Read The Dragon Lord's Daughters Online
Authors: Bertrice Small
The Dragon Lord's Daughters (9 page)
“Do you wish us to send for your sister, Rhys FitzHugh?” the Dragon Lord asked. “We will be celebrating your marriage to my daughter for the next few days.”
“We shall celebrate at Everleigh as well,” Rhys answered. “I think it best Mary remain on her own lands. It is a long trip for one so young, and there is no place to shelter but for that ruins. My sister is yet tender.”
The Dragon Lord nodded. He understood. “My son and I shall accompany you and Averil back to Everleigh,” he said. “It will be a fine adventure for Brynn. You have not met him yet. He is a good lad. And strong. Perhaps we might consider a match between your sister and my son one day.”
Clever,
Edmund Mortimer thought to himself. Then the Pendragons would have lands in both the Welshry and the Englishry. Old Merin is ambitious of a sudden.
Edmund Mortimer thought to himself. Then the Pendragons would have lands in both the Welshry and the Englishry. Old Merin is ambitious of a sudden.
“Mary is too young yet for me to consider matching her, my lord,” Rhys replied.
“She would be lady of Dragon's Lair,” Merin noted. “Her husband would have his own lands and cattle.”
“My sister is lady of Everleigh. She has lands and cattle in her own right,” Rhys replied. “When she is older we will speak on it, my lord, but I make you no promises.”
“Well said, young FitzHugh,” Lord Mortimer agreed approvingly. He was considering that little Mary might make a fine wife for his youngest son, John. A man had to look after his own, and he had not the influence or wealth of his more powerful Mortimer relations who lived at court.
Merin Pendragon knew his old friend Edmund Mortimer well enough that he understood he would have a rival for little Mary FitzHugh and her lands. But he felt no animosity towards the Englishman. The heiress was a choice bit. As long as one of them won her for their family, and not some stranger, Averil and her husband would be safe.
In the bathing room of the keep the servants were lugging buckets of boiling water and dumping them into the great round, gray stone tub. Gorawen poured a small vial of fragrance into the hot water. The scented steam rose up, wafting the smell of lavender about the chamber. In the hearth the fire burned hot. Averil had already pinned up her long golden hair, and divested herself of her garments save her chemisette.
“Will you help me, Mother?” she asked her parent.
“I think not,” Gorawen said. “You have been well taught and are capable of washing a man by yourself. Because he is your husband you must get into the tub with him, Averil. You, too, need a bath. Besides, it may encourage Rhys FitzHugh to a greater familiarity of your person. Your marriage must be consummated sooner than later, my daughter, and I believe sooner would be best for both you and Rhys.”
“But I thought there were certain things that you wanted me to know, Mother,” Averil protested softly. The idea of getting into a tub with Rhys FitzHugh was startling.
“Aye, there are. But when I consider what I can teach you, I know it is better that Rhys FitzHugh find you as pure a virgin as you really are. Once he has taken his first pleasure of you, and has no doubts as to your innocence, then I shall teach you the many delights a woman can share with her husband, and the pleasure she can give him. Rhys will not be unhappy in his wife, my daughter.” She looked about the room. “The bath is ready. I will go and fetch Rhys. Warm the drying cloths on the rack by the fire, Averil. Have you already forgotten what you have learned?” Giving her daughter a pat of encouragement, Gorawen hurried from the bathing room.
Averil looked about her to be certain all was in perfect readiness. She hung the large clean cloths over the wooden rack by the fire as her mother had instructed her to do. She checked the temperature of the water with her hand. It was quite hot. She moved the little oak steps one more time. With a round tub it didn't really matter from which direction one entered it. Her brushes lay in orderly fashion upon the stone tub's rim. There was a clean washing cloth, and a bowl of soft soap. Everything was as it should be.
The door to the bathing room opened, and Rhys FitzHugh stepped through, a surprised look upon his handsome face as his gaze swept the chamber. “You have a room just for bathing?” he said, astounded.
“Don't you?” she asked him.
“Nay,” he said. “We have an oak tub, or we bathe in the stream near the house.”
“And yet you English infer that we Welsh are barbarians,” Averil murmured.
“Not all Welsh houses have such rooms,” he defended himself.
“Perhaps not, my lord, but this is how I have been raised. Please sit down on that stool now so I may remove your boots and clothing,” Averil told him, sounding far braver than she actually was.
He obeyed, and she quickly pulled the muddy, well-worn boots from his feet. Her little nose wrinkling with disdain, she unrolled his foot coverings and dropped them onto the floor. Indicating that he should now stand she began to remove his garments. First his cotte, a calf-length tunic from which she shook the dust and laid carefully aside on a chair back. Beneath it he wore a chemise. It was laced up the front. Averil's slender fingers undid it quickly. For a moment she stopped. Beneath the open chemise his chest was broad and smooth, devoid of hair. When she took the garment from him he would be quite naked. She considered how to remove the chemise.
Making the decision for her, Rhys FitzHugh took Averil's two small hands and held them to his chest for a moment. “I think, wife, we must now become acquainted with one another,” he said in a quiet voice. “Let your dainty hands explore, Averil. There is no wrong in it, and it would give me pleasure.”
Averil felt her cheeks suffused with warmth. “My lord.” Her voice was a whisper. “I am a virgin.” She could not look at him.
Rhys FitzHugh tipped her face up so that their eyes finally met. “I know that,” he said softly. Then, dipping his head, he brushed her lips with his just briefly.
Her little mouth made an “O” of surprise, and she gasped.
He smiled. “You have never been kissed,” he said.
“Of course not!” The tone of her reply was indignant. “I was meant to be wife to a great lord, Rhys FitzHugh. I could not go to a great family with my honor besmirched.”
“Then I am fortunate to be the recipient of your chastity,” he replied dryly.
“Yes, you are!” she said indignantly. “And I am rewarded for my good behavior by being wed to a manor bailiff with naught to his name but a stone cottage! What in the name of Holy Mary made you steal me away other than you thought I was my father's heiress?” she demanded of him.
“I needed a wife,” he said, “and my father told me before he died that a rich wife was a sight better than a poor wife.”
“Then you have been cheated, too,” she responded.
“Nay, I have not. You may not be your da's heiress, Averil, but you are well-propertied for a lass born on the wrong side of the blanket. And, you are extravagantly beautiful. You will be desired by many who see you, including some who are great lords, but you are my wife, and I know your own sense of honor will not allow you to betray me or the FitzHugh name. My father did give me his name, you know, and our children will be true born.” He smiled down on her. “I like the feel of your hands on me, wife.”
Averil blushed furiously once again. Rhys FitzHugh was a most infuriating man, she thought. She drew his chemise from him, saying as she did, “Get into the tub, my lord, before the water grows cold.” Her eyes were everywhere but on him, now.
He could not refrain from chuckling. “Aren't you getting into the tub with me?” he asked her mischievously, his eyebrows waggling wickedly at her.
“I can wash you quite well without getting into the tub,” she said sharply.
“You can, but you won't,” he told her. “I am your husband. I want you in that great stone tub with me.” Then, before she might protest further, he picked her up in his brawny arms, mounted the two steps, and climbed into the tub.
Averil shrieked with her surprise. “Put me down!” she cried to him.
He complied, gently dumping her into the hot water with a grin. “I would be well washed, wife,” he said.
Averil grabbed a scrubbing brush, and whacked him smartly on his dark head. “Why, so you shall, my lord husband!” she told him. She dipped her hand into the stone soap crock, and slapped the runny soap on his hair. “I won't bother picking the nits today,” she said. “A good soaping should rid you of them.” She had stepped up on the tub's little stool that sat beneath the hot water. Her fingers dug fiercely into his big head as she scrubbed his darkâand she was noticingâsomewhat curly hair.
“Ouch! You shrew!” he yelped. “You will take my scalp off!”
“Your hair is filthy. Close your eyes!” She dipped a large scoop of water and dumped it over his head. Then she added more soap and began to scrub again.
“I'll smell like a field of flowers when you get through,” he protested. “The bees won't be able to restrain themselves from me.”
“A clean head will be a great improvement for you,” she snapped. She began dipping water again, and rinsed his dark head until there was no more evidence of soap.
“God's mercy,” he said, “but you have sweet little titties, wife.”
“What?” Her cheeks grew hot again as she raised startled eyes to his face.
“The way your sheer little chemisette clings to them is quite provocative, Averil,” he murmured, moving nearer.
She looked down, and gasped with her shock. Standing on the stool so she might wash his hair put her but waist deep in the water. The soft fabric of her garment clung to her flesh, molding it in a very sensual manner. Not only her breasts, but her torso as well.
Her pale skin grew beet red with embarrassment.
“Take it off,” he said in a low, hard voice.
“What?” She could not have heard him correctly.
“Remove your chemisette, or I will rip it from you, Averil,” he told her. “I want to see you as you were made.”
“It isn't right!” she cried low.
“I am your husband,” he told her, his voice gentler now. Jesu! The sight of her beneath that wet fabric had roused him mightily. He had forgotten for a moment that she was so innocent despite the unorthodox household in which she had been raised. Merin Pendragon might keep a wife and two concubines, but Rhys FitzHugh had seen no evidence of licentiousness in his house.
“We may be naked for one another?” she questioned him.
“We may, and while your chemisette needed laundering, Averil, I would see you without it.”
Averil slipped down into the water, and then drew the garment from her person, wringing it out and tossing it onto the bathing room's stone floor. “I must continue bathing you, and then bathe myself,” she said. Her heart was beating very quickly now.
He nodded, appreciating her modesty. He would see her soon enough when she had to exit their bath. “Let me wash your hair first,” he suggested.
“You?” She was surprised.
“Your tresses are beautiful, Averil, and in as much need of soap and water as were my unruly locks,” he told her.
She hesitated a moment, but then said, “Very well, my lord.” Then she stood quietly as he unpinned her long hair, rubbed in the soap, lathering it into suds, rinsing it, soaping and rinsing a second time. When he had finished Averil twisted her rope of golden hair free of water, and pinned it up once more.
“Now you smell like a field of flowers,” he said with a small smile.
“Let me wash you now, my lord, as I have been taught,” she replied. She took up another brush, soaped it, and began to scrub his back. Her hands moved swiftly, sliding beneath the warm water to wash with the cloth what she could not see. After she had laved water over his clean skin she turned him about, and washed his face, his neck and ears, his chest and his arms. “Now,” she said as she finished, “you must do the rest.”
“Will you not do it?” he asked. “Your mother said you knew well how to bathe a man, Averil.”
“Would you have me handling the private parts belonging to our guests, my lord?” she countered.
“I am not a guest, Averil. I am your husband. Now finish your task, wife, or I shall have to tell your parents that I am displeased with you,” he threatened. “And, Averil, from now on you will wash no other men. Only me.”
She swallowed hard. Then taking up the soft cloth she soaped it again, and plunged it beneath the water. She swirled her cloth about his flat belly, moving down to his groin. She rubbed gently over his pubic mound, which was covered with thick wiry hair. Delicately she washed his manhood and the pouch of life beneath it. The manhood was large, and it was very hard. It seemed to have a life all its own as it throbbed in her hand. Averil swallow nervously again. “I believe I am done,” she said, low. Then she began to wash herself.
“I want to take you here,” he said in a rough voice, and his lips were pressing against the damp nape of her neck. He pulled the cloth from her hand, and soaping it began to rub it over her breasts. “You are so damned tempting, Averil. I am not sorry that I stole the wrong girl.” His arm fastened about her waist, and he pressed himself against her body. “Did you ever think you would lose your virginity in a tub of warm water, my beautiful young wife?”
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