The Barbarian (7 page)

"You are not—"

"I care to
hear no more of your opinions. Men act for the good of all, including women.
Stick to tapestries and raising babies. Leave the business of the world to
men."

It was no more or
less than she expected from this creature. At least he had let her say her
piece, even if her opinion was summarily dismissed the very moment she was done
expressing it. This was the way of life. She could not help taking her stance
against it, once in a while. Not that it ever got her anywhere.

"Why do you
look at me in that manner?" the brute demanded. "You have more
opinions bursting to be heard? Remember, I allowed you only one chance and it
is already used up."

"I had barely
begun to list the faults of men."

He chuckled,
pouring more wine into his cup. "One day, mayhap, should entertainment be
in short supply and no jester at hand, I might ask you to tell me more."

She saw the wine
had put him in a better mood, loosened his tongue. His broad shoulders relaxed
against the back of his chair and his eyes grew warmer. When she looked at his
mouth she remembered what he did to her earlier in the forest. Would he do that
again, she wondered. Looking at her reflection in the wine, Ami mutely chided
herself for succumbing to sinful desires. At least she had got a little
vengeance when she bit his leg.

"Since we
both need something out of this marriage," he was saying, "I think we
can set aside our differences to make the ordeal as painless as possible."

"Painless?"

"You stick to
womanly domain—the cookhouse, the herb garden and the bedchamber. Don't
interfere in my matters of the estate. Speak to me with respect before others
and—"

"Pardon me,
but I have no desire to interfere in your
matters
,"
she shot him a scornful look, "whatever they might be. You are quite
safe."

"And don't
interrupt me when I'm speaking, or I'll send you back from whence you came.
Like the other men who returned you to your uncle." He paused, waiting as
if he expected argument, welcomed it even, so he had the excuse to raise his
voice again and put her in her place.

Ami tapped her
fingertips around the bowl of her cup. Her teeth hurt from being ground
together. She did not want to go back to her uncle. She couldn't face it.
Certainly, she put on a marble countenance when she had to, but the thought of
going back again tore at her insides suddenly with vicious claws. She saw her
cousins laughing slyly at her and then changing their expressions to pity. She
saw her uncle, ready to beat her with his belt, assuming the fault to be all
hers again. Not that he needed much excuse. He would beat her on her back,
where the marks could be hidden.

For more than ten
years she'd suffered as the scapegoat for every misfortune that befell Giles Du
Barry. He took his anger out on her instead of his daughters. In turn, Ami the
Unbreakable took her vengeance out on other men who strayed into her path.

Now came this man.
She hadn't quite figured him out yet. At times he seemed cunning, as if he knew
exactly what to say to irritate her. To get some reaction from her. At other
times he stumbled boyishly and compensated for it by being deliberately crude
in speech and manner.
 
Ami had met men of
both sorts before, but never known them in one body. One very well-hewn body.
Then there was the strange kindness of feeding her while she was imprisoned,
and the provision of a woolen horse blanket for her comfort. Those gestures
contrasted starkly with his barbarian conduct.

"You look at
me as if I am a riddle, my Lady Amias. What would you like to ask me?" By
the manner in which he spoke, anyone might think he granted her a great favor
simply by letting her question him.

"I don't
suppose you can read or write?" she demanded of the big dolt sprawled in
the chair beside her.

"Not a
word," he assured her proudly. "I have a man to do that for me."

"So you have
no learning and no civilized manners either. Do you have a man to provide those
too?"

He scratched his
rough chin. "That's what you're here for, isn't it, woman? Bring a bit of
fancy to the manor." A loud snort of dour amusement shot out of him.
"Unless, of course, you want to go home. Mayhap you're not strong enough
to live here. My counsel and I discussed the matter before you came. We know
most women are too weak to manage the rough life we lead out here," his
eyes darkened and he lowered his voice to a deep, grave tone of caution,
"on the moor. In fact, there's a ten to one wager that you'll leave."

Unimpressed, she
replied, "I've lived in a great many places. I am adaptable." The
moor, from what she'd seen of it, was a bleak, cheerless, windswept place.

It suited her.

"You don't
look ... adaptable." He swept her with a doubtful gaze. With her fine gown
and clean skin she must stick out like a sore thumb. But that was on the
outside. He had no idea what lurked beneath the cool, calm exterior.

Rebellion—never
long quelled in her belly—rose up again. No, she would not go back. Not this
time.

"I am not
afraid of you, or your moor," she replied finally. She too was considered
uninhabitable by many. It was a perfect place for her, she thought. "They
call me Ami the Unbreakable."

He nodded, his
lips playing with a wry smile. "So from now on you will do as you're told,
stay where you're put and every time you open your mouth it will be to agree
with me."

She sucked hard on
her tongue. His gaze drifted away across the hall.

"There is one
more thing you must know, Lady Amias."

"I can scarce
wait to hear it."

His eyes shot her
a quick glance, but she was ready for the dagger this time and raised her
shield, staring back, unflinching.

"I can give
you pleasure, my lady, but I can never give you love."

It shocked her
that he even thought it necessary to tell her this. Love was something she
never expected from their arrangement. "I'm quite sure I shall
manage," she replied acidly. When one had never known love it could not be
missed.

He nodded slowly.
"As long as you understand that, you will not be disappointed."

Ami wanted to
laugh suddenly at his solemn countenance. Did he expect her to cry and wail and
gnash her teeth because he would not give her his heart? Fearing she might
choke on her wine, she quickly looked away from him to watch two dogs fighting
over a bone in the midst of his great hall. "It is not possible for me to
be disappointed. My expectations of you could not be any lower."

There was a pause
while the fool digested this information, probably trying to figure out whether
or not he'd just been insulted again.

Finally he said,
"And another of your duties ... you will bathe me when I require it."

Just as she turned
her head to look at him again, he quickly sank his lips into the wine.
"Bathe you?" she demanded.

"That's
right."

She sniffed, chin
up. "You
bathe
?"
 

His eyes met hers
and held them in a steely grip. "I do tonight, wench."

****

Water had been
drawn from the well and heated by the great fire in the cookhouse. It was then
poured into a large round tub, around which a screen of wooden panels was set.
While this screen made some nod to privacy, too many knotholes in the wood made
a mockery of the attempt. Ami removed her mantle for the first time since her
arrival and hung it over the screen, covering as many of the holes as she
could.

Stryker Bloodaxe
apparently found this an unnecessary precaution. "They've seen it all
before, woman. Nothing new here." He stripped off his breeches without a
care for caution.

"Have they
indeed?" She was annoyed by his casual manner. Of course, she thought,
he'd probably coupled with both the young kitchen maids. She heard them now,
whispering and giggling on the other side of the screen, pretending to be at
work preparing the next day's meals. "I wonder why you bother with a
screen at all."

"The screen
is for your modesty, my lady."

"Mine?"
She had no intention of climbing into that bath while there was anyone present
in the cookhouse.

"My counsel
and I discussed the matter. It was decided that a fine, well-bred lady like
yourself, would prefer some privacy. I had one of my carpenters make the screen
today. For you." He smiled at her, proud of himself again.

Would everything
she did—or might do—become a matter for discussion by him and his counsel from
now on? Between them they seemed to possess an oddly patched-up blanket of
information about women and how to treat them, but then, as Villette had said,
there were only a very small number of females on the manor. This, no doubt,
was why he had whores sent in to keep his men happy. It might also explain why
he didn't seem to know what to do with her while she was on her feet.

Although his
mistaking Ami for one of the whores that afternoon had shocked and enraged her,
he found it extremely amusing. Or perhaps her reaction was the reason why it
made him laugh so hard. He raised the subject again, chuckling over it as he
removed his clothes. "From the look of you—all clean and sweet-smelling—I
thought you must be a costly one," he said to her.

"I'm
flattered," she replied, curt.

While he laughed
louder at his own error and waited for her join in, Ami kept her countenance
stern, her lips pursed. There was, she supposed, a funny side to it, but she
preferred to laugh later, alone, when he would not see.

"What's the
matter, woman? Did you never make a mistake?" he demanded.

"Never of
that magnitude."

Tossing a rag at
her, he stepped into the water and lowered his buttocks slowly. Although she'd
planned to avert her gaze, her eyes had other ideas. She stared. Openly.

Well, he was
clearly not in the least bashful, so why should she be?

His cock was half
erect, his balls two heavy sacks, swinging slightly as he lowered into the
water. His pubic hair was dark blond—like the layers beneath the sun-lightened
tips of his hair and the smattering of fur across the top planes of his chest.
His arse was round, hard, pert. Once seated, he let his knees fall to the sides
and leaned back with a blissful sigh, his forearms resting along the edge of
the tub.

She clasped the
rag in both hands and took a deep breath. "Where shall I begin?"
There was so much of it, she mused. Unexplored territory for her.

"Wherever you
like," he muttered, eyes closed, relaxing in the water.

The pink knob of
his cock was just visible above the surface. It drew her attention, but she
could hardly begin there, could she? Best to start as far away as possible. She
knelt beside the tub on a sheepskin rug and rolled up her sleeves. Crushed
herbs floated in the water, which was already cloudy from his dirt. Fortunately
the warm, sweet scent of lavender, sage and rosemary overpowered less agreeable
odors. She rinsed out the rag and wiped it over his shoulders. His skin
gleamed, his muscles flexed.

Ami swept the rag
slowly from side to side and then down over the lines that divided his chest
and stomach. She saw him hold his breath in and flex again. Showing off.

Men were proud,
silly creatures. He did not need to hold his stomach taut for her. Was she not
the woman who had no other choice but him? He was a barbarian, but, as he and
Villette had pointed out to her, he was very likely the last chance she had.
Try as she might to think otherwise, neither the convent nor the madhouse held
any appeal.
 

It was odd that he
bothered to impress her with his muscles.

She washed his
thighs and let her arm venture lower into the water. His eyelids fluttered open
and he watched her warily. Did he think she might make a grab for him? Bite
again?

He was being very
brave, allowing her to do this for him, especially since he knew all about her
reputation as a shrew who despised men. But perhaps—she looked at him
thoughtfully—perhaps he tested his own courage too. For how could he bed her as
his wife, if he was afraid of what she might do to him the minute he closed his
eyes? A man could not always be on the alert. Not when he slept.

She trailed the
rag across his balls and up over his cock. He exhaled a gush of breath, almost
a moan.

"Let down
your braids," he muttered.

Ami had tied them
up on her head so they would not become wet or get in her way. "But this
is how I wear them when I do chores," she explained.

He squinted at
her. "What chores have you ever done, woman?"

Clearly he thought
her life was all feather pillows and faerie dust, just because she had clean
fingernails. "Plenty." She would not elaborate. The years under her
uncle's guardianship were hardly pleasant memories to dwell upon.