by Sarah Hegger
All her life, she had been at the mercy of men and their will. If this morning had taught her anything, it must be to take action. Her fate was in her hands; she must reach out and grab it. She must be bold and strike first.
She’d been cowering behind Roger to prevent Ranulf from getting her. It was time to step out from behind her protector. She had, at her disposal, the perfect weapon to strike first. Never mind Colin and how she could always cozen him into doing her bidding; how much more could she accomplish with a man of action? A warrior whose skills were known throughout the kingdom would make a far better ally.
Helena threw open the door to her solar. The plot was bold and daring. Vigour surged through her. She nearly collided with Bridget coming up the stairs.
“What has you in a lather?” Bridget groused, straightening her kerchief.
There was no question of sharing her latest plan with Bridget. The old woman would have plenty to say on the subject, Helena would wager her best girdle on it.
“What has you in a sour temper?” she asked instead.
Bridget jerked her chin in the direction of the sewing room. “Her Highness would like some goat’s milk, warm, but not tepid and sweetened with one and a half spoons of honey.”
Lady Rosalind. Helena hadn’t quite worked the other woman into her plan. Dear God. The idea had just come to her and it needed work. A mistress could present a thorny problem.
Then again, a wife held so much more sway than a mistress. First, she needed to understand how much of a problem before she acted to eliminate the danger. A clever commander gathered intelligence before she planned her campaign.
“We have goats.” She grinned at Bridget. “And we have honey. I will take it to her.”
“Oh, ho.” Bridget folded her scrawny arms over her chest. “Now I know you are up to something.”
“Trust me, Bridget,” Helena sang out. “All you need do is trust me.”
“Is this going to work as well as your plan to wed Colin?”
“Better.” Helena threw her a glittering smile. “Much, much better.”
“That is what I feared,” Bridget muttered. “I suppose I have a goat to milk.”
She limped away.
Rosalind had transformed the homely jumble of the sewing room into a feminine bower. Swathes of fabric in glorious rainbow hues draped the tired furnishings. A bed had been placed near the window and more lush colour turned it into a beckoning haven.
Helena advanced cautiously into the room. The sweet scent of lavender hung in the air.
“Lady Helena.” Rosalind eased onto her feet, still graceful despite the size of her belly. “This is unexpected.”
The woman was depressingly beautiful, the dark, sultry appeal of her face undeniable. Her eyes were so blue as to be almost dazzling. And they were giving Helena the same keen interest.
“I brought your goat’s milk.” Helena indicated the small salver she carried. “And some poppy seed cakes. They are my favourite.”
“My thanks.” Rosalind took the salver from her. She set it on a chest covered in a vivid scarlet silk embroidered with clambering roses. Helena winced for the treatment of such a costly fabric.
“So,” Rosalind said. “You have come to see the whore.”
“I know not what you mean,” Helena demurred, trying for a charming smile.
“Please, let us not play games amongst ourselves. Save that for the men, but betwixt us we can be honest. Your husband has arrived with a woman ready to birth a babe, and you want to know the particulars.”
“Very well. I want to know what you are to Guy.”
Rosalind laughed, a warm, husky caress of the air that surely no man could be immune to. “Wondrous.” She clapped her hands together appreciatively like a happy child. “Did you not hear what the priest said? I am a very old and very dear family friend.”
“I thought you said no games betwixt us,” Helena replied in a hard voice.
Rosalind grimaced ruefully and then offered a smile sparkling with direct challenge.
Helena’s hackles rose.
“Well played, my lady, and ensnared in a web of my own making. Very well, then.” Rosalind lifted the cup of milk and took a sip. “I am not his leman.”
The relief was almost dizzying. The other woman wouldn’t present the challenge Helena had feared.
Rosalind cocked her head like a lovely, inquisitive bird. “But the babe could be his.”
Helena’s good mood turned to vapour. A sensation akin to jealousy tightened her belly. She kept her expression carefully blank.
“‘Twas a minor and meaningless indiscretion on his part that could have far-reaching consequences.” Rosalind waved a languid hand over her belly. “It may not be his, there is no sure way to tell.”
Clearly, Guy was a man of virile, robust health. Helena churned the details of this discovery over in her mind.
“And now?” She kept her tone carefully veiled. “What are you to him now?”
“Just as the priest said,” Rosalind replied. “Guy has rushed to aid me in my difficult circumstances.”
“What circumstances?” She wanted to wipe that smug look off Rosalind’s face, preferably with the flat of her hand.
“I have been a very wicked wife.” Rosalind raised an impish brow. “And my tiresome husband is not pleased. However, if he cannot find me to verify his fears, then he has no reason to rid himself of me. Will you tell my husband, Lady Helena?”
“If you do not care for your husband, why do you not want him to separate from you?”
“La,” Rosalind trilled. “I forget that I am dealing with an innocent. My needs are complex, child. Not all of them can be satisfied by my husband, but he does fulfil my very basic needs to eat and keep my arse comfortable on silk. I do not think I would enjoy an extended stay with the holy sisters, or mouldering away in some forgotten corner of his demesne.”
Helena struggled to contain her shock. This woman was out of her experience and she didn’t like her. She especially didn’t like that Guy had lain with her. Yet she needed to be sensible. There was nothing to be gained from being wroth over something that had happened in the past. A clever wife would ensure it did not happen again.
“Nay, I will not tell your husband,” she said at last. And might have imagined the small flicker of relief that crossed the other woman’s face. “As Guy has given his word, you may confine here until your babe is born. But then . . .”
“Fair enough,” Rosalind said. “But I warn you. I will do everything within my power to ensure that I remain.”
“Why?”
“It suits me here.”
“Very well.” Helena gritted her teeth. “Then it is only fair that I warn you, I shall do everything within my power to ensure you do not remain.”
Rosalind gave another sultry laugh. “Avance.” She toasted Helena with her mug of milk.
Helena strode out of the sewing room with her head held high. That woman was like an ache in her tooth. However, even she couldn’t countenance casting a gravid woman out into the world. Guy’s promise aside, it wasn’t something she could do.
There were other weapons, however, at her disposal. Rosalind was a beautiful, seductive temptress. Helena would have to fight fire with fire. She missed her step on the stone. What did she know about seduction? Nothing. She must be one of the oldest virgins in the kingdom, bar the nuns. But she had seen men turn to her with lust on their faces. It didn’t seem to be a thing too difficult to accomplish.
And then there was the kiss. Guy had kissed her and dispelled any notion of an annulment. That must auger well for her scheme. Women had been doing this sort of thing since time began.
I must act as Delilah or Potiphar’s wife. With a decisive nod, she gained her solar and prepared to plot.
Chapter 11
All was set and ready. The mounted party had returned some time ago and Helena had sent Willie with a message as soon as they dismounted in the yard.
She entered the solar just as the kitchen drudges were leaving. A warm blaze glowed from the hearth. Even with spring well advanced, the walls of Lystanwold maintained some of their chill. A tub stood before the fire, steam rising from the water, moistening the air. The solar seemed deserted. She would skin Willie alive if he had tarried in getting the message to Sir Guy.
Approaching the tub, Helena opened a jar of sweet oils and sniffed. The intoxicating scent of jasmine twined with the steam. It was her favourite scent, brought from the Holy Lands. Roger always returned from Court with a vial for her. An ache pinched at her heart. Roger had been the very best of uncles and she kept him in her prayers. He would, no doubt, have much to say on her newest strategy.
She unstopped the jasmine and poured a healthy number of drops into the water. This wasn’t time to be craven; her husband would be here soon.
Her preparations complete, she tied one of the drying cloths around her middle to protect her gown. She’d dressed with care in a bliaut of soft peach samite, which Bridget said complimented her looks. Bess had been the beauty and Helena a pale shadow of her sister’s loveliness. She did well enough, however, and even Bess had envied her hair. Tonight she wore it long and unbound, brushed until it glowed wheaten.
She scattered a handful of rose petals over the water. There.
Guy materialized right beside her.
Helena uttered a small shriek as his shadow fell over the tub. She stretched her mouth into a smile of welcome. He was still wearing his mail and his cheeks were stained with mud and sweat.
He gave her a questioning look.
“Your bath.” She nodded toward the water.
He wrinkled up his nose and took a tentative sniff.
“Jasmine,” Helena beamed. “It smells wonderful.”
For a woman, which he very definitely isn’t.
Suddenly the jasmine didn’t seem fitting. Neither did the floating petals. Mayhap he didn’t fancy the notion of stepping into a bath such as this.
Guy merely grunted and sniffed the air again. “It smells like you.”
That was good, was it not?
“Geoffrey?” he inquired.
A nervous giggle hitched in Helena’s throat. “He is not coming.”
A speculative gleam now flickered in his eyes.
“I can get him, of course, but I thought you might . . .” She was making a muddle of this. Lady Rosalind would not be standing here, fidgeting like a foolish girl. “It is customary for the lady to attend my lord in his bath.”
He poked his large finger at a rose petal before moving away from the tub.
“Indeed.” He tugged first one and then the other boot off and tossed them across the chamber, then raised his arms.
“Oh.” Helena hurried over and worked on the ties to his hauberk. It smelled unpleasantly of horse and sweat and a horrible metallic scent that she was almost certain was blood.
He gave her a sympathetic grimace and motioned for her to remove it. He was so tall Helena had to use the dressing stool for leverage to ease the thing over his head. It came off in a whoosh of more fetid air and she staggered backward and off the stool. Her momentum carried her a few more steps back before she could regain her balance.
Gingerly she placed the hauberk atop a clothes press. The heavy mail slipped to the side, crashing to the floor. It lay there like a dismembered metal corpse.
“Leave it.”
She straightened. And froze.
He’d removed his gambeson and unfastened his chausses. Her cheeks heated. The firelight flickered across the interesting swells and ridges of his torso. He was beautifully put together, honed and hardened like the steel he wielded.
He stepped out of his braies. The firm line of his buttock curved around to the taut swell of his thigh. His body was so different from hers, hard where she was soft, spare where her flesh was full. The pit of her stomach tightened.
Naked, he turned.
Sweet Lord. Hurriedly, she faced the hearth. Her cheeks blazed hotter than the flames that danced before her. She’d never viewed a man fully unclothed. And that was a lot of man. Pressing her hand to her belly, she vowed to see this through. It was not so very difficult.
The soft pad of his feet against the floor seemed unnaturally loud in the chamber.
Helena busied her fingers with the drying cloths. Behind her, water swished and his breath hissed as his body hit the surface.
“My lady?” His rough voice prompted her.
She was two-and-twenty, not some callow girl. The plan was made, her part in it clear.
Slowly, Helena turned and approached her husband.
His large body barely fit in the wooden tub. He sat with his knees almost to his ears. A slight frown creased his dark brows.
Helena dipped her hand in the soft soap they kept for bathing; more jasmine. She rubbed it between her fingers to create lather. When they next made soap she would need to produce something less feminine for Guy.
From this position, his head was almost on a level with her breasts. Excitement fluttered through her belly.
He watched her face as she leaned forward to soap his head, working it through his cropped hair. The bristly ends tickled her palm.
She reached for a bucket of rinsing water. He closed his eyes as soap and bubbles streamed down the strong planes of his cheeks. Water clung to his lashes. They were almost ridiculously long and so incongruous with the rest of him. Probably the only part of him that could be called ‘soft,’ she thought.
He dropped his head forward onto his knees so she could finish rinsing.
Guy presented the broad expanse of his back, and she laid her hands across the sun-darkened skin. He was warm under her fingers and beneath the smooth skin, his muscles bunched slightly as she spread the soap. This might be bearable. When she rubbed her fingers on either side of his spine, he made a soft purr of enjoyment.
Her pulse jumped.
“Soft hands,” he said.
Her fingers traced a long, puckered scar running beneath his shoulder blade and disappearing around his side.
“A lance man with poor aim,” he murmured.
The skin on his back was firm, but marked by the scars of a lifetime spent wielding a sword. “It appears you really do fight,” she commented thoughtfully.
For some reason those accumulated injuries and the pain they had caused angered her as well as rendered her sorry for his suffering. Helena steeled her resolve. It was just these sorts of wounds that made him perfect for her purpose.
She lathered soap across his shoulders and down the thick, corded muscle of each arm. Her belly reacted with another odd little quiver as her fingers slid across his skin like oil poured from a vial.
Guy raised his eyes to her face. A slumberous warmth made them glow nearly silver.
Her breath quickened in her chest as if she had been running; her hands tingled where they touched him. Think of something else.
Hastily she blurted, “May I ask you something?”
He nodded.
“How well did you know my uncle?”
“Roger sponsored me for knighthood.”
“Not your father?”
Through her fingertips, Helena sensed the tension mount beneath his skin. The muscles under her hand didn’t grow taut, but they seemed to be gathering for action.
He grunted and shook his head.
“Ah.” She scooped up more of the soap. “Roger never spoke of you.”
He raised one leg and planted his foot on the edge of the tub. His feet were large and broad, more anvil than ham
mer, the toes covered in coarse, dark hair. They were the ugliest feet she’d ever seen.
Obediently she hurried to the end of the tub and soaped his foot, kneading the instep with her thumbs.
A low groan greeted her efforts.
The interesting parts of him were hidden by rose petals. She shouldn’t stare but she couldn’t help herself. A quiver crept upward from her belly.
“What do you make of Sir Ranulf?” She kept her tone deliberately light.
“What do you?” he parried, his expression keen and alert once more.
She would have to tread carefully. “I fear him.” She affected a nonchalant shrug. “Roger would never allow him within the keep after Bess.” Unable to further speak of her sister’s death, Helena couldn’t repress a shudder.
“You were . . . wroth that I did.” Guy kept his gaze trained on her face.
“Letting him within Lystanwold?” Helena’s jaw clenched. “Aye,” she replied as evenly as she could manage. She must stick with her plan. “Sir Ranulf has been pressing his attentions for some time now. With my uncle gone, I was starting to grow concerned.”
She turned her ministrations to his other foot. “I thought he might like his chances as earl. Before that, he would not dare, but with my uncle removed . . .”
“It was mete that I see him eye to eye,” Guy stated.
“Why?” The question burst from her before she could contain it. “Ranulf is a beast. Roger must have told you about Bess.”
He gave a slow nod. “I needed to see the danger for myself.” His tone seemed to soothe, and the grim line of his mouth softened.
“I hate him.”
“Aye.”
Helena tussled with her unruly emotions before facing him again. She lathered her hands and slid her fingers over his thick ankle joint. Hair coarsened the skin over his calves as she soaped toward his knee. Every part of the man was big and hard. Beneath the water, she could make out only shadows and she tried to keep her attention on the parts she could see.