The Holding - Book 1 in The Medieval Knights Series (27 page)

"And how comes the composition?" Kendall called to them cheerfully, ignoring Rowland's elbow cutting into his ribs. "Must we still wait to hear the sweet blending of your voices?"

"Yea," William answered for them both, his eyes merry, "you must wait. My lady and I are still training our voices to merge harmoniously."

"And will the wait be long, William?" Kendall asked again, pushing away Rowland's arm and dodging the hand that moved to cuff him.

William looked at Cathryn before answering. It was a brief look, yet full of hidden meaning. "Nay, the wait will not be burdensome."

"Where did you learn music?" Cathryn asked, wanting the conversation to move to ground she was familiar with.

"Where I learned anything and everything of value, or so he would tell you—from Father Godfrey."

"I would be a poor teacher if I did not believe I had instructed you in matters of merit, would I not?" Godfrey joked.

"Oh, aye, your logic is most reasonable," William answered.

"Cathryn," Godfrey directed, turning away from William, "I was pleased to hear your song and would ask who taught you musical form?"

"Greneforde's priest instructed me, but I was taught that only one voice could be raised in song, so I am contused as to this talk of many voices uniting."

"Two is not so many," William interjected.

"Nay, William, cease," Godfrey commanded, "for she speaks of monophonic music, and such must have been taught by her priest. And it is beautiful," he said to Cathryn, "but there is a way that has been developed in which the cantus firmus is accompanied by another melody."

"And how is this done? Do the two melodies parallel each other?" Cathryn asked, genuinely interested.

"Nay, Cathryn," William answered, turning her attention again to him. "'Tis the way it started," he admitted, "but now each voice may have a linear design of its own, uniting in combination most intimate."

The ground shifted and she was cast off balance again, unsure of the deeper meaning beneath William's words, yet sure there was more by the look in his black-lashed eyes.

"Come," Godfrey said, standing and ending her discomfort, "'tis time for the mass."

Happily, Cathryn left the table and its multilayered conversation for the peace of the chapel and the long-awaited funeral mass.

So long awaited and so soon done. The memory of Philip rose before her eyes; so blond was he and so exuberant of spirit. The years spent in enforced exile at far-off Blythe Tower had not dulled his warmth, nor had being the captive of an unscrupulous knight. He had expected nothing more than the taking of Greneforde, and she suspected that he had felt some measure of relief at having their deception uncovered, for it meant the end of their separation.

She had always loved him, as he had loved her. Sending him away had been the most difficult decision of her life, but she had known it was the right decision. Philip could not have known what sort of man Lambert was. But she had known. When first she saw him from the high wall, holding Philip as hostage, she had known. His eyes were blue without a hint of warmth, and they had looked at her in a way that she had not understood then. She had learned what that look meant. He had taught her well, and she had not forgotten. The truth was that there was no stopping a man when his desire was raging.

Were all men, in truth, the same? She had believed so. But William le Brouillard was not like other men. She could run from that knowledge no longer. Aye, he was a man proud and strong, as all men were or strove to be.
But...
his strength did not bruise and his pride was perhaps justified, though such would never pass her lips to tickle William's ear. His Frankish vanity would rise up to unimaginable heights.

John the Steward was right; William was not Lambert.

Emotion, so long repressed, so long denied, and coming at her from all quarters, rose within her. William, his hand strong upon her arm, urged her to lean against him, to draw from his strength, but she could not. She dared not. Her emotions had been plucked many times today. She had gone weeks without feeling anything, and these new sensations were uncomfortable. It was like the cracking of ice before the thaw. She liked it not.

And she, she who had faced Lambert, was afraid to release the powerful emotions that surged within her—afraid that if she did, their very strength would overwhelm her. She knew this. She could admit her fear, and so she pressed the harder to contain her feelings.

The mass ended and, in a fog of her own turmoil, she allowed William to escort her to his chamber—no,
their
chamber now, for were not all of her things neatly in their place? It was not so large a chamber that she could fail to notice the tub full of scented water before the fire. It was a sweet scent for a man, but then, he was French.

"Will you bathe twice in one day, lord? To my eye, eating did not dirty you noticeably."

William smiled at her jibe and answered, "Nay, for I have known since swaddling how to direct the food to my mouth and avoid my other parts. Nay, wife"—he grinned—"the water is for you. It is my turn to play attendant."

"Nay!" she protested, loudly. "I bathed mere days ago!"

"And have been avoiding bathing again because you know it to be of importance to me?"

Cathryn gulped nervously. It was unlike William to be so direct in his responses; it boded ill—for her. Especially as he had seen the truth of her actions.

"Your will is mine, my lord," she said calmly, changing tactics entirely. "If you say that I am filthy, then I will send for Marie and she can attend me, as she did when last I bathed. Just days ago," she added pointedly.

"I did not call you 'filthy,'" William argued politely as he moved toward the tub, shepherding her ahead of him, "though the word brings to mind the people who inhabit Greneforde. They are a fine-looking lot. Where have you been hiding them?"

There was no answer to that—none that she could use—so she ignored it entirely.

"Filthy or no, I can bathe myself," she said flatly, drawing herself up to what she hoped was a dignified height.

"Nay, Cathryn, you will not," William contradicted. "I will simply do for you what you have so recently done for me."

And that was exactly what she feared. William's hands stroking her slick skin... his large, gentle hands on her naked body, caressing her... She felt a rolling in her middle just contemplating it. No, it could not be borne.

"It has been a tiring day," she tried, hoping for pity. "The mass... and I would prefer to bathe alone, in solitude, to gather my composure."

She could not have said anything that would have so strengthened his resolve to remain.

"I would be a poor husband if I allowed my wife to minister to me and did not do the same for her," he said with a cheery smile.

"Allowed?" she burst out, abandoning her search for pity, "You compelled me to attend you!"

"And you obeyed," he said, "against your own inclination?"

And so he sprang his trap. She could not admit so, not after having sworn to be a willing wife to him in all ways. It would make her look sullen and childish, and though she felt so at the moment, it would not do to appear so.

"Come, Cathryn," he urged, "'tis no more than Christ did when he washed the feet of the twelve."

"You compare this to that?" she trilled. "There is more of seduction in this than of cleansing!"

"Truly?" He smiled wolfishly.

And so she had trapped herself. She had admitted that she would find his touch arousing, as she had found touching him.

Drawing herself to her full height, Cathryn commanded herself to stop this game of wits and maneuvering with le Brouillard. It was impossible to win with him; he ever shifted until he had his way, and he would have his way in this. It would disgrace her to twist any further in escaping his will, but she would have her way in one regard: he would not disrobe her. That humiliation she would not allow, and she communicated such to him with a flash of her eyes as she reached for the tie holding her mantle. It was a small victory, and he allowed her to have it. In moments she stood naked before him, unbent and unashamed. She stepped into the tub with all the dignity of a queen stepping into her cart.

Her very serenity and supreme composure were bright signal fires that her emotions were raging just beneath her cool surface; so much he understood of her. He would move slowly, seducing her with such measured steps that she would be caught unawares. That he was already highly aroused by the sight of her slender nudity, her golden cloak of hair both hiding and revealing at once, was inconvenient, but the traitor between his legs would obey him, and his face would remain calmly impassive. They would, for he was le Brouillard and he did not relinquish his control when in battle. And this was battle.

She would not look upon his face, but stared fixedly at the blazing fire when he approached—a defensive posture. He was not so dulled in the head by sword blows that he did not see this as a good sign; she was defensive because she felt the need to be. She was not indifferent to him. That was good. It was better than good.

He dipped his hands into the hot water and lifted them high above her skin, letting the heat trickle over her. Only water would touch her at first.

The feel of the dribbling water against the skin of her breasts was startling. She had expected his hands to touch her. His hands she was prepared for; this gentle drizzle she was not. It was most unnerving, particularly as he did not touch her. What a thought! It was simply an odd way to bathe. No wonder le Brouillard was ever about his bath, if this was the method of his washing.

Again his hands were raised above her, and again he let the streams of water run between his fingers to caress her skin. The water was uncomfortably hot, or it felt so as it fell and traced pathways over her. Her skin was unbearably sensitive to the touch of the water; mayhap the soap was irritating to her. That would explain the prickling she felt just beneath her skin and the uneasy feeling in her stomach.

Again he raised his hands to release his waterfall. How long would he bathe her in this fashion? It was most irritating. Probably some Frankish habit, and all the fashion there. If she complained, he would again sing the praises of his people and ask that she sing the chorus. He was an impossible man. This was no bath such as she had ever taken, and despite what he thought of her sanitary habits, she was accustomed to taking quite a few in the course of a month.

Fie!
If again she felt just water, hot and scented though it was, touching her skin, she would run shrieking from the room. And most likely bump into Ulrich on the stair tower.

William watched her nipples rise and her breathing quicken, but still he did not touch her with aught but water. When she asked for more, then she would receive it.

"This is an odd bathing," she bit out finally. "I shall be shriveled to look three times my age before you deem me clean at this pace."

William said nothing, merely smiled and added more of the scent to the water. He swirled it in with the fingers of one hand, but none came near to touching her.

"Is it soap you add, and will it clean my skin by just mingling with the water?"

A log falling on the fire was her answer, and the sparks it sent up seemed to mirror the light, burning sensation flickering just beneath her skin.

"I cannot be properly clean if you refuse to touch my skin with water and soap!" she burst out, her dark eyes snapping with as much heat as the flames.

William did not smile as he looked into her eyes, though the urge was there.

"You ask for my touch?"

"To cleanse me, yea," she answered swiftly, her composure badly shaken.

"My touch
will
cleanse you, Cathryn," he affirmed softly.

He spoke words that seemed to her to have two meanings, as was his wont, and she cursed the ways of Frankish knights in the quiet turmoil of her heart.

To her surprise, he reached beneath the scented water and lifted a foot out for his scrutiny. The soap made his hands slick, and if his touch had not been so firm, she would have laughed at his tickling. But his touch
was
firm as he stroked the curves and hills that comprised her foot. Never did she know that the human foot could be so sensitive to touch, used as it was to walk upon cold stone or rough wood. She sighed, sinking deeper into the water as he lifted her foot higher; never did she know that a man's touch upon her foot could be so... pleasurable.

The word
erotic
had sprung to mind, but she cast it out. It was a simple bath and his touch was not unpleasant. There could be nothing sensuous about her foot! And so she relaxed against the back of the wooden tub, her hair falling in a curtain to lie upon the floor.

William had not looked at her directly. He concentrated upon the cleanliness of her feet and did not allow his thoughts to stray to what lay within easy reach of his hand just beneath the water. No, he did not look, but he felt the muscles of her leg relax and the full weight of her foot rest upon his hand, and he knew that he had broken through another one of her defenses.

Unable to deny the urge any longer, he allowed himself a quick look at her face, his eyes glittering like polished steel. Her look was one of heavy languor, her limbs relaxed, her eyes closed. It was going well. William quickly lowered his gaze again; it would not do for her to know his own state of arousal, and he did not dare look upon her longer or else he would become impatient for his prize and rush headlong, defeating himself.