A fathomless groan of appreciation emerged from Giseux’s lips as he lowered his big frame into the tub of hot, steaming water. The servants in Walter’s castle had worked hard, bringing up bucket upon bucket from the kitchens, sloshing it liberally into the generous, circular tub. By propping his neck against the edge, and closing his eyes, he could blot out the drab, unadorned walls of the guest chamber, the bare wooden floors, the empty grate. Hot water was obviously the only luxury to be had in this castle; the chamber was serviceable, but that was all.
What had Brianna’s life been like in this place? He couldn’t imagine her living here, in this cold, bare castle, devoid, empty of all trappings. His hands balled into fists beneath the water-line, jaw rigid at the injustice of her marriage, the sheer utter waste of her character on a husband who failed to appreciate her. He pictured her surrounded by beauty, the rich colours of intricate tapestries framing her slender form, her flawless skin illuminated by millions of candles, cared for by a man who loved her. He pictured her in Provence, in Queen Eleanor’s castle, where he had trained as a knight, walking through the serried rows of lavender, the heavy scent filling the air at the end of a long, hot summer’s day. A beautiful place for a beautiful person. The luminous oval of her face swam into his mind: her soft voice, dulled, hollow, telling him of the travesty of her marriage, the hectic flush of her face when she blurted out her innocence. A lightning bolt of desire lanced through him; he seized the flannel from the side of the tub and began to scrub furiously at his chest, his shoulders.
A light tap at the door. ‘Come,’ he murmured, half-heartedly, resenting the intrusion into his thoughts. ‘Giseux.’
His head whipped around, astonished, droplets flying out from the ends of his wet hair. Brianna? Water clung to the broad muscle at the back of his shoulders, the fading light from the window casting a metallic sheen across his skin.
Her breath caught, clung, words deserting her, swept away on a sudden whirlwind of exhilarating, pulsing desire. An invisible fist squeezed her heart, then released, suddenly, a rush of blood hurtling through her arteries, her veins. Inside her boots, her toes curled, undecided—should she stay, or should she go? Giseux’s naked back, a mass of honed muscle, taunted her: it was a test. Fighting to keep her balance, fighting to keep her senses steady, she wondered if she would pass. The solid muscles flexed beneath his skin, the carved, shadowed line of his spine disappearing beneath the hewn edge of the tub.
‘What is it?’ His eyes roamed over her, predatory. The water dripped like strings of silver chain from his massive arms.
‘Er…’ Her mind scrabbled for the answer to his question: What had she come to tell him? Her breath, once trapped, now emerged, quick, uneven. ‘I…Excuse me, I’m sorry, I’ll come back.’ Her hands fluttered up to her face, as if to ward off, to hide the incredible sight before her, and she twisted away, the curve of her hem whisking, sibilant, against the dusty floorboards.
‘I’m almost finished here,’ Giseux replied. He wanted her to stay, to keep her there.
The door hazed before her vision, the planks shimmering, a blur. Her fingers stretched out in panic, fumbling for the iron ring, the handle to freedom. A delicious throb began to beat in the pit of her stomach, and for one horrible, insane moment she wondered whether her legs would support her.
‘Hold a moment. Brianna, wait. What’s the matter?’
She heard the splosh of water, the distinctive sound of someone standing up, rivulets sliding down naked limbs. A dryness scraped at her mouth. If she just told him, then she could go, run for her life. ‘Matilda doesn’t want to marry Hugh any more…’ the words staggered from her ‘…she’s in love with another man.’
‘So we’ve come all this way for nothing.’
Quick, hot temper, an anger fed by desire, by unravelling feelings over which she had little control, rose at his scathing words. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time!’ She spun round, forgetting. Too late.
Giseux stood in the tub, a white linen towel bunched between his hands. Water sluiced over his magnificent form, emphasising the bulging plates of his chest, the flat, horizontal lines of muscle across his stomach, his narrow hips, his manhood. Framed against the dark oak panelling behind the bath, his tanned silhouette faded to a warm, honeyed hue all over.
Brianna’s eyes slid over him, drinking rapidly, greedily, before they slipped away, aghast at her open perusal. She forced herself to study the grain of the wood in the door, resisting the temptation to press her forehead against those cool planks. Desire pulsed through her, dangerous, incandescent, seizing her with a wild trembling that she fought to control. She pressed shaking fingers to her cheeks, appalled at her reaction to his nakedness.
‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she mumbled weakly, blindly reaching for the iron circle to lift the door latch. Her arms moved like wet rope, sapped of energy.
‘Stay, Brianna, talk to me.’ His powerful voice stalled her, commanded her.
‘I cannot.’ Her feet toed the edge of an unknown abyss.
‘Why not?’
‘Giseux, you’re naked!’ Her voice pitched upwards, a burst of flustered panic. ‘Not any more.’
She edged her gaze around, cautiously. The linen towel was secured around his waist, the snug fit of the material emphasising the leanness of his hips, the muscular outline of his thighs. In the chill of the room, goose-bumps had appeared on the rounded muscles of his upper arms.
‘What did Matilda say?’ Giseux prompted.
Brianna stood by the door like a startled colt, round-eyed, breathless. With her lips slightly apart, he glimpsed a row of neat, even teeth, the slick sparkle of her tongue; his loins throbbed with treacherous waves of desire. The lilac-hued gown stuck to her in damp folds, clinging lovingly to her bosom, tracing the slender curves of her waist. And that heavy knife-belt, always the knife-belt, the thick leather strap, the hilt hanging diagonally over her hip incongruous against the fluid wool flaring out below her waist. But whereas before he had wanted to throw it away, lose it for ever, now he realised, understood why she carried that gleaming blade of protection, always.
Palms braced flat against the door behind her lent Brianna a sense of security. It would take only a moment to flee, to duck out into the darkened corridor. She battled to recall the problem, the reason that had brought her to Giseux’s chamber in the first place. ‘I told you—’ the words left her mouth in a hectic rush ‘—Matilda loves another man.’ Her eyes, moving distractedly over the ridged muscle of Giseux’s torso, riveted suddenly upon his face. It was safer to look at his face. ‘How on earth am I going to tell him?’
Stepping out of the tub, the linen towel straining tight around his haunches, Giseux moved over to his clothes, bundled on a carved oak coffer at the foot of the bed.
‘Why are you asking me?’
A sheen of water gleamed from his collarbone, highlighting the strong rope of muscle that ran down the sides of his neck. He had obviously dipped his head in the water and scrubbed away the dirt and mud of the journey; now each strand lay flat, thick and sleek against his head. A droplet of water trickled down the honed plane of his cheek; he brushed it away as it tickled his chin.
‘Brianna?’ He studied her so intently, she wondered if he could hear the pounding of her heart, the flex of her lungs as her breath punched out. She wrenched her eyes away, hammered her gaze resolutely to the floor. Why would he not dress? Swallowing hurriedly, she forced herself to concentrate, ignoring his question. ‘Hugh, he’ll take the news badly; it was his dream to marry her, to set up home at Sefanoc—my God, it will destroy him.’
Giseux tilted his head to one side, massive arms crossed over his chest. ‘No, Brianna, it will not,’ he replied firmly, his tone authoritative, reasoning. ‘It will not destroy him.’
‘Hugh is nothing like you,’ she flashed back. ‘You might have fought in the same battles, ridden the same campaigns, but he’s sensitive, emotional. He—’ She stopped, recalling her brother’s wild behaviour at Sambourne. ‘He’s fragile at the moment.’
He wanted to laugh out loud and strangle her at the same time. How could she be such a poor judge of character? Sensitive? Emotional? From the small amount of time he had spent with Hugh of Sefanoc, he knew he was nothing of the sort.
‘Hugh is no different from me, Brianna,’ he replied evenly, his bare feet covering the boards to stand before her. His lashes were wet, black spikes radiating out from pewter depths. ‘He’s a soldier, a fighter. You’re overreacting—aye, he will be sad, but he will recover from this setback.’
‘Like you have?’ The words were out before Brianna could prevent them slipping from her lips. He was close now, toes grazing the long hem of her skirts, the honed sculpture of his chest on a level with her eyes. The skin on her neck flushed a betraying red, strung with a peculiar tension, responding traitorously to his presence. Her heart skipped, then plummeted, headlong, into a rush of awareness.
‘What do you mean?’ The dangerous timbre of his voice kissed her neck; she shivered with…aye, with excitement.
‘What happened to you in Jerusalem,’ she blurted out. ‘You can’t forget it. The memory of it affects you every day. You think of it all the time.’
‘Look at me, Brianna.’ The huskiness of his voice rolled over her, embraced her. Slowly, in trepidation, she lifted her eyes. His torso was an expanse of bare, gleaming flesh, so close that she could smell the freshness of the water on his skin, mingled with a sensual muskiness. Her senses flared, off balance.
‘I’m not thinking of it now.’ His eyes prowled over her, irises flecked with savage desire.
She took a step back, heels jagging against the door. Every blood vessel, every nerve ending in her body quivered, vibrated with his nearness, his big body looming over her. Her breath hitched, jittery. Intending to push him away, she placed two hands on his shoulders; her wrists buckled as he moved nearer, bracing her lissom frame up against the wood panelling with his substantial weight.
Time caught, suspended in the thick air.
‘Nay,’ Brianna whispered huskily as his mouth descended, but her heart disagreed, pounding deceitfully. She had the briefest impression of silver eyes darkening before his leonine head dipped down. His mouth ground into hers, fierce, demanding; she whimpered beneath his onslaught.
Arms swept around her neat waist as he slanted against her, melding the lean, long hardness of his bigger body against her own delicate curves. The ridges around each door panel pressed into her spine, but she didn’t notice. A rough craving flamed in her belly, a hunger, an aching…for what? As the firm curve of his mouth grazed hers, softer now, she yearned to yell, to scream with joy at the exquisite sensation. All she wanted was him, his mouth, and the sweet movement of his lips. She was incapable of resisting, flesh dissolving into a burning pool of liquid at his touch. The heady smell of him enveloped her, plucking at her senses, promising more, much more.
She arched into him as he deepened the kiss, demanding, insisting. He moaned, a feral passionate sound, as she opened her lips to him, clawing at his shoulders. Yoked together in ravenous, desperate embrace, reality receded, to be replaced by a shining bubble of blistering, hot-blooded temptation. Her hands fluttered over his shoulders, crept up into the feathery strands of his hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down, ever closer. His hands smoothed up her flanks, cupping the warm, heavy roundness of her breasts, his heart rapping strongly against her own. She had never known it could be like this, two people locked together with such passion, such feeling; her head swam with the implication. If Walter had never released her, then she would never, ever have known.
He tore his mouth away, suddenly, leaving her bereft, lips burning in the aftermath of the kiss. Stunned at the abundance of passion in her small frame, aware that he had only flirted with the edges of her desire, his eyes flooded with a stormy, turbulent light, grey ringed with iridescent blue. He strode to the middle of the chamber, a safe distance away, yanking a long shirt down over his naked shoulders. Suddenly he didn’t trust himself around her any more.
‘Brianna, if you value your self-preservation, I suggest you leave, right now.’
Strength sapped, she sagged, barely holding herself upright against the panelled door, wisps of copper locks curling around her forehead, across one cheek. Her breathing emerged erratically; she touched one finger to her bruised lips.
He stared at her, hard, flint-edged, before whisking the damp towel away, powerful gaze openly challenging her, wanting to push her away, to leave. The shirt fell to mid-thigh, hem skimming the light brown hairs sprinkled over his thighs. She kept her eyes resolutely pinned to his face.
‘You should leave,’ he repeated, harshly. ‘There’s no telling what I might do next.’
‘I am not afraid.’
Did she realise what she was saying? His head jerked up at her simple admission, his heart flowering, melting, beneath the import of her words. She wanted him, desired him; he saw it in her eyes, read it in every slender line of her body. The impulse to gather up her fragile beauty in his arms, to throw her on the bed and make sweet, passionate love to her, hazed across his vision.
‘You should be,’ he croaked. His whole body vibrated, hummed from the feel of her soft body folded into his, her lips moving across his own. He should never, ever have started, never touched his lips to hers, not now, not ever. She drew him, again and again, like a moth to a flame, bewitching, delightful, irresistible. He burned for her.
Dove-grey fingers of light seeped through the thick, bubbled glass of the windows as Brianna’s eyes cracked open the next morning. For a moment, her befuddled mind scrambled to decipher her surroundings: the grubby velvet bed canopy above her head, the lumpy mattress prickly with old straw. A sense of relief flooded over her; it seemed she might avoid meeting Walter altogether, the meeting that she had dreaded throughout the journey. Matilda had asked her to stay the night, and she had fulfilled that promise, but today she had to return, travel back to Sambourne and break the news to Hugh.
Head supported by a half-filled feather pillow, she touched a finger to her lips, relished the flick of sensation in her chest, the curious gathering, building in her loins. She ran one hand restlessly over the coverlet, the bumps and whorls of embroidery rustling against her palm. The top of the linen sheet was folded back, over the coverlet: a soft material, yet cloying against her skin, suggesting the sheets had lain on the bed in the damp, chill room for too long.
What would Giseux do now? she wondered. Her heart tripped crazily at the thought of his name, stacking her mind with images of the tanned angles of his face, his demanding, savage kiss. He had been kind, escorting her this far, but now he had no reason to stay by her side. He had helped her so much, and what had she done for him? She had been foul and prickly on their first few encounters, so determined to be independent, self-contained. But now, now all she wanted to do was…aye, that was it, she wanted to love him. She loved him.
She twisted restlessly across the mattress, frowning up at the drooping linen above her. A spider’s web, fragile grey netting, stretched over one corner. Her nightgown had bunched up around her waist as she wrenched it down beneath the covers. Love. Did she even know the meaning of the word? Her experiences with Walter had warped her mind; this unfamiliar, cleaving feeling—was it love that she felt for Giseux? Less that a week ago, her course had been set, determined to remain single, coupled to no man, in a world where marriage was the only option for the majority of women. Now, the faint hope of an alternative future stuttered to life in her heart. She quashed such a thought quickly, doubting he held the same sentiment. After every kiss, he pushed her away, visibly shutting down before her, face closed, sealed like an armour-plated door, immediately regretting his actions. She could only hold the sensation of his touch, the fiery savagery of his kiss, tucked close to her heart, to keep them for ever, after he was gone.
But there was no denying that her body sang, even now, with the memory of his mouth moving over hers, tiny thrills of expectation, of excitement, dancing along her veins. Was this how it should be between a man and a woman? Something deep within her lurched, changed; she felt altered, newborn. His sparkling eyes had held raw passion as he tore away from her, breath tearing at his sinewy chest, a twist of vulnerability in the set of his mouth. Maybe this was how he was with every woman he kissed…and maybe not.
‘Brianna! Are you dressed? Come and have breakfast with me.’ Matilda’s lilting tones at the door hauled her from her thoughts—had she lain awake, thinking, for that long? She bounced out of bed, slipping out of her nightgown and stuffing it back into the saddlebag that lay slumped over the wooden floorboards. She had to start moving, have something to eat, then start the long journey south once more. Pulling on her chemise, followed by the velvet gown, she tightened up the crossing leather laces at the front of dress swiftly, securing them in a bow at the low, rounded neckline.
‘Matilda!’ she greeted the younger girl, stepping out from the chamber, touching her hair self-consciously; she had forgotten to comb it, to do anything with it! Even the plaits that she had gone to bed with seemed to have loosened during the night! The glorious bundle of amber locks tumbled down her back, sweeping the curve of her hips.
Matilda giggled as she pressed her hand against her mouth. ‘Oh, Brianna, you don’t change. Let me do your hair for you. You’re not even wearing a veil!’
Reluctantly, Brianna moved back into the room and sat down on a small stool, conscious that time, precious time, was ticking away. She had no wish to stay in this place longer than was necessary.
‘I used to do your hair for you before, do you remember?’ Matilda commented as she pulled a small, ivory comb from the embroidered pouch hanging from her girdle. She began to pull the fine teeth through the shining length of Brianna’s hair, working her way through the occasional knot with her tongue caught between her teeth.
‘Aye, I remember.’ Walter had always insisted that her head was completely covered with a thick linen scarf, losing his temper if he spotted a hair shining through.
‘It’s so beautiful,’ the younger girl murmured. ‘Where is your veil?’
‘I lost it…on the journey here.’ She recalled burying the flimsy silk in the damp earth, hands trembling with fear that those soldiers would find her.
‘I’ll lend you one of mine and a circlet as well; I’ll fetch it after breakfast,’ Matilda promised, securing the end of each braid with a leather lace, before coiling each one around itself to form a tidy bun at the nape of Brianna’s neck.
‘There!’ Matilda said proudly, pushing the last gold hairpin in against Brianna’s scalp, standing back to survey her handiwork. ‘You look perfect.’
‘Thank you.’ Brianna rose from the stool, surveying the younger girl. Her skin looked white, pasty, lines of exhaustion etching her face. Blueish shadows smudged beneath her eyes. ‘Did you sleep at all last night?’
Matilda chewed at her lips, tears welling, threatening to spill. ‘I couldn’t stop thinking about Hugh, about what I’m doing to him.’ She hung her head.
‘I’m sure he will understand,’ Brianna replied faintly, wondering whether he would. His insistence that Brianna was to fetch Matilda had almost bordered on desperation.
‘Maybe he will…but I’m sure my father will not. He wants me to marry Hugh now…curious, as he was so against it in the past. I’m so frightened he will force me into something I don’t want to do.’ A pleading look moved into her pale eyes. ‘Take me with you, Brianna. I must leave, go away from here, before my father returns. Once I’ve married Thurstan, my father can do nothing.’
‘Are you certain about that?’ Brianna had no intention of worrying Matilda, but she was sure that a father had to agree to his daughter’s marriage. If there was no agreement, then he was perfectly within his rights to drag her back home again and suffer the consequences.
Matilda hunched her shoulders, turning her comb, again and again, between her fingers. The ivory tines gleamed like milk. ‘If he cannot find me, then he will not be able to being me back.’ She opened the gathered neck of the silk pouch, pushed the comb back inside, decisively. ‘I have to try, Brianna, I have to have a go at living a normal, married life. I don’t want to spend the rest of my days here, rotting under the unpredictable will of my father. I want to have a husband, to kiss him in the morning, to lie with him at night, to care for him and any children that we might have. Is it so wrong to want that?’
‘Nay,’ breathed Brianna. ‘You’re right, so right.’ As Matilda spoke, Brianna’s heart had filled with a sensation of such longing that she realised that she wanted the same things as Matilda. A husband to care for, to have and to hold. Even if she never saw Giseux again, at least he had given her back one important thing: hope.
Brianna followed Matilda down the curving, spiral staircase, lit by the thin light streaming through the narrow arrow slits. Giseux’s door had stood open as they had passed, the bed empty, the covers in disarray. Had he left already? Her heart plummeted, sadness pooling across her chest. Once downstairs, Matilda drew aside the heavy curtain that separated the great hall from the stairwell, preceding Brianna into the high-ceilinged chamber, hung with a veil of smoke from the newly lit fire. A solitary figure sat in the middle of the top table. It was Walter.