Anita Mills (13 page)

She looked down on his head and his shoulders, seeing the water streak over his skin, and she could not help contrasting him to Ivo. Where her husband had been fair and handsome, Giles of Moray was dark and fierce-looking even without the accoutrements of war. There was nothing about him that bespoke softness or weakness.

“Are you not afraid of spotting your gown?” he asked as she rubbed the soap into his scalp, sudsing it.

“I’ll not get that close to you,” she promised grimly.

The soap coursed in white rivulets over the harsh planes of his face and mingled with water that dripped from his head onto the dark, curling hairs on his chest. The odd thought occurred to her that, broad as he was, he was lean and not at all given to fat. Tearing her eyes away from him, she turned to find the ewer on the floor. Picking it up, she poured the water over his head to rinse.

He choked and sputtered as he leaned forward. “God’s blood, but you could blind a babe like that!” Groping for a towel, he caught the hem of her under gown and wiped his eyes. “Have a care.”

“I have no babe,” she said through gritted teeth, pulling her skirt away. “Nor am I like to have one.”

“ ’Twould improve your temper if you did.” His reddened eyes traveled slowly upward, bring a fresh rush of blood to her face. “Aye, Elizabeth of Rivaux,” he said more softly, “I know what ails you. Three years of lying alone have been too much.”

“Nay, you mistake the matter, my lord,” she answered coldly. “I’d lie alone the rest of my life.”

“You lie to yourself and you believe that.”

“Jesu! If you’d have me finish, you’ll cease speaking nonsense to me.”

He leaned back again and half closed his eyes. As she resoaped the cloth and began wiping his shoulders, he studied her through veiled lashes. In his six and twenty years, he’d thought he’d encountered enough females to give him a contempt of the sex, but she was unlike any other. It was as though she would deny what she was. She leaned over him, her glossy black hair brushing his bare skin, sending thoughts that would hang him through his mind. The soft, faint scent of rose petals swirled around him, nearly intoxicating him. She leaned further, until he could see the swell of her breasts beneath her gown, and his heart pounded in his chest. And then she drew back, tossing the cloth into the water, disappointing him.

“I am done.”

“Nay, you are not.”

“The rest of you will have to soak.” She picked up a second ewer and dashed it over him. “I have washed what I will touch.”

“Custom demands that I be dried,” he reminded her. His gaze moved upward slowly, deliberately. “Besides, I like the feel of your touch,” he added lazily. “It pleases me greatly.”

“I am not a tiring woman—dry yourself, Sir Scot.”

Picking up one of the woolen sheets, she flung it at him and turned to leave. It missed and sank into the water. He came out of the tub, showering the floor, and lunged to bar her way.

“I said you were not done, Lady Elizabeth,” he told her evenly. His black eyes met hers and held. “I believe I asked to be dried.”

“Call for your man, then—I am not a servant.”

“For a widow returned to her father’s house, ’twould seem you overvalue yourself. I’d say you are in need of someone to teach you a woman’s place, Elizabeth of Rivaux.”

“Let me pass.”

“Nay.”

“If you dare to touch me I’ll cry out, and fifty men, not twenty, will come at my bidding, sir. Aye, you’d not live to sup this day.”

He was but a handspan from her, so close that despite the chill of the air she could feel the heat of his body. And once again she realized she was not his match in strength. Moreover, there was that in those black eyes that sent a shiver of apprehension down her spine.

“Art afraid of me, Elizabeth of Rivaux?” he asked again, this time so softly that the words seemed to float.

“I’ll dry you,” she whispered through suddenly parched lips. “I’d not have your hands on me.”

“You lie.” Nonetheless, he moved back, giving her room to pass him.

Her hands trembled as she bent to pick up the other towel. She hoped he would not note it as she shook the rough cloth out before her. “Get you before the fire ere we both freeze—you’ve soaked my gown, you Scottish savage.”

“I told you: I am as Norman as you are.”

“I was born there,” she retorted, throwing the sheet of wool over him. Eager to be done, she rubbed his back vigorously with the cloth. “Turn around.”

He had closed his eyes, savoring the feel of her hands on his body, and the desire that rose within nearly overwhelmed him. If he turned around, she’d know the effect she’d had on him. “Nay. Get my tunic—Willie has laid it out.”

She started to refuse but thought better of it, for it gave her the opportunity to move away from him. “This?” she asked in surprise, holding it up.

“Aye. ’Tis the one I wore at Stephen’s court.”

“ ’Tis finer than I expected.”

“There is velvet to be had on the borders.”

“Did you steal it?” she asked tartly, unaware he’d turned again to look at her.

“Not that one. I had it of a Flemish merchant.”

He walked to where she stood, the towel wrapped at his waist to hide his aroused body. “Hold the neck open that it does not spot.” His voice sounded strange even to his own ears.

“ ‘Twill be a riddance when you leave on the morrow,” she muttered as she lifted the garment high. “Do you not wear a
shert
beneath?”

“I have none clean. You forget I had not planned to tarry between London and Dunashie.”

“It matters not to me,” she decided, shrugging. “ ’Tis one less thing to put on you.”

He bent his head for her to slip it over, then straightened as she pulled it down over his damp body. Even through the tunic her hands burned him. The rich, deep-blue velvet fell nearly to his knees. The gold embroidery and the pearls on his chest caught the flickering firelight, holding it. As the towel slipped from beneath the overgarment, she stepped back, still wary of him.

“Did you think I swore to Stephen in rags, Elizabeth of Rivaux?” he asked low, his strange smile warming even his black eyes. “Did you think he would have had a poor man come so far?”

“I thought not at all on the matter, my lord,” she responded coldly. Yet even as she spoke, she could not quite still the thudding of her heart. “You will have to manage the rest, I think. I count my part done.”

“Not quite.”

To her horror, his hand reached to cup her chin, forcing it upward, as he moved nearer, bending his face to hers. The reflected firelight in his eyes made her think of the devil. Her whole body stiffened when his arms closed around her, and yet she did not struggle.

There was no gentleness in his kiss, nor was it tentative as Ivo’s few had been. His lips were hard against hers, crushing, demanding, and when she would cry out, he took possession of her mouth. She closed her eyes to deny the wave of desire that washed over her. And yet her whole body seemed to tremble with the awareness of his.

He’d meant to humble her, to shame her in payment for her arrogance to him, but he’d not considered what she could do to him. The taste of her lips sent his blood rushing through him, taking his breath. For a moment she was soft and pliant against him, and somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind he dared to wonder what it would be like to take her, what it would be like to lie with Elizabeth of Rivaux. And he was sorely tempted.

His hands moved over her shoulders, her back, and smoothed the soft wool of her gown against her hips. And everywhere he touched her her body went hot. She clenched her fists at her sides, willing herself to deny her body, to stand still and impassive within his arms, hoping he could not know how he affected her, how much her traitorous body wanted a man’s embrace.

Abruptly, he released her and stepped back. His black eyes glittered and his voice was hoarse. “Cry out to your men, Elizabeth of Rivaux, for now I have given you cause.”

She stood rooted to the floor, her face flaming, and inhaled deeply to master the tumult in her breast. “Nay,” she said finally, “I’d not have them know you dared to touch me. I’d not have them know my shame.”

A slow smile of triumph curved his mouth as he shook his head. “For all your airs and tempers, Lady Elizabeth, you are but the woman God made you.”

Choosing not to reply, she turned on her heel and strode for the door, calling, “Willie! To your lord!” And as she passed the big man on the stairs, she ordered curtly, “Tend your master, for I am done.”

It was not until she reached the bottom that she realized she still shivered. Then, hugging her arms across her breasts, she hurried across the courtyard toward the main hall, telling herself it was but the cold. Above her, Giles of Moray appeared to watch but did not see as he undressed her in his mind.

“ ’Tis glad enough ye’ll be to be done with her,” Willie muttered, rummaging among the packs for Giles’ clean chausses. “Aye, a better welcome awaits ye at Dunashie.”

Giles shrugged, turning away from the slitted window as she disappeared. Nay, he was not done with Elizabeth of Rivaux yet, and mayhap he never would be. She was so unlike Aveline and the other women he’d known. Beneath that arrogance he was sure there was fire, and he would have it burn for him.

The hall at Harlowe was richly hung, its walls covered with billowing tapestries to lessen the drafts from tall, narrow windows shuttered against the winter wind. In the huge fireplace on the side logs crackled and popped, spitting live coals, as they were consumed by voracious, licking flames. At intervals between the tapestries, heavy iron sconces had replaced the torch rings, but not even fresh coats of whitewash could completely hide the streaks where pitch-soaked brands had once burned. Now only thick tallow candles sputtered and smoked, a testimony to the wealth of the absent earl.

At the high table jeweled goblets winked and gleamed against the shimmering cloth, whilst silver spoons, polished steel knives, mazers, and salt dishes sparkled in contrast to the oiled wooden trenchers. Unlike those who sat below, those on the dais were spared the hard bread that provided the common plates. Before the earl’s silk-canopied chair, two cook’s assistants worked carefully to fan out the magnificent tail feathers of a stuffed peacock, while the confectioner placed tiny red banners at the turrets of a marzipan Harlowe. In the corner of the huge room musicians softly tuned their lutes, vieles, and a harp, while a host of servingmen, all wearing the short-sleeved tunics of Rivaux red over long-sleeved undertunics of Harlowe blue, moved about setting the trestle tables that served the household.

Ushered in before the household mesnie, Giles of Moray and his men started for seats below the high table. Walter of Meulan hurried forward, bowing.

“Nay, my lord, ’tis the Countess Eleanor’s wish that since there are no bishops or other lords present you will be seated with her.”

It was a signal honor that brought a lift to his eyebrows. “Nay, ’tis not meet to partake of her trencher,” he protested.

“You will share with the Lady Elizabeth, my lord.”

“Tell the countess she honors me,” Giles murmured, wondering if any had yet dared to tell Rivaux’s proud daughter.

As Moray followed Walter to the dais, two trumpeters raised their horns, signaling the need for haste to the table. Heavy doors swung open at both ends of the hall, admitting everyone from the lowest man-at-arms to Harlowe’s chaplain. As they filed in, seeking places on low benches, those attending the high table moved forward, carrying snowy linens over silk-clad arms. Willie parted from Giles to take his seat, hissing under his breath, “ ’Tis far grander than King David’s table, is it not?”

But Giles had ceased attending, for the crimson and black curtains had parted behind the platform, admitting Eleanor of Nantes and her granddaughter. It was difficult not to stare like a moonling youth in the throes of his first passion. Elizabeth of Rivaux, her head held proudly, towered over Eleanor, totally eclipsing the woman the bards had called the Helen of Normandy. Her hair, the shining black of a raven’s wing, was parted in the center and bound not in braids, but in two shimmering tubes fashioned of cloth-of-gold that fell forward to rest, one over each well-defined breast. A gold circlet set with large green cabuchon stones rested on her forehead, drawing attention to her unusually fine green eyes. Her face, illuminated by the light of a dozen huge candles, reminded him again of a perfectly carved statue.

The thought crossed his mind that she could not be mortal, and yet he’d seen her, held her, and kissed her scarce an hour before. He’d felt her breathe against him.

The clothing she wore must have cost Guy of Rivaux the year’s rents from a lesser demesne. Her knee-length overtunic was fashioned of cloth-of-gold, embroidered with red roses and green leaves twined around twinkling stones. It was laced beneath her arms, the golden cords drawing the fabric smooth over her breasts, outlining the high, firm shape of them. Beneath it, her undertunic of deep-green samite covered all but the tips of her soft Spanish-leather slippers, And over it, her short mantle was of crimson velvet lined in purest white miniver. Only the wealthiest could afford to wear that shade of red, and yet it seemed the whole household was filled with it. The room grew so quiet that he could hear the stiff embroidered hem of her undertunic brush against the chair as she took her seat.

To his surprise, ’twas the dowager countess rather than Lady Elizabeth who occupied the canopied chair, despite the fact that Harlowe came to Rivaux now. By the right of it, upon her widowhood she ought to have retired to her dower lands or to a nunnery. But she was Eleanor of Nantes, he reminded himself, forcing himself to consider that she was not in truth like any other either. And apparently Guy of Rivaux honored the women in his family far more than was customary.

“My lord of Dunashie,” she addressed him clearly, “we await you.”

He’d hesitated, certain that Elizabeth of Rivaux would not welcome his presence beside her, but now there was no help for it. She sat still as stone as he took his seat.