Her gray eyes gleamed. “De Sauveterre.”
His gaze swept the room. “Where’s Magda? Or Clarimond? Or Joan?”
She returned the scuttle to the hearth to reheat the remaining rocks. “Magda is in the kitchen teaching Cinnia some kind of black magic she insists is actually cooking. Joan and Clarimond are elbow-deep in the laundry, bucking the clothes we wore this morning.” A stack of drying cloths landed on the stool next to the tub along with a cake of soap. Louvaen’s grin changed to a smirk that, if he saw it, Ambrose would describe as purely evil. “I’m your attendant this time, and since there’s no hope of rescue, you might as well relax, drink your wine and enjoy your bath.”
Ballard groaned again and tossed back the goblet of wine in two swallows. Women would be the death of him. Between Isabeau’s curse battering him into a miasma of excruciating pain at each flux and his unwitting seduction by the fierce Louvaen Duenda, he was doomed. He’d called upon every drop of self-control he possessed not to jerk her onto his lap and grind himself between her thighs while she tortured him with her touch. He hadn’t exaggerated when he told her he was in hell. He’d expected to go up in flames at any moment. He’d known the caress of many women before the curse turned him reclusive and cold. They’d warmed his bed, heated his blood and made him lust, yet none had scorched him inside and out as this sharp-tongued shrew had, and she’d done so with nothing more than her exploring touch. Now she proposed to run those lovely hands over his body as well. He peered into his goblet, despairing at its emptiness.
Louvaen tutted and refilled the goblet from a pitcher left earlier on the table by his bed. She arched both eyebrows when he quaffed that portion as quickly as the first. She poured another round. “You’re perfectly safe with me,” she mocked. “Far too strong and quick for me to drown. And if it’s any consolation, I’ve done this before for my husband and several of our guests.”
He was tempted to tell her she should be more concerned about whether or not she was safe with him but instead sipped his third cup of wine. “Did your husband drown?”
She gave an indignant huff, but Ballard caught the way her lips twitched. “No, he didn’t.”
She then proceeded to slam the air out of his lungs by disrobing until she wore nothing more than a short-sleeved linen shift. The simple garment concealed most of her shape, but he still made out the swell of her hips, the line of a long thigh and the gentle curve of her waist. Despite the fire, a chill lingered in his room, and her shift did nothing to conceal the delicate points of her nipples pushing against the fabric. He ran his tongue across his lip, grateful she was too preoccupied with stoking the flames in the hearth to notice him stripping her naked with his gaze.
He emptied the cup. “More wine,” he ordered in a hoarse voice.
“At the speed you’re emptying your cup, I’ll need to refill the pitcher before I can soap this cloth.” She refilled the goblet a third time. “I’ll bathe you; then you can eat. I’ll wash your face and hair as well.” She returned the pitcher to the table, took up a cloth and soap and swept behind him. Her warm breath tickled his shoulders. “Lean forward.”
Ballard did as instructed, and his lower belly cramped. His cock was stiffer than one of his sword blades. He doubted an ice water bath would be enough to lower the fever rising in his blood. He shivered as Louvaen pressed the soapy cloth against his back and bathed him with slow, circular strokes. The warm water and his fourth goblet of wine made him lightheaded. He could simply order her out of the room and send for Magda in her stead. Long years of the curse must have warped him more than he knew because he enjoyed this particular agony despite an aching cock and a heart that threatened to beat out of his chest. He swallowed a groan when Louvaen’s fingertips traced the curve of his shoulder blade.
“How did you get this scar?”
Entranced by her touch, he struggled to remember how he came by that particular memento. His life had been defined by combat, and he’d lost count of the number of scars he carried that had nothing to do with the curse. “A melee. I caught another knight’s spur in the back.”
She hissed in sympathy. Her fingers skated lower, toward a half moon laceration carved deep into the flesh near his spine. “This one?”
Ballard wondered how exactly he was supposed to think while she did this. “Axe. Baradium mercenaries favored them over swords. A good hauberk can save your life.”
A soft moan managed to escape between his clenched teeth when her palm came to rest against a gnarled patch of scarring just below his lowest rib. “And this lovely?”
That wound he remembered as clearly now as the day he received it centuries earlier. “Lance during tournament. I was bedridden for weeks.” He’d almost died, saved only by Ambrose’s potions and Magda’s tireless nursing.
“You’ve not led a life of peace.” He heard no judgment in her voice, only sympathy.
Her wet hand pressed against him, and he imagined its heat laid across every part of his body. “I was once a Marcher lord. Peace is an unknown word when you’re defending kingdom borders.”
The cloth slid along his shoulders. Her fingers carded through his hair, pushing the locks over one shoulder to reach his nape. “Do these kingdoms still war with one another?”
Ballard shrugged. “I don’t know.” At the moment, he didn’t care. He lowered his head and smiled when she took the hint and lingered at his nape. “Gavin brings us news of the world from his travels, but we’re isolated by the flux and Ambrose’s barrier spells.”
She moved to the side of the tub, and he could look upon her lovely face. “Raise your arm.” He obeyed, water sluicing off his forearm and bicep. Louvaen notched her fingers lightly through his to hold his arm steady and ran the cloth from wrist to shoulder. Water droplets spattered her shift, turning the cloth delectably transparent in spots. If she noticed the way his gaze froze on her, she didn’t remark on it but continued her line of questioning. “Do you miss the fighting?”
He frowned. He’d never considered the idea before now. He didn’t miss the carnage of battle or the constant struggle to hold his land against invaders, but there were times he longed for the challenge of pitting his skills against another warrior. Gavin was a capable fighter, but Ballard had been the one who trained him. With that training came predictability. Hunting boar was a poor substitute for the rigors of tournament or battle and facing the lethal prowess of a well-trained knight, but it was the closest he had now. “Fighting is what I’ve known, what I trained for since I was a child, what I’m adept at.” His fingers tightened on hers for a moment before he released her so she could move to the other side of the tub.
She rinsed the cloth and added more soap. “Other arm.” She clasped his hand and kept her gaze trained on his arm and the tight muscles flexing beneath the cloth. “I’ve watched you spar with Gavin. You’ve taught him well. He could defend himself and Cinnia if necessary.”
Ballard smoothed his thumb over her wet knuckles. “You’d have a hard time killing him with your bare hands.”
Her eyes glittered with the same sly amusement he’d noticed earlier. “I would, but this castle has stairs. People, even the most nimble, get clumsy and fall sometimes.”
Beautiful and bloodthirsty. Like Isabeau yet so different. He laughed. “As his father, I should warn him...”
She flapped the sodden rag with an airy hand. “No need. I do so at least once every day.” Any hint of merriment fled when she told him “Kneel, please. I need to reach your chest.”
He almost refused. Her elegant hands on his back and arms were a sweet torment guaranteed to leave him hard and aching for hours after he finished his bath. The anticipation of those same hands painting swathes of soap across his chest made his nostrils flare and his jaw ache from clenching his teeth. Nevertheless, he slid off the stool and knelt, staring straight ahead. Maybe if he kept her in his peripheral vision, he wouldn’t succumb to the urge to yank her in the tub, rip her shift off her body and take her in the water. Unfortunately for him, Louvaen Duenda had a bad habit of courting danger.
She perched a hip on the tub’s rim, dipped the cloth in the water and proceeded to shatter his lucidity into splinters. The fragrance of rosemary mingled in his nostrils with her own particular scent—cloves and the costly cinnamon mixed in the finely milled soap Gavin brought home from world beyond Ketach Tor. She must have used it to bathe away the filth of the morning’s butchering. The softest whine whispered past his lips when she drew pathways on his chest, connecting the many mutilations and curse marks that disfigured him.
“Your body tells many tales.”
Dip your hand a little lower
, he thought,
and you’ll feel the tale it wants to tell right now
.
Sweat beaded his brow by the time she rinsed off the soap and draped the cloth over the tub’s edge. His penance, however, wasn’t over. Louvaen levered a thumb beneath his jaw. “Chin up.” He raised his head. “You’ve grown scruffy. Shall I shave you?”
The offer cooled him down. He eyed her askance. “And risk you cutting my throat?”
Her fingers scraped the coarse bristles darkening his cheeks. “I’ve a steady hand with a knife.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” He’d fallen deep under her spell, eager to feel her caresses on his face. It was well worth the risk of bloodletting. “Give me your word you won’t slice me from ear to ear, and you can make me handsome again.”
“You have my word.” She retreated back to the hearth for more of the hot rocks but not before telling him he was capable of washing the rest of himself without her help.
“You’ve done a worthy job so far. Why stop now?”
Louvaen sniffed and turned her back on him.
“Well?” he insisted.
“You can sit in that tub until the water freezes before I answer that question.” Her scowl warned of murder as she lugged the scuttle back to the tub and dropped another scoop of rocks into the cooling water. “You better eat or there’ll be water all over your food when I douse your head.”
Ballard grinned, no longer caring if the expression flashed his sharp incisors. Louvaen Duenda was a delight to tease, giving as good as she got. “And here I thought you’d bash my skull in with one of those rocks.”
“Don’t tempt me.”
He finished the bath, sat back on the stool to savor the new heat and ate his meal while watching Louvaen add hot rocks to a copper basin. She dipped her finger in the water several times to test the temperature before carrying the basin to the tub and setting it on the plank next to his now empty dishes. Ballard offered a halfhearted protest—which she ignored—when she cleared his half full goblet and plates off the plank.
His breath caught as she paused, a pensive expression that darkened her eyes the gray of rain clouds. In the time she’d lived in his household he’d discovered she was intense, forthright, and fiercely protective. He didn’t know her to be mercurial. This sudden change in mood surprised him. “What’s wrong?”
She leaned into him, her breath tickling his cheek. “You’ve smeared honey on your face.” Her lips pressed softly against the corner of his mouth. Every muscle in Ballard’s body seized when the tip of her tongue swept across the spot, licking away the sticky honey. It was over before he could suck air into his starved lungs. Louvaen pulled away, features still grave, and ran her tongue over her lips.
Ballard growled low in his throat and snagged her wrist when she straightened. “Louvaen, I’m changed by the flux—hardly a man anymore but still with a man’s wants, a man’s hunger.” His fingers tightened on that slender wrist, drawing her back to him. “If you don’t wish to end up on your back, in my bed with me between your legs, you’ll take your clothes and leave.”
He didn’t want to give her the choice, the chance to escape from his chamber and into the corridor where the icy air would clear her head enough that she’d thank the gods she worshipped for a reprieve from submitting to a monster who’d once been a man. He wanted her beneath him—craved it—those long legs wrapped tight around his waist as he took her. He was faster than she knew. Shackled to an encroaching inhumanity, he’d been given inhuman speed and strength. She wouldn’t take three steps before he’d be out of the tub with the door locked, imprisoning her inside the chamber with him. His legs tensed in animal anticipation of the chase. His heartbeat thudded hard against his ribs.
He desired her, was nearly consumed by it. She’d been the catalyst of his every fantasy and masturbatory gratification since she’d mapped the ruined terrain of his face with her hands. Still, what he wanted most was a reciprocal yearning, the knowledge that she burned for him as much as he did for her. A futile hope, but he’d lived lifetimes holding on to hope with desperate hands.
Louvaen’s wrist jerked in his grip. Ballard let her go, fully expecting her to draw back her fist and punch him in the mouth before striding out of his chamber in a furious huff. Instead her eyes softened, glanced at the bed and again at him. A dozen emotions played across her winsome features—uncertainty, an odd grief and strongest of all, the same longing that set his blood boiling and robbed him of reason.
He was half out of the water when a pounding at his door broke the spell that held them both captive. Louvaen leapt away from the tub, her face shuttered. Ballard collapsed back onto the stool, sloshing a wave of water over the tub’s edge. He shoved the plank off the rim, sending it skidding across the floor. More water splashed the floors as the basin rolled away, scattering rocks in its wake. Covering his eyes with one hand, he tried not to shout his frustration.