No guard stood before the door to the book chamber, and the latch lifted without benefit of key. A brace of wax candles lighted the chamber with a warm glow. It was redolent with heady scents. Cristina stood by the window, the shutters open despite the rain outside. When he closed the door she ran to him and threw herself against his chest.
“Oh, my lord. God bless you.”
He grunted and gripped her shoulders. Gently he set her aside. “You’ll finish what Tillet began,” he said, and laughed at the stricken look on her face.
“You’re in pain.” She took his hand and inspected it. “Come. I’ve prepared a salve for your wounds.”
“In a moment; first I must thank you. ‘Twas your cry that distracted Tillet. It was his undoing.”
“My fear got the better of me.” She squeezed his hand.
“And saved my life.” He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers.
He had meant only to thank her and see that she was truly released. He had meant to do no more than stand at the door and tell her he was glad all was now as it should be.
Instead he followed her across the chamber to the hearth, his hand in hers. “What is this you’re cooking?” he asked to avoid all other topics that lay between them—the trial, the king’s caprice, his own desire for her.
“The salve. ‘Tis best if warm.”
Durand used a horn spoon to stir a small pot wrapped in warm cloth. Bringing the spoon to his nose, he drew in a deep breath. “This smells wonderful…almost mesmerizing.”
She took the bowl from him. “If you will allow me, my lord,” she began. “I would tend your wounds.” Her eyes were downcast, and he remembered the time she had tended his hand, and the intense arousal he’d felt from her mere touch.
Silence stood between them. The air was filled with more than the seductive scents of her salve. It crackled with heated tension.
“Have you a need to see to the child?” he asked, glancing about.
“She was brought to me ere you arrived.”
“Why is she not here then?”
Her face was suddenly blank of expression. “The queen requested that Alice take her away. If Felice grows hungry, Alice will bring her here.”
Durand put a hand on her shoulder. “On the morrow I’ll see that everything is returned to how it was. But for now…I have not the strength.”
Cristina covered his hand. All would never be the same. But for now he was barely standing upright. He had defeated death and now deserved peace.
“Come,” she whispered, and led him by the hand to her pallet. She pulled back the furs and removed the stones that were warming its surface, then sat back on her heels.
He looked down at the comforting bedding and, without any thought save the succor it offered, he drew off his mantle, then his tunic and shirt. She helped him with the rest. Finally he lay down on the warmed bedding.
He closed his eyes, stretched his arms over his head, and groaned at the pull of his strained muscles.
Cristina had never seen a man so wonderfully made. The chilly air tightened his nipples, and she felt her own tighten, not from the cold but from arousal. She pulled the shutters closed and picked up the bowl of salve. It lay warm and heavy in her hands as she bore it to the pallet.
As she drew near, she saw angry red welts on his legs, though his chausses had protected him from more.
“Oh, my lord,” she said softly. She set the bowl on the floor and touched his calf where the imprint of the links of mail stood out clearly against his flesh.
“They will be but bruises on the morrow,” he said.
But she shook her head, denying his words.
The salve was wonderfully warm when she drew it along his leg. Every muscle in his body tensed. He shivered in anticipation. She noticed and sat back. Wiping her fingers on a strip of linen, she picked up one of the furs from the pallet and made to drape it across his body.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice hoarse, and she laid it aside. He met her eyes, and then her gaze swept down his body to his leg. “Your glance is like a hand on my skin.”
With the grace of a forest sprite, she perched on her heels and tipped her head. “Would that I could heal this with a look.”
She spread her palm on his bruised leg, and a shudder ran from there to his spine. “Cristina,” he whispered.
With a hand so gentle not even his flights of fancy would conjure greater joy, she smoothed the salve across his skin.
This was what he had envisioned, her warm hands ministering to his body as she had once cared for his hands. His fingers curled into fists at the thought. He closed his eyes. Every muscle in his upper body hurt from swinging the sword and lifting the heavy shield. His testicles still ached from Tillet’s knee. Yet he craved her touch—everywhere.
“Tell me if I hurt you,” she whispered.
He did not answer. He was incapable of words.
She massaged his feet, his calves, and in long sweeps of her hands, his thighs. His body responded despite the twinges of sensation in his groin.
Every now and then, her hair grazed his skin as she moved by inches up his body. He opened his eyes when she shifted her attentions to his arms.
“How will I ever thank you?” she said by his ear, so softly he almost thought he had dreamed the whisper of a forest sprite.
The silk of her hair brushed over his chest. It was both a delight and an agony.
“Your cry evened the score,” he managed. “Think no longer on it.”
He looped his arms about her neck and drew her down to his mouth. Her tongue and lips were fever warm. He entangled his fist in her hair and held her close, but she ducked and evaded his embrace.
She dipped her fingers into the salve, and he put his arms over his head again to allow her to smooth it on his skin. He would be black and blue in a few hours without it.
This time she took even longer to spread the cream on his skin. She traced the shape of the muscles of his biceps and traveled gently along the veins that roped his forearms.
“You’re so strong,” she said. Her fingers touched his torque. “And this your symbol of power.”
“I’m weak where you’re concerned,” he returned. In fact, his body ached for release despite his weakness. Each touch, each sweep of her hands on him drew him ever closer to the precipice of his need.
She spread her hands on the insides of his upper arms and drew her fingers down the tender flesh to his shoulders. The massage there drew a gasp from him, yet he did not want her to stop. From his shoulders she ran her hands to his chest. She bent her head and touched her tongue to each of his nipples, her hair floating across his groin.
“I want you so much,” he said, thrusting his fingers into her hair. “Just once…It is…a promise I cannot keep.”
Her answer was silent and sent shivers of molten sensations rolling through him. As he had done to her the previous night, she kissed him from his chest to his belly. As he had, she continued, laving him with slow and tender licks and kisses. Her breath heated his manhood, and he drew up his knees in reflex to what would come next—her mouth on him.
“Sweet Cristina,” he said in a gasp when she gently touched him with her salve-slick fingertips. Each small movement of her fingers, each touch of her tongue on him, each caress of her breath tugged him closer and closer to the precipice.
Just when he could bear no more, she drew away and stood up. She removed her russet gown and shift, folding them neatly, and he fed his arousal with the sight of her as she moved.
She knelt at his side, blessedly naked. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she said.
“I cannot imagine any pain more powerful than the pleasure you have wrought with your hands and lips,” he said, and reached for her.
His arms were warm and slick with the salve as he drew her astride him. The candles guttered and one went out. The shadows intensified and lent the hard lines of his face a gentler aspect.
The heat of his body made the scent of her salve more pungent. Dill was considered an aphrodisiac, and she feared for a moment that it was that which caused the heat within her and the hardness pressing between her thighs.
Nay, she thought, I’ll not allow it to be the salve that kindles this flame in him. If I’m to have no other night save this, no other to remember when I’m old and alone, I’ll not allow it to be one tainted by magic or medicine.
She licked along the line of his lower lip. He captured her mouth for a kiss whilst his hands ran down her spine to cup her buttocks. She arched away from him that his mouth might come against her breast.
He kneaded her against his arousal as he kissed her breasts. Each touch of his tongue raised such a heat within her, she thought she might cry out at the pure pleasure of it.
This was not the salve. This was something between them that had existed from the instant they had met. It entwined them more strongly than any vine entwined an ancient tree.
It would wither in the sunlight.
When their lips met again he moaned, for as they joined their mouths, they joined their bodies. They moved in concert, his body buried so deeply within her she felt him to her heart. He linked his fingers with hers and stretched their arms overhead, drawing her down on him, kissing her hard, arching his hips to bring himself even more deeply within her.
He tasted of honey and heat.
She could no longer tolerate the ache between her thighs. He gasped when she shifted on him and bore down. With great waves of rapture, she lost all reason, and pressed her face to his throat. The hard metal of his torque showered her ecstasy with a chill.
Durand felt the clench of her body on his and continued to arch beneath her. He sought and yet tried to stay the madness so close upon him. Her breasts filled his hands to overflowing as she abruptly rose up on him, the action settling her so firmly on him, his body so deeply within her, he bucked off the pallet in a final, exquisite release.
He lay panting on his back for several moments just watching the sweet rise and fall of her breasts. Then he drew her down to hold her as close as he could, to know each breath she drew. Her hair tangled on his fingers as he stroked his hands through it again and again. Desire cascaded from his groin with each tiny shift of her body.
“I’ll see to the care of any child you might bear,” he said.
Her body tensed, but she said nothing.
“I’ll see you settled in comfort should such be the result of our time together. You and your babe will never want for anything. I’ll see it written that should I die in Normandy the result will be the same.”
She withdrew. Cold air swept over his sweat-slicked body as she stood up. Her hair swayed across her buttocks as she went to the hearth.
He groaned as he sat up. Had he erred in speaking so boldly? “I have bruises on my bruises,” he said.
Her hair cloaked her when she knelt to build up the flames.
“Have you nothing to say?” he asked.
She shook her head. It was an effort, but he stood up and went to her. “Allow me to do that,” he said.
“I can build a fire, my lord. Any servant can.”
He placed a gentle hand on her chin and lifted her face. “You’re not my servant. Did I think you one, I would not offer to do the task.”
Her dark eyes were warm amber with reflected firelight. Golden streaks filled her hair. “You’re so beautiful,” he said.
“If I’m not your servant, what am I?”
Her breasts were ivory, tipped with dusky brown. He cupped their fullness in his palms. “You are intoxicating, like fine wine.” He touched his lips to hers. “You are healing, your kiss inspiring.” They knelt knee-to-knee before the hearth, heated on one side, cold on the other.
She stretched out on the wooden floor, atop a mattress of naught but rushes, and took him in. Arms about his neck, she ignored the cold press of his torque against her cheek and thought only that he had not really answered her.
* * * * *
When the castle stirred to life, and sentries called out one to another as they changed from night watch to day, Cristina left Durand deeply asleep.
She sought Alice and the babe, then looked about for Joseph. ‘Twas a difficult task with so many in the keep, and she did not want to draw attention to herself. She knew not her status.
She was free, of course, but that did not mean she was welcome anywhere in the keep. If one went by the icy looks from the maids in Felice’s chamber when her care of the babe disturbed their rest, she was no longer welcome there. They probably coveted the Lord of Skirts and resented her as a rival.
Against Alice’s advice, she had put Felice in a sling and taken her off to the privacy of a bench by the stable, away from prying eyes and the light drizzle.
She finally found Joseph cleaning Durand’s mail outside the armory. “His lordship must have a soothing bath for his injuries, but I don’t know how to accomplish it.”
“I’ll see to a tub for him, Mistress. Should I have it sent to the west tower?”
So, everyone knew where Lord Durand was. Cristina looked up at the impregnable stone walls. “Aye. If ‘tis not a burden to carry so much water so high.”
Joseph gave a laugh. “You’ll find that after last night’s battle with that barbarian Tillet, my lord’s pages will carry stones to the roof for him without complaint.”
“He was magnificent, was he not?” she said.
“Aye, Mistress. But I’ve seen him fight before and knew what he was capable of. It did the young ones good to see him, though, as they think him over-learned.”
Cristina tiptoed back into the book chamber. Durand had rolled to his stomach and flung off the furs. Despite her ministrations, his welts were beginning the transformation to livid bruises. She moved quietly to where he lay.
In the clear light of day, she saw scars that underlay the bruised flesh on his arms and legs. He had two ropy ones on his thigh and a long patch of skin someone with little skill had stitched, low on his back, near his hip.
Aldwin should be whipped for such poor work. Then she realized Durand had been on Crusade. Mayhap this was work done on the battlefield. He was lucky to be alive. The wound was as likely to have killed him as the poor tending afterward. None of the marks detracted from the strong warrior beauty of his body.
An urge to join with him swept over her. She badly wanted to wake him, arouse him, taste him. But she did not.
She could not continue in this vein. His words about caring for any child they conceived together told her what she needed to know. They had but a few moments together and that was all.
She drew the furs over him—for her sake, not his.
* * * * *
The clamorous noise of the boys who delivered the tub, and the many buckets of water they brought to fill it, woke him. His head pounded. Cristina was gone. When the tub was filled, she reappeared, slipping silently around the door.
“Where did you hide?” he asked.
“On the wall walk,” she replied, setting Felice on her back next to him on the pallet.
He tickled the babe’s chin and watched her try to capture his finger in her fist. Her little brow knitted into a frown, making her appear to be a wizened old woman. The instant she succeeded in her quest, she tried to put his finger in her mouth.
Cristina went to the mat where several fragrant earthenware bowls sat. She selected one, lifted it to her nose, then went to the tub. He watched as she sprinkled its contents into the bath water.
“What are you doing?” He sat up and groaned, then forced himself upright. He crawled over Felice, then limped to the tub.
“Certain herbs aid healing and do best in warm water.”
“I’m sure Aldwin approves.”
She smiled, and it lit her face with a subtle beauty.
He sank into the hot water. Just as it had been each time he had bathed since she had come to Ravenscliff, the water felt like fine silk against his skin. The heady vapors filled his head with the fragrance of the forest.
“You conjure such pleasure with your touch,” he said. He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“Nay, any woman who knows her herbs could do the same.”
She tugged her hand away and went to the child. He slid down in the warm water, but not so far he could not see Cristina as she sat, the child within the protective circle of her arms.
Cristina kissed Felice’s cheek and traced her tiny ear.
Aye, she thought. Any woman could make him a fine soap or fill his bath with fragrant and healing herbs. Most assuredly Lady Nona would next do these honors—as his wife.
“Cristina, come hither and help me.”
Urgency filled his voice. She hastily placed Felice on her back and hurried to him. “Is something amiss?” She reached out.
He snatched her hand, tugged, and with a shriek she landed in the tub. “Durand!” she cried when he locked his arm about her waist. “Felice will—”
“Will what?” he asked, then licked up her neck with a tongue so hot it almost burned her skin.
“She…she—” Cristina could not think clearly. Her skirts were heavy with water, and she could no more move from his wet embrace than a captured animal could move from a bog.
Felice whimpered a moment, but then settled, sucking vigorously on her fingers, and Cristina felt a giggle bubble up in her throat.
Durand leaned forward and pulled her legs into the tub. “Did you know this is John’s tub? Quite large, is it not? He travels with it everywhere.”
“The king’s tub?” she squealed and tried again to rise. His grip was hard as iron about her waist.
Durand laid his lips against her ear and said, “As he is not in it with us, you can set your fears to rest. In fact, according to Joseph, he sent the tub with his blessings.”
There was little Cristina could do but lay back in his arms.
“When was the last time you bathed in a tub?” he asked.
“When I labored to deliver my babe. Lady Marion saw to it.”
Durand pulled the wet hair draped over her shoulders to one side. He took her chin and turned her face to his. “I’m pleased Marion saw to your care. She could be generous.”
“Aye, she purchased much from Simon, calling him often to the castle. I think she wanted us to prosper.” She ducked her head. “How far we have fallen.”
“Think no longer of Marion or Simon. Think of the joy of life given you this day.” He placed a gentle kiss on her lips.
She shifted in his arms until she was kneeling between his thighs. Propping herself on his chest, she cupped his face and kissed him. Her sodden garments took many moments to remove, but finally she lay in his embrace, wondrously warm and wet.
They took turns soaping the cloth and rubbing it over each other. “Your breasts are—”
“Too large,” she finished, spreading her hands over her chest and frowning.
“Worthy of a troubadour’s song,” he continued. He soaped his hands and rubbed her skin in a leisurely exploration. “If I had some talent, I would compose a tribute to them.”
His teasing tone grew suddenly serious. She watched his eyes, silvery in the sunlight, darken. “‘Tis a madness, this need I have to touch you.” Beneath her hip, his manhood swelled. Without thought, she shifted on him.
She did as he had and soaped her hands, disdaining the cloth. When she placed her hands on his chest, he tipped his head back and rested it on the edge of the tub. She might never use a cloth for bathing again. The feel of his honed muscles beneath her hands, slicked with the soap, was almost as lovely as when she had rubbed the salve on him. He groaned.
“Am I hurting you?” she asked.
“It will hurt only if you stop,” he said with a grin.
She stroked the soap on his nipples with her thumbs, moving over and over them until he snatched her hands and hauled her into his embrace.
He shifted her and tried to pull her astride his hips. The tub was too narrow for what he intended, and they ended with tangled legs, laughing, water sloshing over the tub rim.
But laughter died when he touched her intimately between her thighs. She covered his hand. “You raise such an ache within me,” she said softly. Will I ever know such a touch again? she wondered only to herself.
He watched her from beneath his dark, straight brows, his gaze so intent she closed her eyes lest he see within her and know that she had lost her heart and soul to him.
She shivered and trembled. His arm about her waist held her still to his ministrations. Her control slipped. She whispered entreaties to him—entreaties for release—over and over until the heat burst through her.
Durand felt the heavy thudding of her heart against his chest and saw a flush rise on her breasts.
What was she to him? A lover? An ethereal spirit? A woman of courage? Everything a man could desire?
How could he keep her?