Authors: Tanya Anne Crosby
“The name is Alarik,” he asserted, his sensuous
lips curling as though on the edge of laughter. “And nei, I’ve naught better to
do at present, Elienor... though you do.”
He broke into a smile at her confused expression,
but said only, “I’ve arranged for a bath.”
Elienor tried not to notice the bridled power in
his arms. “A bath?” Against her will, her eyes returned to his bared chest, and
she swallowed, feeling a new wash of shame as she stared at the satiny smooth
flesh there. She swallowed, trying to speak past the lump in her throat. “I...
I would very much appreciate a bath.”
Amusement flickered in the eyes that met hers.
“Come,” he demanded softly, shoving away from the door abruptly.
Had Elienor any choice but to obey? As she thrust
away the covers and stepped out of the bed, he opened a small coffer, lifting
out a crimson mantle. “You’ll be needing something more than your kyrtle,” he
disclosed, wrapping it about her shoulders. And than without bothering to cloak
himself, he snatched her by the elbow, leading her out of the bedchamber and
through the
skali
.
To her surprise, he led her outside, and from
there to a small outbuilding where smoke drifted up through the rooftop. He
opened the door revealing a well-lit chamber within and an immense sunken tub
in its center, grand enough for at least six people to sit and bathe. Eight
flickering torches, each set in beautiful ornate iron braces, illuminated the
chamber. On the right wall, two torches flanked an enormous hearth, and dancing
beneath the smoke-blackened kettle in its gaping mouth burned a torrid fire.
Elienor surmised the kettle was there to warm the bath water. Additionally,
luxuriant furs were strewn about the floor and fresh drying rags were stacked
upon a single wooden stool.
Elienor shook her head, awestruck by the sight. “I
have never seen the like!” she whispered, forgetting for an instant that they
were supposed to be bitter foes. She knelt by the tub, shrugging the cloak off
and thrusting her hand within the water to test it. As she suspected, it was
heated. Turning to catch Alarik’s amused expression, she told him, “In the
priory we did not bathe...”
His tawny brows shot up in surprise.
“Oh aye, but we did!” Elienor amended, “though not
in such luxury!” She flushed suddenly, chagrined by her impetuousness. “The
church does not sanction such... opulence.” She glanced down hastily into the
misty water, swaying softly, blaming her sudden dizziness on the heat of the
chamber and not the way he stared at her.
His eyes glowed with a savage inner fire as
intense as that within the hearth. “A private bathing chamber is also an
extravagance in the Northland,” he assured her. “The design is merely one of
many I’ve encountered in mine voyages to the east. In fact, most steadings do
have but a single bathhouse for all to share... but then, this is not most
steadings... it is mine.”
Elienor inhaled deeply in an attempt to harness
the fluttering in her breast. “I see,” she replied, swallowing the lump in her
throat. Suddenly anxious to be within the cleansing water, she straightened her
shoulders and waved a hand toward the door. “Now that you’ve enlightened me,
you may leave. Certainly, I can manage adequately!”
Alarik’s good humor spread clear into his lively
silver eyes.
“I see naught so amusing!” Elienor replied at
once, her hackles rising.
To her dismay, he merely chuckled softly. “Wench.
You’re bold to order me out of mine own bath chamber,” he remarked blithely.
Elienor stiffened, bracing herself for the
upcoming confrontation.
“You never cease to amaze me, Elienor of
Baume-les-Nonnes,” he said, huskiness deepening his tone.
Elienor merely glared at him, unnerved by the way
he said her name, with so much dark promise. “Surely you realize, my lord...”
She repressed the epithet that by now came automatically to her lips,
determined to master her tongue for once. “Surely, you realize that I cannot
bathe with you present?”
Once again he chuckled, the sound wholly
disarming. “Oh, but you can,” he disagreed softly, “and you shall, for I plan
to stay.”
Alarik watched with unconcealed amusement as her
eyes widened abruptly. ‘Trust me, Elienor—” He averted his eyes
momentarily, but his gaze returned with startling intensity. “I made you a
vow,” he continued grimly, “and I shall keep it.”
Elienor lifted her chin, emboldened by the shred
of guilt she detected in his countenance. “Aye, but you’ve made me vows
a’fore,” she reminded him, “and you’ve broken them as easily!”
He flinched visibly, his jaw taut. “I said I’d not
touch you… unless you desire it to be so?”
Elienor snorted, rising abruptly to her feet. As
dirty as she knew she must be after so long at sea with no bath, and wearing
the same garments as she had, she refused to bathe in his presence! He’d have
to force her. “You are the last thing I would ever desire,!”
Liar! her conscience accused her.
“Regardless!” Alarik thundered, losing his
composure for the briefest instant. He took a moment, tempering his tone, if
not his words. “I told you last eve I would require your services, and I’ll not
forego that dictate simply because you’re too squeamish to undress in mine
presence. If you wish not to, then simply do not, but assist me, you will,” he
avowed. “Within the tub,” he explained. “Alas, it is your gown to ruin if you
please.”
With that declaration, he jerked the tunic from
his shoulders, tossing it atop a stack of towels upon the stool. The force of
the impact toppled the heap to the furs. His gaze piercing her, he said, “At any
rate, ’tis not as though I’ve not seen you unclothed, is it my little Fransk?
Nor is it likely you would have been spared this task, even had you wed your
precious count. As mistress to Brouillard,” he reasoned, “would you not have
been expected to bathe your lord’s guests?” His eyes glittered coldly. “Think
of this just so.”
Elienor took a step backward even before he took
his first forward, sensing his determination. She knew without a doubt that
arguing her point would gain her little. The demon before her would simply do
as he pleased and naught less—yet she could not in all good conscience
simply disrobe and bathe before him! Nor could she bear the thought of looking
upon his intimidating nakedness—regardless that it was a duty she readily
would have embraced as mistress of Brouillard.
Retreating another step as he unlaced his
breeches, she stumbled backward into the tub.
He chuckled deeply, his eyes shimmering like
molten silver. “Does the sight of me affect you so?”
Elienor straightened. “The sight of you does
naught but offend me,” she countered. But her face heated with the lie. About
her limbs the water was fiery, yet she dared not extract herself from the bath.
Lifting her skirts as much as she dared in a futile attempt to save them from
ruin, she raised her chin proudly. To her dismay, he continued to disrobe,
discarding his breeches with conviction and ease, his silver eyes sharp and
confidant.
“I cannot bathe you!” Elienor declared with
growing hysteria, shifting indignantly from foot to foot. Her gaze darted about
the room.
His lips parted, displaying straight, white teeth.
“Can you not?” he asked, and then suddenly he was fully revealed before her.
Elienor didn’t wait to see whether he would follow
her. She turned and raced toward the far side of the tub, floundering in her
haste. To her horror, the further she went, the deeper the water became and the
slower she moved. She shrieked as she heard water splash behind her and could
almost feel the strength and purpose of his stride. Abruptly she was caught by
the arm and was whirled about to face him. She squeezed her eyes shut, vowing
that if he would force her hand in this, then at least she’d not look. He could
not force her in that!
He chuckled low in his throat, and the unholy
sound sent a ripple of alarm tearing through her. Elienor’s heart felt near to
bursting.
It took every ounce of will Alarik possessed not
to rent her clothes from her back, so revealing was her wet gown.
She had fine hips and shapely thighs, and at the
glimpse of them desire, like molten iron, slid through his veins, arousing him
at once. Partly because she seemed so frantic at the thought of seeing him
unclothed and partly because the state of his body dictated at least a modicum
of modesty, he did not coerce her to open her eyes. “Have it your way, little
Fransk,” he murmured.
“Were I to have it mine own way,” she hissed,
“’tis you who would be skewered instead of Stefan!”
His fingers closed about her arm and Elienor
gasped as they slid down to her wrist. Turning her palm up, he pressed
something small and hard within her hand, and then in the other... a cloth?
Soap? Jesu! she swore silently, quivering anew at the thought of touching him.
“I... I...”
Her protest ended with a gasp as he hauled her
blindly toward him. With deliberate precision, he placed her hands upon his
chest, and a terrible jolt burst through her. “Wash me!” he demanded.
She tried once more to voice a protest, opening
her mouth. Nothing came. Her chest constricted as he began to guide her hand,
along with the soap, across his satiny smooth flesh. Tiny hairs sprang at her
touch, and to her horror she imagined them wet and gold and glistening beneath
her fingertips. That image made her quiver where she stood.
Dear God, but she was warm! She could actually
feel wisps of steam waft by her face, could almost smell the heat. And him.
Sweet Jesu, she thought she might swoon! His flesh must surely be made of steel
not to be affected by the heat? Yet it didn’t feel like steel at all; it was
disconcertingly soft to the touch, but solid.
Her fingers, scalding and soft, set fire to
Alarik’s flesh wherever they touched.
It took him a staggering moment to discern that
she’d begun to wash him of her own accord, her movements progressively slower
with each stroke; when he did he released her, dropping his fists to his sides.
Her heart might loathe him still, he concluded with satisfaction, but her body
reacted with a will of its own, and her body did not loathe him. He knew she
was not conscious of the instant when her scrubbing became exploration, but he
was. Acutely. His breath quickened as she turned her face up instinctively, and
the profound expression she wore took hold of him and clenched his gut. Lust,
in its most guileless form. She had no notion, he was certain, what it was that
she was experiencing, for her countenance wavered between innocent desire and
utter confusion.
Her face was arresting, irregular for the willful
chin he’d come to know, her cheeks flushed rose, her lashes long and sooty. She
had no notion how beautiful she appeared with her face upturned and her hair
dragging the water behind her, her slender white neck arching with passion. His
fingers traced the Scar at her temple—even it failed to detract from her
beauty.
Mingled with the steam, the feminine scent of her
was utterly intoxicating. Instinctively, he drew her closer, his heart leaping
a little when he realized she did not resist him. He began to stroke her back,
though lightly, not wishing to break her concentration. He could almost imagine
her garments vanished, for clinging to her as they did, they left little to the
imagination.
Alarik’s breath came more labored with each
delicious stroke of her hands, his reasoning more convoluted. His better
judgment warned him to resist the need that clawed him like a wild unreasonable
beast, yet his body could not concur.
Would not.
His goal today had been merely to initiate Elienor
into her duties with the most intimate of tasks—to make her as familiar
with his body as he craved to be with hers. He was sick unto death of seeing
the revulsion in her eyes and wanted merely to force her to bear the sight of
him.
But he’d gotten much more...
His head fell back with a groan as her hands
flitted, light as feathers, down his too sensitive sides, halting at his waist.
And then suddenly, they began a new descent, and he moaned, a mixture of
torment and pleasure, unable to stop her.
If she desired it, then who was he to interfere?
His hands slid to the small of her back, forcing
her into closer contact, relishing the feel of her cool wet garments against
his burning flesh, and then he bent to cup his palms around her luscious
bottom, pressing her up into his throbbing loins. His body jerked when her
fingers lit upon his own buttocks, emulating him, and then she suddenly
stiffened and made some choked sound in the back of her throat, as though only
just realizing.
Her eyes flew wide, the vivid violet piercing him
with their anguish, yet he refused to release her. They stood in that bent
position, their bodies arcing so close they might have been one, their faces
intimate...
Just as it had been in her dream...
Elienor closed the distance between them, boldly touching
her lips to his. God forgive her but she could not keep herself from it. She
was faithless, and wanton, and... and she didn’t care in that instant that her
body had betrayed her!
Never had she imagined she would desire this
joining of mouths.
Never had Count Phillipe’s sloppy kisses made her
feel so brazen, so exquisite.
The shocking contact sent the pit of her stomach
in a wild tumult. Alarik returned the touch, caressing her mouth more than
kissing it, and shivers of delight assailed her at once. In that mindless
instant, Elienor returned the kiss with reckless abandon, her blood leaping
from her heart and pounding into her head.
She dropped the soap, the rag, and her hands slid
up, her arms winding themselves about his neck of their own accord. Moaning,
she sought more of him and felt his knees weaken as his fingers kneaded her
bottom, sending delicious spasms through her entire being. Desperately, she
clung for support, afraid that if she released him, she would drown in her own
passion!