent of water pouring over their heads.

“C
hrist’s bones!” Nicholas rested his head on Catrin’s shoulder. Heaving a weary sigh, he looked up and shouted, “Go away.”

The pounding continued. Cursing beneath his breath, he disengaged himself from Catrin’s arms and stomped across the room.

He wrenched the door open, causing the birdlike old crone hammering away on the splintering panels to tumble into the room. He caught her before she fell, the deed earning him a glare as he set her back on her feet.

He hadn’t seen her among the motley band of servants and retainers assembled in the hall earlier.

Reaching up—she stood no higher than the middle of his chest—she grabbed his ears in a surprisingly hard grip and tugged. “Lean down here, you fool, where I can see you,” she said, her voice squeaking like a rusty hinge.

With a frown, he obliged. She made him feel like a child about to receive a scold. But perhaps if he did as she demanded she’d release him.

As soon as he stooped nearer her level she let go of his ears, giving a hard tug on the hair at his nape before she moved her gnarled fingers away. Rheumy blue eyes examined
him, her gaze coming to rest on his face. “Aye, you’ve the look of him,” she said, nodding once. “Have you his disposition, too?”

“Who are you talking about, old woman?” he asked, in no mood to be poked at and badgered. He straightened and glared down at her.

“Don’t you remember me, milord?” She shook her finger at him. “I remember you. Pretty little lordling you were, trailing along after that slut your father ran off with. ’Twas a wonder your uncle didn’t die on the spot from the hate-filled looks you gave him.”

Nicholas felt all the old anger resurface at her words, kindling the white-hot rage that tainted his memories of his mother. He could hardly beat an old woman, no matter how much she irritated him.

But he didn’t have to listen to her impudence, either. “Watch your tongue, you old besom. I’ll not have my mother insulted. Especially under my own roof.”

“It’s no insult to speak the truth, boy. Didn’t your father teach you that?” She bent to pick up the bundle she’d dropped when she fell into the room. “Like as not he didn’t,” she added, her voice muffled as she gathered the armful of material close to her chest. “Lord Robert wouldn’t have recognized the truth if it came up and bit him on the backside.”

Folding his arms, Nicholas leaned back against the door frame, scowling when he saw the look of interest on Catrin’s face. But the sight of her in such delightful disarray swiftly distracted him. Although she’d tugged the linen high around her neck, hiding the glorious skin he’d caressed such a short time earlier, her hair flowed in a tousled ebony cascade over her shoulder, framing her beauty. And her lips were rosy and full, reminding him of how soft they’d been beneath his.

“State your business and begone,” he growled without looking at the old woman. Instead he kept his gaze fixed on Catrin, enjoying the flush sweeping up her throat and over her face.

“Aye, you’re like your father,” the crone said, chuckling. She poked him in the gut with her elbow, drawing his attention from Catrin. “An eye for the ladies, and impatient with it.”

That description fit his father, at least after his mother’s death. “You knew my father well?” he asked, trying for a tone of casual interest.

“So you really don’t remember me. Ah, well, you were a very angry little boy. Besides, too much happened when you came here for you to take any notice of me.” She heaved a gusty sigh. “I was your father’s nurse,” she said with pride. “Anna’s my name. I took care of Lord Robert from the moment the midwife swaddled him until he took up with that slut.”

“You try my patience, woman,” he snarled, thinking longingly of tossing her out of the room.

“Enough, milord. Peace,” she said. She backed away, hands raised in supplication. “Old habits die hard.”

“What the hell do you want from me?” he asked. He pushed off from the door frame and moved to stand by the fire. “I don’t care to talk about the past. And I’m sure you could better occupy yourself elsewhere.”

“Is this how you treat your elders, boy? I came here to care for your lady.” She held her bundle in front of her like a shield. “I brought my balms and potions. Tildy said she carries some nasty wounds on her.”

Scowling, Nicholas watched as Anna placed the parcel on the bed and spread open the fabric to reveal a variety of smaller bundles and packets. Squinting mightily, her faded eyes nearly lost within her wrinkled face, she turned
to scrutinize Catrin as thoroughly as she’d examined him, though he’d wager she found Catrin more to her liking.

Her sunken mouth twisted into a smile of sorts as she shuffled over to Catrin’s chair. “You’re a pretty one,” she said. “By your leave, milady.” She brushed Catrin’s hair aside and pushed the linen towel down to expose the wounds.

Humming absently, Anna unwrapped the bandages, her hands far gentler than when she’d touched him. “Bring the candles closer,” she ordered, her attention on Catrin’s back.

Nicholas positioned the candles beside Catrin, as Anna directed. She inspected the wounds thoroughly, frowning as she traced her fingertip along several faint, reddish streaks. She prodded gently at the stitches. “Who set these?”

“I did,” Nicholas said, nearly shuddering in remembrance. It wasn’t an experience he’d care to repeat—ever. “There were three arrows. I cut them out. One was embedded to the barbs. But I didn’t have much to work with, and the wounds mortified.”

Catrin winced when Anna continued to probe the area. Her face had paled considerably by the time Anna stopped and touched her soothingly on the shoulder.

Turning to Nicholas, she said, “You did well, boy. The fact that she’s still alive attests to that.” Brushing past him, Anna went to the bed and picked through her supplies.

“What about the fever?” Nicholas asked. He placed the branch of candles on a table near Catrin’s chair. The woman seemed to know what she was doing. Perhaps she had a tonic for the sickness in her assortment of cures. “It comes and goes.”

Picking up a packet, Anna crumbled the contents into
a goblet and poured wine from the ewer beside the bed. “There’s infection inside the wound. Likely that’s the cause of the fever. I’ll have to drain it. I’ll heal your lady in no time, milord.”

“I’m not his lady,” Catrin said. “I’m only—” She looked over her shoulder at him, confusion shadowing her eyes. “I don’t know.”

Anna snorted. “You seemed well acquainted when I came in here.”

“We know each other only because I’m kin to Lord Nicholas’s ward, Gillian,” Catrin said, raising her chin. He recognized her stubborn, combative expression—and waited for the next volley. “In truth, we loathe each other.”

Anna hooted at that, pounding her fist on the mattress. Catrin undoubtedly possessed a gift for understatement. He wouldn’t call what they’d been doing before Anna interrupted them loathing, he thought, suppressing the remembered pleasure before his body could react.

Far from it.

A few moments more and Catrin would have been stretched out naked beside him on the bed, if he’d had his way.

“It’s true,” Catrin said. “Ask him how he got that bruise on his face.” Her gaze darted toward Nicholas, then away when a chuckle, swiftly suppressed, escaped his lips.

Catrin glanced at him again and scowled when he shrugged and remained silent. “I punched him in the face.”

Anna looked at him. He nodded, touching the faint bruise beneath his eye. “Aye, she did.” His voice shook with laughter. “But she didn’t stay angry long,” he added.

Anna squinted at Catrin, then seemed to come to a decision. “Whether ye be enemies or lovers, it matters not to me. ’Tis something you must sort out yourselves. But you can trust me to heal your hurts.” She handed Catrin the goblet. “Drink this, milady. ’Tis a mixture to cure your fever and ease your pain.” She searched through her belongings until she found a tiny pot. “Shall I lance the wound now, or come back later?”

Catrin swallowed and closed her eyes briefly before she answered. “You might as well do it now. Waiting will only make it worse. I’d rather get it over with than worry about it.”

Anna nodded. “’Tis a wise decision, milady. Better to face the pain now than let it fester and grow.”

She slipped a tiny, needle-sharp knife from her belt and thrust it into the coals. “Care to help, milord?” she asked, her gaze resting on his face.

He would swear she knew how much the idea disturbed him. “Why not?” he replied, taking up the candles again and moving closer to Catrin.

“I’ll not lie to you, milady. ’Twill hurt like the very devil. But mind you sit very still. I don’t wish to cause you more harm, nor to mar your pretty skin. Lord Nicholas could hold your arms, if you wish.”

Catrin’s head snapped up, her eyes wary, reminding him of a cornered animal. He banged the candles down so hard that several blew out. “She doesn’t need me to hold her.”

He didn’t want to remind her of how he’d bound her the last time.

Or remind her of when she was raped. There was still much about the incident that he didn’t know. Once this ordeal was over, he intended to talk to her again.

He had no desire to distress her by doing anything that might bring back memories of the assault.

“As you wish,” Anna said.

Willing his hands to steadiness, he lit the candles he’d extinguished. Anna brushed by him and retrieved her dagger from the fireplace.

Squinting at the glowing tip, she nodded her satisfaction. “You’d best put your knife in the coals, too, milord. I might need it to seal the wound once I’m done.”

Nicholas did as she asked, hoping as he buried the blade in the embers that they wouldn’t have to use it. He’d borne worse himself without a qualm, but the thought of pressing the heated metal against Catrin’s soft ivory flesh sickened him.

Catrin shifted in the chair, turning to give Anna better access to her back. Anna busied herself setting out her supplies on the table, humming a sprightly air as she worked.

“Stop that infernal noise,” he snarled. How could the old woman go so blithely about her business, knowing she would cause pain?

Anna stopped humming and turned toward him. “Hold the candles steady, milord.” Taking up her knife, she asked, “Are you ready?”

Nodding once, Catrin tightened both hands about the arm of the chair and Anna began her task.

Nicholas forced himself to watch as Anna lanced the abscesses and allowed them to drain. If Catrin could endure it, he could do no less. Though she couldn’t hide her pain, she made no sound, simply closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the chair until her nails bit into the wood.

Although it seemed to take forever before Anna finished, the candles had scarcely burned down. “I won’t
need your knife,” she told him as she smeared salve from the clay pot over the wounds.

He set the candles down more gently this time. Snatching up a cloth, he knelt beside Catrin and dabbed at the sweat beaded upon her face. She sat slumped over the arm of the chair, resting her forehead on her arms for a moment, then straightened as Anna wound fresh bandages around the cuts.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine.” Her voice shook slightly, but already the color had begun to return to her cheeks. He handed her the goblet, watching as she drained it.

Anna bustled about, gathering her belongings together. “You’ll do fine now, milady.” She paused to pat Catrin’s arm. “I’ll return in the morning to have a look at you. Mind you let her rest, milord,” she added as she limped out of the room.

“What an odd woman,” Catrin said after he closed the door behind Anna. “She’s blunt, but very kind.”

“Are you certain you’re well?”

“Yes. The salve is very soothing. It’s dulled the pain so I scarcely feel it. Or perhaps ’tis the herbs she put in the wine. I feel surprisingly well.”

Nicholas tended the fire, pulling his dagger from the coals with a brief prayer of thanks that they hadn’t needed it. Leaning his forearm on the mantel, he stared down into the flames.

What did he find there, she wondered. The past? It wasn’t something pleasant, for she could see the hurt etched on his face, the shadows emphasized by the flickering firelight. “Are you sorry we came here?”

So much time passed, she wondered whether he’d heard her. Finally he raised his head and pushed away from the
mantel. “No, I’m not sorry.” He dragged a stool beside her chair and sat down.

“It’s a shame Ashby fell into such disrepair.” She tugged the linen higher about her throat when she felt Nicholas’s gaze settle there. “But you’ll make it right again. I’m sure of it.”

He stared down at his hands, clasped loosely about one upraised knee, then looked up suddenly. “Do you know what troubles me the most?” he asked. She shook her head. “’Tis the fact that I permitted Ashby to get this way. It’s just a place, a building, a thing—and I feared it. It has no life, no power. It cannot harm me unless I allow it. Yet for all these years Ashby has personified my deepest fears.”

“I don’t understand.” She leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm.

He laid his hand atop hers, his fingers tightening almost to the point of pain. She grimaced, and he eased his grip, threading his fingers with hers. “My father was the second-born, and to his father and his older brother, Gerald, he was nothing. So one day he ran off with the castle whore.”

Although Catrin tried to hide her shock, he must have noticed it. “Aye, what Anna said was true. My mother was a Welshwoman who came to Ashby looking for work when most of her village was lost to sickness. Because she was Welsh, she was distrusted by most. The only work she found was on her back.” He closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them they were filled with pain. “But my father loved her until the day she died. They ran off to France and he joined a band of mercenaries.”

“Then how did you come to inherit Ashby?” Catrin asked, confused. That wasn’t precisely what she wanted
to know, but she couldn’t think of a delicate way to phrase the question.

She needn’t have worried; Nicholas understood. “Oh, I’m the legitimate issue of a proper marriage, I assure you,” he said with a mirthless laugh. “My parents wed as soon as they were beyond my grandfather’s reach. And my father made certain his father knew it. But Uncle Gerald never managed to produce a child that lived past its first year. Though God knows, he tried. It became an obsession with him.” His grip on her fingers relaxed. “How he must have hated knowing everything he had would go to me.”