Rexanne Becnel (7 page)

“Remove them yourself,” she snapped.

His gaze grew warning and his words were low and steady. “Lord Barton may be lax with you. But I will not.”

It took all her willpower to choke back her fury. He was no more than an arrogant fool! Yet she knew she must play this role of servant. Just do it, she told herself. It will soon be over.

Gritting her teeth, she knelt down and turned her attention to his boots. As she concentrated grimly on her task, she noted that they were of an unusual style, rising almost to his knees and hiding most of his hose. The leather was heavy and yet it was amazingly supple.

Once he was clad only in his hose, braies, and shirt, and she was faced with the choice of what to remove, Lilliane balked at last. After scrambling to her feet, she backed away.

“My shirt. Come, pull it off,” he ordered from his relaxed position on the bench.

Lilliane swallowed convulsively then shook her head.

“You’d best learn now that I demand obedience of all my servants and retainers.” His face was unreadable and his voice even, yet Lilliane felt a tremor of fear shake her. She was suddenly sorry that she had elected to play this dangerous game.

“I … I cannot,” she whispered in a cracked voice.

“You mean you
will
not.” Slowly he rose to stand tall and threatening before her. “Now come here and do as I say.”

How she hated him at that moment. She hated him for the strength he had, so much greater than her own. And for the arrogant manner in which he was making the castle his. But most of all she hated him for the power he would soon have over her as her husband.

Trembling as much in anger as in fear, Lilliane approached him. With both hands she lifted the hem of the fine bissyn fabric and, with extreme care so as not to actually touch him, she slid it up his back. His bare skin was covered with a light sheen of sweat, making it a gleaming bronze in the afternoon light, and she closed her eyes to the disturbing sight. In her haste to finish her loathsome task she tugged the garment free of his shoulders, then, with a final yank, pulled it over his head. His arms slid easily from it, and she stepped back from him at once, unaware that she still clutched his shirt in her arms.

She’d known he was a big man, not only of rare height but of brawny muscle as well. But having him standing before her, bare to the waist, took her completely aback. She’d not often seen a man’s naked chest, and yet she knew beyond all doubt that any man would envy him his powerful form. He was solid muscle, carved as a marble statue might be. But she knew he was warm to the touch.

Unwillingly her eyes slipped over him, from the heavy muscles of his broad shoulders, down his dark-furred chest to the rippling muscles of his trim waist. Her eyes stopped there, refusing to be drawn any further. The bunched fabric of his braies hid his hips and thighs from her view, and yet somehow she knew. His thighs would be like iron, finely wrought from years of horseback riding even as his arms were developed from endless practice at his battle skills. And the narrow line of hair that ran down his belly would end … She swallowed hard.

“Shall my bride find me as appealing as you seem to?”

She raised her eyes to his face with a jerk at his amused taunt and a wash of color flooded her cheeks. “As unappealing, you mean,” she snapped. But she feared he saw past her angry retort, for his eyes were dark and smoldering from some heat from within. She watched in helpless fascination the tick of a muscle in his jaw. The moment seemed to stretch out forever, and even her breathing was suspended as if she waited for something.

Then, as if it were an effort, he turned away from her and toward his bath.

She heard but did not watch as he removed his remaining garments. It was only when she heard him step into the tub, then lower himself into the heated water, that she dared turn around. He was lying back in the hammered tin tub, his head against the rolled edge. His eyes were closed and he was so still she might have thought he slept. Yet somehow she knew he was quite alert. He was a knight, well trained and well seasoned, and she knew from her father’s constant lectures to his own troops that this man had not survived by chance. He might rest, but the least sign of danger would bring him at once to the ready.

She wasn’t sure what she should do. She had the soap and cloths in her hands, yet she could not force herself to approach him. Then, as if he sensed her dilemma, he spoke.

“Unpack my bags now. Put out suitable garments in which a bridegroom may meet his bride.”

There was a tension in his voice that belied his relaxed position, but Lilliane was too relieved to note it overlong. With swift hands she emptied the satchel that had caused this awkward situation in the first place. Besides the sheaf of papers that he’d placed on the bed, there were only what she might expect a man to carry. Two shirts, extra braies, chausses and their bindings, and three handsome tunics.

She chose an iron-gray tunic, woven in a rare silk cloth she’d seen only once before. Silver threads ran through it making it glimmer in the light, and she could not resist running her hand lightly over it.

“’Tis made of Camoca. I had it stitched in Turkey.”

Lilliane shot a sidelong glance at him. “It’s lovely work,” she allowed in a muted tone.

“I’ve trunks of such goods in my wagons.”

It was a statement made with no particular inflection. Yet Lilliane sensed at once that there was much hinted at in his words. His eyes were no longer closed but were fastened upon her. Did he mean to tempt a poor serving girl with a length of fine cloth? She could not be sure, and his expression did not reveal his meaning.

When she made no reply, he raised himself to a sitting position, his arms resting on his bent knees.

“I’ve jewels, spices, perfumes.” He splashed water onto his chest and slowly rubbed his hand on the wet, curling hairs. “Rugs, tapestries. Rare furs.” He continued speaking but Lilliane made no note of his words. She was too intrigued by the absent movement of his hands. Around and around they moved in soothing circles as he washed. Her eyes skimmed lightly over the bronzed torso exposed above the softly steaming bathwater.

Despite the invincible image he’d presented earlier when he’d ridden so arrogantly into the bailey, she could see clearly that he was, after all, only a man. She had noticed then the nasty scar that marked his forehead and gave his left eyebrow its wicked arch. It had in some perverse way only made him seem less human. But the scars she saw now were not like that. One long gash tore its way across his chest from his arm almost to his throat. Another neat crescent marred the smooth skin of his side. It was the odd raking scar that ran across the back of one shoulder that caught her interest the most, however. Three parallel scars, they most certainly must have been caused by some huge beast’s claws.

Unwittingly she shuddered at the thought of some wild creature’s curving talons catching on that warm flesh and ripping it open. Then she felt his eyes upon her and she reluctantly lifted her gaze to meet his. There was a faint cynicism on his face and his tone was biting. “So tell me, will your sheltered mistress be repulsed by the honest scars that mark me? Shall she also quiver in fear at the very sight?”

Lilliane could not answer him for she felt a bewildering confusion. If she were to be honest, she would admit that, yes, Lady Lilliane of Orrick would—and did—indeed tremble in fear of him and his hard, battle-marked body. But it was not revulsion at the scars that affected her so. She could not say precisely what it was, but there was something about him that brought all her senses alert. Like some bird of prey’s poor quarry, she knew she must be careful not to make a single misstep else he would have her in his merciless grip. Maid or lady, he was dangerous to either of her poses.

When she remained silent he snorted in disgust. Then he gestured to the wooden bucket. “Douse me thoroughly. Lady Lilliane awaits.”

With hands that trembled she lifted the water bucket high and dumped it without warning full upon him. But this water was icy cold, and it brought him to his feet in surprise.

Lilliane jumped back in alarm, averting her eyes at once. With an oath he stepped out of the tub and wrapped a length of bleached linen around his waist. She was certain he must be furious. When he only stared at her with an odd, speculative gaze, however, her heart’s pace increased and she swallowed convulsively.

She felt devoured by that gaze but it was going as she planned, she reminded herself nervously. If he would but show his base and dishonorable side, she could rid herself of the burden of marrying him.

He pushed his wet hair back from his face and slowly smiled. It crossed her mind that despite the hard planes of his face—the proud straight nose, the steel-gray eyes, and the solid jaw—when his lips softened in a smile, the harshness almost disappeared. Almost. But she would be a fool if she allowed that smile to deceive her, she told herself.

“You’ve a saucy manner.” He paused. “What shall I call you?”

“You’ve no need to be calling me at all,” Lilliane answered warily.

“Ah, but I’m a man who enjoys his bath. I think I shall often have need of your services.”

“I’ve other duties—”

“Your first duty is to your master.” He took an easy step forward.

Lilliane took a step back. “And what of your lady wife?” she goaded.

A brief shadow passed over his face. “It’s doubtful my lady wife wants any more to do with me than I want to do with her.”

“What a heartless attitude you bring to your marriage! You know naught of Lady Lilliane.”

“I know she was a scrawny red-haired girl with eyes too large for her face. I know she has remained unmarried long past the time most maids are wed and with babe. And that with a considerable estate to commend her.” He shrugged. “I can only reason that she has not grown into a particularly well-favored woman.”

“But you will wed her nonetheless? Sight unseen?”

“A wife has little appeal for me. It will suit me most admirably if she chooses to surround herself with her women and their endless chatter, and leave me to attend my own duties.”

Despite her anger at the dreadful picture of her he painted, Lilliane felt a wild flicker of hope. “Does that mean … well, I mean … what of an heir?” she finally blurted out in complete embarrassment.

He laughed out loud and advanced a step closer to her. “Begetting an heir will also be one of my duties—”

“Even if you are repulsed by your wife?” she interrupted in a tense voice.

“And even if she is repulsed by me.”

“No doubt she will be,” Lilliane retorted. But her words lacked the venom she’d intended, for she was suddenly overcome with emotions. He saw Orrick as a prize to be won. The wife he must take to get it was of no matter to him. No matter at all.

Abruptly she turned to leave. But Sir Corbett was quick to block her passage with one brawny arm across the door. “Where do you think you’re going, wench? I haven’t dismissed you yet.”

His words, spoken with such infuriating confidence, seemed to bring all her confusing emotions to a boil. Without even thinking about it she struck out at him.

It was very likely that the sharp crack of her palm against his cheek brought her more pain than it did him. Still, when he grabbed her wrist then pressed her roughly against the cold wall, her heart sank to her feet. His eyes were dark and threatening and his lips, which had curved in such a deceptive smile before, now were rigid with anger.

“You overstep your bounds,” he said with a growl. His face was lowered so that only inches separated them.

“Let me go,” she whispered in desperation. “Please just let me go.” Her amber eyes were wide upon him. There was no hiding from his scrutiny in such close circumstances.

“Would Lord Barton let a serving girl—even one he holds in such high esteem—go unpunished for striking him?” He lifted his scarred brow skeptically. “Somehow I cannot believe it.” His hand tightened on her wrist although he did not go so far as to hurt her. She was terribly aware that he wore only the damp linen toweling to cover his loins, and for that reason she did not lower her gaze. Yet his eyes boring into hers were equally disturbing.

Lilliane was frightened. She realized her plan to catch him in a dishonorable act had been quite mad, and she now saw how at his mercy she was. If he chose to act dishonorably there would be no way for her to stop him. In desperation she decided he might release her if he knew her true identity. But before she could speak, he moved even closer and she was shocked by the feel of his body pressing full length against hers.

“I have in mind a particular punishment,” he whispered in her ear.

“No … no, you mustn’t do this,” she pleaded in a quivering voice.

“Indeed. But I fear I must. Beneath that plain gown I suspect I might find quite a delectable morsel.” His lips moved closer to her ear until his breath heated against it. Frantically she tried to escape, but he would have none of it. “Let your hair free of that cloth you bind it in.”

“No!” She looked up at him, aghast at his boldness, and said the worst thing she could think of. “You are a man of no honor!”

For a moment he tensed and she feared the repercussions he must surely send down upon her. But to her complete surprise, he heaved himself away from her and took a step back. For a long tense moment their eyes remained locked. Hers were a flashing gold, vivid with emotions, while his were a smoky, opaque gray. And yet she knew emotion boiled within him by the way he stood so rigidly as he stared at her. Then a bitter smile lifted his lips.

“I would have this incident kept between us and no others.”

“What?” Lilliane stared at him incredulously.

“There is no need for Lady Lilliane to hear of this,” he said stiffly.

“It’s rather late to think of your betrothed, wouldn’t you say?” she jeered.

“To tell her of this can only cause her grief,” he explained with a frown.

“And perhaps give her cause to call this farce of a marriage off,” she taunted.

At that he smiled. “The marriage will go forth as planned. Never fear that.” His face grew more serious. “Although I do not relish the thought of your spinster mistress in my bed, she will nonetheless be my wife. You may reveal to her our sport and make the marriage even more difficult for her. Or you may be a better servant to her and keep your silence. Who knows?” he added. “As time goes by you may find yourself becoming more agreeably inclined toward me.”