Love at First Sight Page 13

  All his fine reasoning deserted him as excitement curled through his loins. Did the wench look as good as she’d felt last eve? He strode forward.

  “Mi’lord?” Hesper questioned, a note of curiosity in her tone.

  At her query, Golde’s head swiveled in his direction, a grimace contorting her features. He halted and fixed his gaze on one of the candles at the foot of the tub.

  Lackwit, he chided himself. Doubtless, Hesper was wondering at his abilities, as was Golde. “’Tis all right. I am quite familiar with my chamber. The tub is there.” He pointed in the general direction.

  “More this way,” Hesper directed, again taking his elbow.

  “Nay,” Golde rasped.

  Hesper faltered, but Gavarnie continued on, unassisted. He let his knees bump the bath before he stopped. “How do you fare, mistress?”

  “Take yourself off,” she hissed.

  He allowed his gaze to drift toward her voice. Bold lips pouted at him, full of challenge. ’Twas amazing that such pink sweetmeats could spew such venom. His gaze slid lower, following the trail of thick, wet tresses. Inviting swaths of moist skin peeped from beneath the black mass.

  He eyed the exposed flesh. ’Twas shimmery, like the glowing pink color found in oyster shells. Soft and smooth, yet durable enough to withstand all but the most insistent of predators.

  It required no effort to produce a warm tone, “’tis my understanding you are unable to get yourself from the tub.”

  Her lip curled, and he just managed to prevent himself from remarking on the dirt she’d missed on her chin. In fact, it appeared the green eye was ringed with it.

  “I would sooner drown than be assisted by you.”

  The little witch. She could not be unaware of her appealing appearance. Had doubtless practiced the sultry look until her lips held just the right fullness, her eyes the perfect come-hither sparkle.

  He cleared his throat. “I have apologized for the distress I have brought upon you. I will be sleeping on the floor while you repair in my bed. Despite my exhaustion, I have waited up half the night to be certain of your comfort.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “’Twas my thinking you would prefer the service of a blind man to help you from your bath. Since you obviously have no objections to presenting your unclothed body to anyone, I shall summon Eustace forthwith. You have my wishes for a speedy recovery.”

  Pretending to grope for balance, he turned. Hesper was eyeing the proceedings with a good deal of interest from where she stood near the bed. He took slow, deliberate steps toward the door.

  Insolent daughter of a hellhound. How had he managed to find appeal in her tart tongue, to enjoy her stinging humor?

  What lowly Saxon wench would dare instruct a lord’s son on the proper manner of gutting a person? Who would dare chastise a lord of the realm for bellowing like a bull? What brazen miscreant would dare demean a baron’s chamberlain with a name like Spindleshanks?

  That Sperville remained fond of the wench gave him pause. Strange. The chamberlain was not given to lightly regarding such insults.

  Unwelcome thoughts on her advice to Ronces claimed his head. Never underestimate your opponent. ’Twas a lesson Ronces would not soon forget. Indeed, it might someday save his life.

  Very well, then. The wench had spirit. He would not begrudge her that. Still, ’twas a shame such a clever woman should be so corrupt. Though why he should feel disappointment over it was beyond him.

  “A moment, mi’lord,” Golde entreated just as he reached the door, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

  He glanced over his shoulder in her direction, careful to keep his gaze above her head.

  “Your forgiveness. If you would assist me?”

  He turned back. Though he felt like crowing, he made sure no hint of triumph registered on his face. “As you wish.”

  He shuffled forward and again let his knees bump the bath, then ran a hand along the tub’s rim. Upon reaching her upper arm, he felt his way to her shoulder. Her cold wet hair contrasted sharply with the soft warmth that radiated from her damp flesh. Lean in the way of woodland creatures, he recalled Spindleshanks’ description.

  Fit she was, he would concede. But more in the way of a sly, sylvan nymph, not some innocent woodland creature. Indeed, it felt as if her skin were growing hotter beneath his touch. She shivered when his fingertips touched her collarbone.

  He placed his other hand on her. Leaning closer, he smoothed his palms over her shoulders. He even managed a part in the curtain of hair where it fell over her breasts.

  “You need not grope my entire body,” she groused.

  He stilled, staring over her shoulder at her chest. Whore’s gleet. Another moment, and he might have glimpsed something worthwhile about her person.

  He blinked as another thought occurred. Mayhap she knew he was looking at her. That he could see.

  “How am I to find purchase to lift you when I cannot see?” he snapped, intent on disguising his lecherous fondling. “All I can feel is hair. Mayhap you could assist by guiding my hands.”

  Her muscles tensed and she emitted a harsh little croak. Before she could say anything, Hesper appeared at his side.

  “There, dearie.” The old woman patted Golde’s shoulder with nervous, birdlike movements. Then she gathered the hair at Golde’s nape and pulled it back.

  Gavarnie near strangled. He could see, all right. By the Blessed Virgin, he could see. Breasts. Round, water-slickened flesh. Ripe, berry-red nipples, stiffened by cold. Were they as succulent as they appeared?

  “If ye bend a bit more, yer lordship,” Hesper instructed, “and lean forward.”

  Faith, if he leaned any farther he’d fall face-first in the bath.

  “That’s it,” Hesper encouraged. “Now, Mistress Golde, wrap yer arms ’bout his neck.”

  Golde’s low groan registered in Gavarnie’s head as she did Hesper’s bidding. Pain? The sound was more guttural than the moans of pleasure he’d heard last night. Still, he dared not look to see her expression.

  Cradling her neck with one arm, he dipped the other in the tepid water and slid his hand beneath her bottom to her knees. At her sharp intake of breath, he asked, “I have hurt you?”

  She shook her head where it leaned against his chest. Faith, how could flesh be so soft, yet so firm? And the scent that surrounded her; morning flowers and dew. Where had she come by such a fragrance? He lifted her from the water, anxious to lay her on the bed, that he might inspect her more closely.

  He scowled when he turned to find Hesper right in front of him, a drying linen in her hands. Whore’s gleet. The old woman was too efficient by far. Marshaling his features, he strode forward as if he hadn’t seen her.

  “Hold, yer lordship,” Hesper squawked, and began rubbing at Golde’s body.

  “Hesper,” she gasped. “Have a care.”

  “I’m doin’ me best, dearie. Wouldn’t want you catchin’ cold.” Hesper patted the cloth around, then draped it over Golde. “There, mi’lord.” She took his elbow and guided him to the bed. “Here we are.”

  Hesper threw the covers back and he squelched the urge to dismiss her. “Nice and gentle, now,” she admonished. “There ar’nt a place on her poor body that ar’nt black and blue.”

  He lay Golde on the bed and forced himself to pull his hands from beneath her, though he did manage to drag the drying linen from atop her. Straightening, he glanced down. Her face was twisted in an agonized grimace, and he could not look away.

  By the blood of Christ. Hesper’s words were no idle claim. What he’d thought was dirt around her eye and chin was in fact bruised flesh. His gaze swept lower. Indeed, her ribs and legs sported dark purple lesions, one on her thigh the exact shape of a round shoe-toe.

  He clenched his teeth to keep his temper from erupting. By all that was holy, the churlish villagers would pay for their cruelty. He would . . .

  Hesper moved to apply the drying cloth, and he unfocused his gaze. He would w
hat? Hang the entire village?

  Golde was the enemy, he reminded himself sternly. She’d got no more than she deserved.

  “If that is all, Hesper?” He forced a neutral tone.

  “We’re quite right now, yer lordship.”

  He turned and headed toward the door.

  “Mi’lord,” Golde rasped, halting him. “What became of Sir Nigel?”

  Gavarnie didn’t look back. That she dared to ask after the steward, as if she cared. ’Twas difficult to separate his jaws to speak, so great was his anger. “Sir Nigel is well. He returned to the castle to raise the hue and cry.”

  She mumbled something as he started forward again. He didn’t ask her to repeat herself. If he did not remove himself from the room, he was like to kill her.

  To think he’d felt guilt over his treatment of her at Sigi’s; was ready to believe the tales she’d spun about his children.

  And what of Trelle and Stephan? His words of comfort had done nothing to ease the grief their families felt.

  Two good men who would be hard to replace. Two good men who’d given their last breath to protect him. Two good men, dead because of Golde’s treachery.

  FOURTEEN

  ME APOLOGIES for me tardiness, mistress." Hesper bustled into the bedchamber carrying clean linen. “Wot with preparin’ for all them guests that’ll soon be arrivin’, a body ar’nt got time to spit, much less care for sick folk.”

  She kicked the door shut and moved to dump the pile of laundry on the foot of the bed. “How are ye feelin’ this afternoon?”

  Golde leaned forward where she sat propped against a host of pillows. “Afternoon already?” she gritted, unable to keep the drip of sarcasm from her tone. “I can scarce believe time’s fleetness.”

  She stilled while Hesper tied her hair back. Would the pain in her ribs never cease? Though five days had passed since the attack, she had yet to draw a breath that did not hurt.

  Hesper patted her hair. “There ye be, mistress.” The serving woman drew the covers away and shook her head as her gaze scanned Golde’s nude body. “I can’t sees how these hot soaks is doin’ ye any good. All this gettin’ up and down when ye can scarce sit. And yer still black and blue. Ye ought to be restin’. Won’t hurt none for ye to miss one day’s bath.”

  Golde gingerly slid her legs over the edge of the bed. “Nonsense.” She dug her nails into the sheets and waited for the pain to relent. “Look how improved I am. Lord Gavarnie will be pleased that I can reach the tub without his assistance.”

  Hesper rolled her eyes. “There’s some folks wot’s too stubborn for their own good.”

  Golde cast her a vicious look, but apparently the woman had become immune to such after five days in her company. All she did was cluck her tongue.

  Curling her lip, Golde peered down at the floor. It seemed a furlong distant, so high was the bed. Praise the saints she was tall. She grimaced. It was now or never. The pain had eased as much as it would. She let herself slip down the bedside, and her breath caught when her feet reached the floor. Iron tongs of pain, white-hot, clamped about her ribs.

  She clutched Hesper’s hand and waited for the tongs’ pressure to fade.

  “Please, mistress. Let me fetch his lordship.”

  Golde shook her head, then shuffled forward, bent at the waist like an old crone. Steam rose from the bath, and she used Hesper’s arm for leverage once she reached the tub. Heat stung her flesh and she panted while lowering herself into the bath. Then she sighed as the water began working its magic.

  She soaked for the better part of half an hour while Hesper busied herself folding laundry and tidying the room. When she rose at last, she truly felt some relief. The pain in her ribs had subsided to a dull ache, and she waved Hesper’s hand away when she stepped from the tub. For the first time in days, she stood fully erect. Still, she allowed Hesper to dry her, anxious to do nothing that might aggravate her condition.

  Clothing required more effort than it was worth, and she climbed back into bed wearing naught. Settling herself against the pillows, she posed the question that had plagued her for several days. “Who has been caring for the children?”

  Hesper drew a bedsheet over her. “Sir Sperville, Roland, and me been sharing turns, but his lordship keeps them with him most of the day. ’Tis such a pleasure ta’ see the four of them together.”

  “The four of them?”

  “Aye. Nicolette goes right along with the boys.” Golde frowned. “But I thought Gav—er—the baron spent most of the day practicing with his sword and bow.”

  “Well, whose eyes do ye s’pose he uses?” Hesper beamed. “His lordship is a clever man. He lets the children tell him where to strike and makes a merry game of it all. ’Tis amazin’ to see how he hits the target when he takes to his bow and arrows. Dead center ever’ time. And with only the children tellin’ him where to aim.”

  A knock sounded at the door and Hesper hurried to answer it.

  Golde pursed her lips. Gavarnie and the children? Each day, after the noon meal, he came to carry her to and from the tub. Each eve he came to bathe the sweat from his body after working his muscles all day.

  He e’re took gentle care with her person and entertained her with tales of this lord, or that lady. But not once had he mentioned the children.

  She was distracted from her thoughts when Hesper swung the door wide and two shaggy serving boys—Dirt and Grime, as she’d come to think of them—entered the room.

  Whispering between themselves, their eyes darting in all directions, they scrambled to the bath. Dirt unstoppered the tub, which would drain through pipes into the Solent. Grime tugged on the rope at the drawing point where water buckets were passed from floor to floor.

  “I’m off to the kitchens,” Hesper called from the door. “His lordship will be up forthwith to bathe.”

  Golde glanced at the window. Judging from the sun’s light, there were yet a good four hours left to the day. “Why does he come so early?” she queried, turning back to Hesper. But the woman was already gone.

  A lever squeaked over the drawing point and Grime grabbed a bucket as it came through the hole in the floor, “’urry up, pea-pate,” he snapped at Dirt while holding the pail.

  “Can’t make it go no faster, dunghead,” Dirt replied, waiting for the water to drain.

  Golde snatched at the tie that held her hair and dragged her fingers through the tangled mess. A pox on Hesper for leaving before seeing to her appearance. She must look . . .

  Witless girl. What difference whether she glowed with beauty or oozed pus? She dropped her hands to her lap. Gavarnie could not see.

  Water splashed as Grime emptied a pail in the bath, and she glared at the huge posts at the foot of the mattress. Faith, she was sick unto death of lying abed. She plucked at the bed linen and wiggled her toes. The easing of pain had done naught to improve her spirits. Rather, she was anxious to be up and about.

  The sound of boots thumping in the corridor drew her attention and she stilled, eyeing the open door. A moment later, Gavarnie gusted into the room, half dragging Roland, who clung to his elbow in an attempt to guide him.

  “My gray tunic, boy, and be quick.”

  The squire hurried to the wardrobe while Gavarnie strode toward the tub, stripping a sweat-ringed, brown short-shirt over his head.

  His shoulder muscles bunched as he tossed the shirt to the floor, and Golde stared at his back. ’Twas strong and weathered—thick—pebbled with holes as if it had been struck by hail. A back that would never break, no matter the load it carried.

  Abruptly Gavarnie’s gaze swept in her direction and she lowered her head as heat stung her cheeks. By the raven! He was appealing, with his dark looks and hard features. A swarthy demon come to steal her soul.

  Memories of his touch when he’d carried her to and from the bath each day caressed her flesh. His hands e’re seemed to linger on the twitchiest of places.

  “Mistress.” His voice was like a burr rubbed against se
nsitive skin.

  She raised her head enough to see him bow.

  “My, uh . . . my apologies for my haste.” He felt for the tub’s edge without taking his gaze from her direction. “I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I have ordered a feast prepared for this eve, as more of my guests have arrived.”

  What was he dithering over? She frowned and looked him full in the face. Since the attack, his eyes always appeared unfocused, not sharp like they had before.

  Mayhap the fall from his horse had injured him more than he let on.

  She licked her lips as worry nettled about in her head. “Mi’lord, are you—”

  “How goes it?” he asked before she could finish.

  “I am truly improved. Indeed, you will be pleased to know I have already bathed.”

  “So I se—er—smell,” he stammered, then added quickly, “Those fragrances you add to the water are most pleasing.”

  “Yer tub is ready, yer lordship,” Grime announced.

  Gavarnie tugged at a boot. “’Tis a shame you cannot attend the festivities this eve.”

  Golde pushed herself to sit up straighter. “Oh, but I could. I would need some assistance up and down the—”

  Abruptly Gavarnie’s eyes crossed and a deep-chested coughing fit seized him. Before Golde could rise to give aid, Roland hurried from the wardrobe.

  The squire threw Gavarnie’s clothing on the bed. “Mi’lord, you are ill?”

  Gavarnie gasped, his eyes watering. “Something,” he pointed at his throat, “in the air.” Patting his chest, he straightened. “Fetch me something to drink.”

  His eyes shifted toward Dirt and Grime, and his tone grew agitated. “You two, hie yourselves to the kitchens.”

  Both boys made a clattering dash for the door while Roland darted to the water stand, upon which sat a pitcher.

  Golde studied Gavarnie. His behavior was most strange. Did she not know better, she would think him about to have a fit of vapors. Perplexed, she crossed her arms over her chest.

  Christ’s blood!

  She looked down and her jaw dropped. At some point the bed linen had slipped, baring her breasts for all to see. Snatching the sheet to her neck, she slouched back against the pillows as heat spread from her chest, up her neck, and across her face.