Love at First Sight Page 14

  An insidious thought snaked through her head. Her gaze whipped to Gavarnie, who stood rubbing his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. The cunning bastard. Was it possible he could see?

  “Mi’lord.” Roland thrust a cup of water in his hand.

  He drained it, then groused, “At your leisure, Roland. I could have strangled ere now, and I have but a half-legion of lords and ladies awaiting my presence.”

  Roland bent to remove his remaining boot, and Gavarnie grasped the youth’s head for balance. Abruptly his brows swooped down, while his nose drew up in a pucker. “You are putting fat in your hair again?”

  “It’s too curly,” Roland mumbled, his face reddening as he rose to unlace Gavarnie’s braies.

  “I look like a girl,” Gavarnie whined, then his tone became exasperated. “I tell you, boy, the ladies are most fond of curly locks. You do yourself a disservice by slicking them thus. Ask yon maid.” He gestured in Golde’s direction.

  She relaxed. Gavarnie would hardly be discussing Roland’s hair if he’d caught her in such a compromising position. He’d yet be ogling her charms.

  That he was not was unaccountably disappointing.

  Without warning, Roland pushed his master’s braies downward, and Golde found a sudden interest in the rough, wood-beamed ceiling. Faith, the squire was so rattled, he’d forgot to draw the tub curtains.

  Before she could say aught, Gavarnie prodded, “What say you, mistress? Do you not find curly-haired men pleasing to the eye?”

  Was it her imagination, or was the last question spoken with a hint of . . . what? Challenge? Nay. ’Twas more like trickery. She glanced at him, hoping to determine his intent by his countenance.

  Her eyes rounded and she jerked her gaze back to the ceiling. He was facing her direction with his hands on his hips. Had anyone asked what his chest or legs looked like, she could not have said. Her gaze had been drawn squarely to his—

  ’Od rot! She could no longer even think straight. Had she not seen men a’plenty with nothing on? In fact, she had seen Gavarnie nude her first night at Skyenvic.

  Golde opened her mouth, prepared to inform Gavarnie that the curtains hadn’t been drawn. Just as quickly, she clamped her jaws shut. The dunderwit would likely tease her for noticing.

  “Well,” he persisted with the curly-hair issue. “Have you suddenly been rendered speechless?”

  She would not look upon his unclothed form again, despite the devilish little voice that urged her to do so. “’Tis well known amongst females that curly-haired men make the best lovers.” Take that, mi’lord straight-hair. “They are more considerate than other men and make the best husbands.”

  “Truth tell?” Roland asked.

  She covered her heart with her hand. “On my honor.”

  “There, you see?” Gavarnie demanded, his voice suddenly churlish. “Just have a care that all these females do not coax you to the altar with sweet words of praise. Now, are my clothes laid out?”

  “They are on the bed,” Roland answered cheerfully.

  “Then fetch the children from Spin—uh, Sir Sperville, and care for them that he may attend my guests until I arrive.”

  “Who will attend you?” Roland asked.

  “I can tend to myself.”

  “But who will—”

  “Begone, boy. Mistress can assist me if need be.”

  A plopping sound in the water told Golde that Gavarnie had stepped into the tub. Then water swished, and she knew he’d immersed himself.

  Her gaze wavered from the ceiling, then trailed to where he’d settled with his back to her. Had he truly wished Roland to fetch the children? Or did he wish to be alone with her? The thought warmed her with happiness.

  ’Twas a moment before she noticed Roland’s beseeching look. He gestured at her with upturned hands, silently asking if she would care for Gavarnie’s needs. Immediately, doubt replaced the flush of joy that had settled over her.

  Gavarnie had spent much time with her these five days past. Far from being a woman-hater, as her disturbed imaginings had portrayed him that evening at Sigi’s, he was most courteous and respectful. Indeed, he was charming. And therein lay the problem. She was fast coming to find him irresistible.

  Roland repeated his hand gesture, only, now a frown puckered his forehead. If she shook her head, would he stay?

  Nay, she was being foolish. She nodded emphatically and made a shooing motion with one hand while maintaining a solid grip on the sheet with the other. The squire’s countenance cleared and, bowing, he took his leave.

  “’Twas kind of you to reassure the boy,” Gavarnie remarked the moment the door closed behind Roland. “He e’re worries over his hair.”

  His thoughtful tone pricked Golde’s inwit. That he would compliment her when her intent had been to put a tuck in his tail. “Youth is an awkward time,” she commented, low-voiced. “Roland is fortunate to have an understanding lord.”

  Her gaze followed his hand as he slowly dragged a lump of soap over his shoulder. “If I am understanding, ’tis because I am familiar with Roland’s plight.”

  “How is that?”

  He shrugged. “I was oft concerned with my blemished appearance as a youth.”

  “But look how handsomely you have matured.”

  The muscles in his shoulders grew rigid. “Handsomely?”

  She winced. The statement had leapt from her lips before she’d thought.

  “Pockmarks suit you.”

  He shot an angry glance over his shoulder. “Do you imply I am flawed inside as well as out?”

  “Nay!” God, she was fuddling the matter. “I mean that you are the type of man who . . . is more attractive . . . that is, the scars lend a sense of . . . strength to your countenance.”

  Scowling, he turned away, and several moments passed before he spoke again. “I was unaware women preferred curly-haired men.”

  At any other time, his disgruntled tone would have been laughable. But she sensed a rawness in his feelings that near wrung her heart. “I lied.”

  His head swiveled in her direction. “You gave your word of honor,” he accused childishly.

  For the first time since the attack, it appeared he was looking directly at her. “Have you not heard,” she queried, staring into his black eyes. “Women have no honor.”

  A look of concentration settled over his features. “That is so. Yet your words eased Roland’s discomfort, thus your intent was honorable.”

  As he spoke, her gaze slid to his lips. She recalled vividly the crippling pleasure they had wrought the night she’d taunted him with his children’s thick-comings. How she longed to feel them trail fire down her neck again, to feel them pressed against other secret places.

  “There was nothing honorable in my intent.” She looked away. “I sought only to hurt you.”

  Silence followed her words, and she kept her gaze latched on the bedposts. Though her admission left her feeling like the lowest of worms, it had the effect she’d hoped for. No longer did her body rage with desire.

  “Your reasoning eludes me,” he said at last, his tone patient. “I cannot see how you thought to distress me with what you said.”

  Was the man serious? She glanced over to find him yet peering at her.

  “Your hair is straight, is it not?” she asked.

  For a moment he appeared puzzled. Then one black brow soared heavenward. “You will have to do better than that, mistress, to pierce my thick hide. Mayhap you should tell me why you wished to hurt me. Surely it is due to some terrible deformity in my nature.”

  Golde grinned, relieved he had not taken offense. “Truth tell, the more I am in your company, the less fault I can find.” She sat up straighter, dragging the sheet with her. “’Tis most annoying to discover a person whose perfection so nearly matches my own.”

  “Such modesty.” Chuckling, he turned away to soap himself vigorously.

  Golde sobered, anxious to settle matters while he was in good spirits. “Mi’lord, n
ow that I am on the mend, I would discuss arrangements for my return home.”

  He stilled for a moment, then felt for a pitcher that sat on the rim of the tub. Dousing his hair, he scrubbed and rinsed it, making her wait for his reply. Finally he groped for the drying cloth Roland had left on a stool beside the bath. “Hesper says you are yet badly bruised and can scarce walk.”

  “I thought . . .” She hesitated, then cleared her throat. “I thought you might be glad to rid yourself of me.”

  Slowly he rose from the tub, presenting her with his buttocks. The thickwitted oaf. He had not asked her to stay, as she’d hoped. Indeed, as she’d prayed. Her throat convulsed and she swallowed hard. She would miss the miserable cur.

  He dragged the drying cloth over his shoulders and back, then turned to face her, running it over his chest. “I am in no hurry to be rid of you.”

  His voice sounded lazy and her eyes followed the towel as he rubbed lower. She winced. It had been foolish to imagine he might want her to remain at—

  Her gaze flew to his face. “What?”

  “I find I have grown most fond of your presence, mistress. I am in no hurry to see you gone. As well, there has been a great dearth of nursemaids knocking at my door, anxious to care for my sweet children. ’Twould be comforting to know you might be interested in caring for them on a more permanent basis. Once you are healed, of course.”

  He wrapped the cloth about his waist and stepped from the tub, but not before her lecherous eyes had glimpsed his engorged shaft. Even now, its tip was clearly defined beneath the white linen.

  He wanted her. The knowledge made her long to hug her knees to her chest, but she didn’t dare. Instead, she crossed her legs beneath the sheets, squeezing her thighs together.

  “I do not believe your sweet children would be thrilled to think of me as their nursemaid on a permanent basis.”

  “It matters not what they think. I am their father and know what is best for them. And that is you, mistress.”

  Golde felt that her heart might float from her chest. That he would pay her such a compliment.

  He approached the bed with cautious deliberation. “Where has Roland laid my clothes?”

  “At the foot of the mattress,” she directed, eyeing his progress with no little interest. Each step he took parted the drying cloth to expose a goodly portion of his right thigh. Faith! but it appeared rock-hewn, just like his buttocks.

  He ran a hand along the sheets until he located his apparel, then looked in her direction. “I trust you will tell me if I am not properly dressed.”

  His eyes held the black magic of a glomung sun and his hair glistened like star-studded jet. He dropped the drying linen.

  By the Blessed Virgin! The man could not be unaware of his arousal. It rose thickly from a dark matting of hair, as if in challenge.

  She licked her lips. Was that his intent? To challenge her? ’Twas a battle she would lose, she thought. His lips had sucked every bit of denial from her during those few moments of passion that one night.

  He bent to feel about for his clothing, and she summoned a cool tone. “Have a care, mi’lord.”

  He stilled, and his gaze seemed to bore into her. “Have a care?”

  “That you do not poke yourself in the eye.”

  His features hardened. “Poke myself in the eye?” Inexplicably, she felt uncomfortable. His tone was almost accusing. Clearly, he had no idea to what she referred.

  “Your shaft is so stiff, I fear you may do yourself injury.”

  ’Twas a moment before a smile overtook his lips. “Never have I been laid so low.”

  He affected an effeminate voice and tossed his head, running his fingers through his hair. “Here I have given you full leisure to view my charms and you do naught but make jests.”

  Golde giggled, clutching her ribs. “I beg you, do not make me laugh.”

  He finally located his braies. “’Tis the least you deserve. I can only assume much has changed since I lost my sight. In times past, women could not keep their hands from me. They used to fight one another to sit at my feet, so great was their adoration.”

  His braies secured, he wrapped a silver belt about his waist. A good hand’s span in width, the belt was studded with huge rubies. “Indeed, ’tis a miracle I am yet in one piece.”

  Grabbing a pair of silver-buckled boots, he sat on the bed. “Poke myself in the eye,” he muttered as he yanked the boots over his feet.

  He rose and swept a robe over one shoulder, then turned to pose for her. Licking the tip of one pinky finger, he ran it over his brows. “Hmph!” He planted a hand on one hip and headed for the door, hips rolling.

  “To think I considered submitting myself to the curling tongs, knowing your fondness for curly-haired men. ’Twill not happen now, ungrateful wench.”

  He yanked the door open and sallied forth, slamming it behind him.

  Golde stared after him. She would never have believed he could be so handsome. Dressed in silver-shot, gray finery, he approached the blinding beauty of a god.

  ’Twas some time before his absurd imitation of femininity struck her. Grabbing her ribs, she gasped between bursts of merriment. A pox on the odious fool.

  FIFTEEN

  THE SWEET SCENT of honey roused Golde from sleep to consciousness. It smelled delicious. Doubtless, Hesper had delivered warm bread to go with it. ’Twas a morning routine that had evolved during her recovery these two weeks past.

  Rolling to her side, Golde tried to open her eyes, expecting to find a tray of food at the bedside. Instead, her eyelashes felt glued together.

  She frowned and ran her fingertips over her lashes. Her fingers came away gooey.

  Had she caught some dread disease? Her heart flopped sickly in her chest. Prying at her lids, she rose to sit.

  Hair clung to her arms and breasts in clumps. She swiped at it, only to have it stick to her hands. What the devil?

  Abruptly she stilled.

  ’Twas no devil, but three evil sprites. They’d poured honey over her head!

  Plague take the brats! Her vision blurry, she scrambled from the bed to light a candle against the early morning shadows. Then she marched to locate her clothing in the wardrobe. It, too, was drenched with honey. Her hands shook with rage as she struggled to don the sticky apparel.

  Yestermorn she’d awakened to hopping toads beneath the sheets. At the time, she’d thought it best to ignore the childish prank. Her anger might only encourage the little beasts. But this—she yanked at the tunic where it was stuck to her chainse—this was more than she would tolerate.

  Just wait until Gavarnie returned from the king’s reception. She’d roast his ears with the foul deeds his children had committed during his absence.

  The hems of her chainse and tunic wrapped about her calves, she spied her boots to one side of the wardrobe. Were they full of honey as well?

  She dropped them a scant moment after picking them up. ’Twas not honey they held, but worse; cow dung, judging from the odor.

  The little monsters had breathed their last, she swore. She would not await Gavarnie’s return on the morrow. Nay, she would kill his children today.

  “Mistress Golde?” Hesper’s call interrupted her thoughts.

  Tromping from the wardrobe, she found the serving maid at the bedside, a breakfast tray in her hands.

  “My, but ye are up and about . . .” Hesper’s words trailed away and her brows rose.

  “Where are they?” Golde demanded.

  Hesper blinked. “Who?”

  “The children!”

  “Yer clothes . . . and yer hair,” Hesper gasped. “They poured honey on me while I slept, and my shoes are filled with dung.”

  Rather than frown with disgust, the older woman smiled benevolently. “Ah. The little dearlings.”

  Golde stared. “Little dearlings! You are more daft than their father. He will doubtless congratulate them for their ingenuity.”

  Hesper’s features softened, as did her t
one. “Can ye not see? The children are jealous of the attention his lordship pays ye.”

  “Jealous!” Golde crossed her arms over her chest and glared at the serving maid. Then she frowned. “Jealous?” Truth tell, Gavarnie had made her feel like a Celtic princess with the attention he’d lavished on her these weeks past. Fashioning a sling-type chair, he’d placed it before the window, that she might enjoy the sunset. On eves when he could escape the lords and ladies who now camped about Skyenvic, he would join her there. The tales he’d spun of Hindward the Horrible, a knight who e’re did everything backward, were worthy of any bard.

  Later, once she’d healed enough to move about, he’d carried her downstairs, that she might enjoy the banqueting festivities. Despite the crush of important guests who dined at his table, he’d always made space for her, seating her directly on his right.

  Indeed, his manner toward her was so courtly that Lady Gundrada had waspishly inquired if there were a match in the making. ’Twas then that Golde had felt an undercurrent pass between Gavarnie and the woman. Clearly the two shared some secret—likely an illicit liaison.

  Golde swallowed the anger that rose like bile in her breast. She would think no more on Lady Gundrada. Instead, she concentrated on the matter of Gavarnie’s children.

  Gavarnie had forbidden them to come near her. “I will not have them disturbing you until you are well,” he’d said.

  Golde lowered her gaze to study the floor. Aye. The children were jealous, and who could blame them? ’Twas easy to imagine her disgust had her father entertained another woman during her youth. Indeed, she might not be overpleased were such to occur now.

  She winced. How could she have been so dullwitted? Not once had she given Gavarnie’s children a second thought. ’Twould now be doubly difficult to reestablish herself as their nursemaid. They probably hated her.

  She clenched her teeth and raised her head. Dolt. What was she thinking? Since when had it mattered what others felt toward her, especially children? Selfish little miscreants. Did they think they owned their father?