by Sarah Hegger
Guy gave her a look that could have scorched her linen. Helena shivered under the steady heat of his gaze and stopped her hands at his knees.
His eyes drifted to her mouth. Might he kiss her? She wouldn’t mind if he did. His last kiss had been most acceptable.
His expression hardened. “I will finish.”
“My lord?” Helena took a hasty step away from the bath. Had she erred in some way?
As Guy leaned over to grab the soap, he abruptly demanded, “What is this?”
Helena managed a weak smile. “A bath.”
His frown deepened as he rested his elbows on his knees. “This morn you were plotting my demise. What are you about, now?”
“Regarding that . . .” She licked her dry lips. She would need to clear the air before she could proceed. “I was not plotting to kill you. I have had a change of heart.”
Up rose one of Guy’s dark brows. He didn’t believe her. The brilliant plan she had concocted disappeared like morning mist. What would Lady Rosalind do?
With unsteady fingers, Helena untied the drying cloth around her middle and dropped it to the floor. She cocked her hip to one side and placed a hand there. Pushing her bosom forward, she peered at him coyly from beneath her lashes. It was a pose she’d seen Merry use to good effect.
“May I do more to attend you, my lord?” she purred.
“Huh?” He rose from the water.
Helena took a hurried step backward. Realizing what she was doing, she abruptly halted her flight and resumed her seductive pose.
Dripping, he stepped from the bath. His flesh jutted from between his thighs.
Oh, Dear Lord.
Snapping up a drying cloth, he knotted it about his hips. The fabric tented over the apex of his thighs.
Her legs quivered with the effort to stand her ground as he stalked toward her. Her gaze locked on the intriguing swell of muscle over his chest. Her heart thundered in her ears.
“My lady?” He placed a firm hand beneath her chin.
Helena’s courage faltered under his keen scrutiny.
“Just ask.”
His bluntness startled a soft gasp out of her. She should just brazen it out, yet her mouth refused to form the words. Her mind scrambled to formulate a fitting response.
“Nay,” he cautioned, “no lies.”
As her shoulders slumped and her gaze dropped, she conceded defeat. Though she’d underestimated his intelligence, in all honesty how was she to know he had a mind beneath all the brawn if he never spoke? She’d also set too much faith in her own attractiveness.
Helena crumpled like a linen shift. “I want you to avenge my sister’s death,” she blurted.
A pause, and then his gruff voice. “Ranulf will die.”
She dragged air into her starved body. It had been so pitifully easy, her confidence returned with a surge. “And Lady Rosalind?” she ventured bravely.
“Stays.” The hand on her chin suddenly tightened. Guy’s expression went icy as he turned her face to catch the light of the fire.
“Until the babe is born?” Helena pressed again, unsure what had captured his attention.
“What happened to you?” he demanded.
Too late, she remembered the bruise on her cheek. She tried to move her face.
He would not release her. A low sound escaped his throat, so full of menace that it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. “It is nothing.”
His lips tightened and she gently disengaged his hand from her face. “I was not looking where I was going and I tripped.”
He continued to stare at her. Nervously, Helena wet her dry lips.
He cradled her face in his palm, tracing the mark with a calloused fingertip. It didn’t hurt but she flinched. The shame of her fight with Colin was like a brand.
“Who?” Guy released her.
“The door, my lord.” She forced a laugh from her chest. “Will you hack it with your sword?”
With a grunt he dropped the drying cloth from his waist and slid under the covers. “I am weary.”
As she sagged with relief, he rolled over onto his side. He was asleep in minutes.
By the time Helena slid out from behind the dressing screen, readied for bed, she admitted to erring in her judgement of her husband. But she couldn’t have mistaken the stiff rod of flesh between his thighs, or its meaning. Bridget had made sure of that.
Except, apparently, she and Bridget didn’t know as much as they believed because Guy now slumbered as peacefully as a carefree babe. Mayhap she didn’t appeal to him in that way. He hadn’t so much as touched her. Mayhap she wasn’t the sort of girl men wanted to do that with.
She crept closer to the bed and gingerly raised the covers. He stirred in his sleep, but stayed on his side. Helena eased herself into the bed beside him. It was galling, but she would have to consult with Bridget.
Lady Rosalind would know how to tempt a man. The admission pricked at Helena as she adjusted her position for comfort. Lady Rosalind would have had the man panting and begging by now. The image of Guy panting and begging caused a strange tingling to start low in her belly, not an unpleasant sensation by any means.
Spreading throughout her body, the tingle seemed to emanate from her most private places. Here, at her breasts, past her navel and beyond. Her palms brushed across her nipples, firm yet sensitive. She stroked her hand down her belly to touch her mound through her shift. Then drew back, shocked at her own daring.
This had not gone at all as she had planned.
Chapter 12
Helena woke to a wondrous sensation of warmth. She had sought Guy in her sleep once more. Something was different this morning. Her pulse beat hard against her throat. The large body curled about her was unmistakably awake, which should have disturbed her. Instead it inspired nothing more in her than the need to lie absolutely still and enjoy the feeling.
“Good morrow, my lady,” he murmured beside her ear.
A tremor crept up her spine.
He made no move to disentangle their limbs or unwrap his length from around her. Her shift was still folded about her knees, but she could feel the hot press of his body through the thin linen. Nestled against her bottom was the answer to her previous concern.
Her heart pounded beneath her breast. “Good morrow.” She felt heat creep over her cheeks.
He seemed disinclined to move and Helena lay expectant. Nerves fluttered in her belly. Would he act?
His breath stirred the fine hairs along her neck, sending small shivers down her spine. She feared he’d gone back to sleep. A sharp sense of disappointment clenched in her chest. Clearly, she was going about this in the wrong way. It was hardly her fault that she had no experience of these things. Either she would have to let instinct be her guide or she would be forced to ask Bridget for more information after prayers. She could just imagine how that conversation would go.
She tried to wriggle her bottom clear of his hard flesh.
He hauled her body flush against him. “Stay.” His wide hand splayed across her stomach to keep her in place.
Her pulse leapt, as if poised on the edge of something thrilling. She breathed in and caught a hint of jasmine, but even stronger, the earthy scent of warm, male skin.
“Hmm.” He stirred against her neck, burying his face in the bend of her shoulder. Prickles of warmth spread from the places he touched. His stubbled chin scraped over her neck as he sucked her earlobe into his mouth. Oh, merciful Lord. Who knew that ears could make your body feel that way? She tingled all the way down to her toes.
A rough purr thrummed in his chest. “Helena?” His voice stirred the heat already blossoming within her body.
He was asking her, making the decision hers. Any lingering nervousness disappeared. “
I’m not afeared,” she whispered.
“Nay?” His fingers trailed across her belly as his mouth lingered along the line of her throat. Heat sparked where his hand rested, frustratingly close to her breasts.
“Nay, not afeared.”
He pushed her linen shift aside with his chin to slide his mouth along the curve of her shoulder. His breath warmed her skin, his mouth so wet and hot. She wanted him to move his hand. Dare she ask for such a thing? Her blood thrummed as, finally, he stroked the underside of her breast.
His thumb flicked over the impudent pout of her nipple. Sensation shot straight from her breast to her core and she pressed her bottom into him.
Murmuring his approval, he turned her onto her back beneath him. His male flesh pulsed at her hip as the top half of his body pinned her to the bed. Her heart pounded louder. This was so much better than she’d imagined last night.
He lowered his mouth to hers. She raised her head to meet his. The taste of him was intoxicating. Helena opened her mouth wider and he groaned. Her senses swam as she concentrated on the thrust and parry of his tongue, demanding and giving at the same time.
It occurred to her that she might do the same to him. She slid her tongue against his, and a wave of pleasure swept up from her nerve endings. She did it again.
His hair brushed her palms as she cupped them about his head, silently urging him closer. She welcomed the weight of his larger body against her, revelling in the differences between them.
Slowly he slid his thigh between hers. Helena murmured encouragement against his mouth. The ache within her core swelled urgently. She rocked against his thigh, instinctively seeking release.
Her hands roamed. His muscles felt like silk-covered steel. Helena thrilled as his touch firmed and grew more demanding. Impatiently, he pushed through the neck opening of her shift, widening the tie until it slipped over her shoulders. His long fingers plucked at the sensitive peak of her nipple. Heat shot straight from the tip of her breast down to her aching centre, a most wondrous sensation. The need in her built as her hands dug into his bare back, urging him to finish what he had started.
“Sweet.” He dragged his mouth away from hers, his tongue trailing wet heat across her jaw and down her neck to her breast. His mouth fastened over the turgid peak. She couldn’t have imagined such pleasure. She arched her back to get closer.
His hand, large and firm, traced the rise of her hip bone and drifted down to sweep along her skin. He tucked his palm beneath her knee, urging her legs to part wider. His weight was warm and heavy between her thighs. Now, there was naught but a thin layer of linen separating them. He flexed his hips and his hard shaft rubbed a sweet spot within her soft curls. Her entire being centred on the driving friction of their bodies. This was where she needed him—
“Watch out.”
Helena froze.
Guy growled an oath against her neck.
Willie’s piping voice, from outside the chamber, acted like an icy splash of water. She lay with a man between her thighs and her shift around her waist. It was beyond mortifying.
There rent a thunderous crash, followed by some inventive cursing. Another, smaller crash of pottery hitting the floor joined the clatter of a goblet before all went silent.
Guy raised his head. Colour stained the hard line of his cheekbones. “Jesu.” He threw himself onto his back. His chest rose and fell rapidly. “I am going to string that lad up by his toenails.”
She’d done this to him. It made her feel powerful, beautiful and desirable.
“You bloody oaf,” Willie gloated from the other side of the door. “Just see what you have done.”
A timid knock sounded and Guy sat up with a groan. He dropped his legs over the side of the bed. “What?” he barked.
Helena roused a small flicker of sympathy for the boys on the other side of the door, but not enough to forgive the interruption.
“It is urgent, my lord.” Geoffrey’s voice quailed a bit.
Guy dropped his head forward onto his chest and muttered, “Of course it is.” He brought his arms down on either side of her body. “We are not done, Helena.”
Her heart tripped rapidly within her at the terse promise. Nay, they were not done.
“Come, Geoffrey.” He straightened as the door opened to admit his squire.
“Good morrow, Sir Guy,” the boy whispered sheepishly. “I was bringing you something to break your fast but—”
“He dropped it,” Willie announced cheerfully as he swaggered into the chamber.
Helena couldn’t see Guy’s face, but Willie immediately snapped his mouth shut.
Unconcerned about his nakedness, Guy rose to his full height. Willie’s gaze assessed him frankly and her cheeks grew hot.
Geoffrey went as red as she felt. “Sir Ewayne said it was pressing,” he muttered, so quietly Helena could barely make out the words.
“Sir Ewayne?” Guy strode over to his braies and yanked them on.
Ewayne wanted to speak with Guy? That must mean something was amiss.
“Aye.” Geoffrey handed Guy his chausses, but kept his eyes carefully averted. “He would like to speak with you.” He seemed to gather a rush of courage. “That is why . . . I . . .”
“What is it?” Helena pulled the linens up to her chest.
Guy shrugged and pushed his head through the neck of the gambeson.
Lord, give her strength. The man did wonderfully until you asked him to speak.
“If there is something I need to know, then you must tell me of it.” Helena couldn’t quite keep the ire out of her voice. “I am still the lady of this keep.”
“I will be gone for several hours,” he rejoined.
Helena folded her arms beneath her breasts. “I dislike being dismissed, Sir Guy.”
“We will speak when I return.”
A sop to her pride, nothing more. “Aye, we will,” she called to his back.
Chapter 13
The damp, dull weather outside encouraged Helena to seek a quiet spot near the hearth to work. With much to consider, she would have retreated to her place in the woods to sit and think, but it didn’t feel special anymore.
“What do you stitch, my lady?” Brother Crispin strode toward her. He looked at the tapestry in her hands. It revealed a young girl, sweetly winsome, on the brink of some grand adventure. There was a smile on the girl’s lips, as if the world held boundless magic for her.
“She is lovely.” Crispin touched a delicate finger to the glowing fall of hair over the girl’s shoulder.
“Aye.” A lump rose in her throat. “She was lovely.”
“Ah.” He eased onto a pillow at her feet. “Do I sense a sad tale?”
His face was so similar to his brother’s, yet so very different. “It is a likeness of my sister, Bess.” The words surprised her as she said them. Brother Crispin had a way about him that made her want to talk. It must serve him well as a priest.
“What happened to her?” Crispin gently traced the sweet smile on Bess’s face with his finger. Helena had worked hours to get just that expression, so she could remember Bess that way . . . instead of how she had appeared after a year of marriage and in the months after that.
“She was killed.” The pain had dulled from a fresh wound to a dull ache, but it was still there. How she would love to have Bess with her now. Her sister would understand about Guy and all the strange, new feelings at war within her. Bess would probably laugh at her and call her ‘Lady Tempest.’
It had been two years since her sister’s death. Bess lay buried at Dartmoore. Ranulf hadn’t even allowed them to bring her body back to Lystanwold. “Sir Ranulf was her husband and he killed her.”
Crispin merely nodded and continued to study the girl in the tapestry. Helena got the sense that he was
no stranger to the cruel ways of the world.
“She looks happy here,” he commented quietly.
“She was. In my memories, I like to keep her laughing.”
Crispin smiled as if he understood. “You know, Roger chose Guy because he believed my brother could keep you safe from Ranulf.”
“After Bess,” Helena motioned to the laughing girl, “Roger swore he would give me my choice of husband.”
“And you chose your cousin?” Crispin inquired. “Why?”
“I thought Colin was not like other men.” She’d been so wrong about Colin. How could she have missed his weak character all these years? Obviously she’d not wanted to see. And she’d blocked her ears to anyone who would tell her different.
“I thought Colin would make a gentle, kind husband,” she mused. “One that would not treat me as a horse or an ox, to be controlled and owned.”
“Did he do that?” Crispin gestured her fading bruise.
She considered lying. “Aye,” she said instead. “Guy does not know.”
“I gather that, as Colin is still breathing,” he replied.
“Will you tell him?”
“Nay, lady, that is your tale to tell.”
“Thank you.”
“But if he raises his hand to you again, then I cannot stay silent,” he added.
Helena had no argument with that. If Colin struck her again, she would put a knife in his chest herself. “After Bess died, I swore no man would use me as Ranulf used her.”
Crispin nodded his understanding. “My father was one of those men whom you fear.”
“I do not fear them.”
“My apologies,” Crispin replied smoothly. “I misspoke.”
There was no mockery in his tone, but he saw too much, this priest. “You were speaking of your father.”
“Ah, verily.” He pulled a wry face. “I was a sore disappointment to him. He could never fathom how two brothers, sharing the same womb, could be so different.”