Estrellita’s eyes clouded briefly with doubt, but after a moment she shook her head and said in a flat voice, “In my dream I see it. The Old One on the ground, her breast covered in blood. And your husband, too, with blood on his hands. What else can it mean? My dreams, they do not lie.” She added in a tragic voice, “The Old One and I, we are last of our line. If she die, I am all alone in the world.”
Faith bit her lip. In the face of Estrellita’s doomed certainty, it was not possible to say that sometimes dreams were just dreams. The girl would not believe her. Besides, Faith was a believer in the power of dreams. But dreams had let her down before, whereas she would stake her very life on Nicholas’s essential goodness.
She put her arms around the girl and gave her a hug. “Estrellita, I assure you, my husband will not hurt your great-grandmother. He is not that sort of man.”
Estrellita shrugged fatalistically. “He will kill her; I know it.”
“No, he will not,” Faith said firmly. “I promise you.”
“We will camp the night here,” Nick announced as they reached a forest clearing in the foothills of the mountains.
Faith slumped in the saddle. It was disappointment as much as tiredness. Ever since Estrellita had joined them, they had camped out of doors. Faith was not sure whether it was because Nicholas didn’t think any inn or lodging house would accept the gypsy girl or whether he simply preferred it. The weather had been fine, and Faith had to agree she found it pleasant under the stars. It was amazing how one’s body adapted to sleeping on the ground. It felt like no hardship at all, these days.
But she was worried his decision to camp was caused by a desire to keep her at a distance. When they camped, she and Nicholas did not have marital congress.
Nicholas reached up to help her out of the saddle. “Not too long now,” he said gruffly. “I realize this journey must seem endless.”
Endless? She wanted it to be endless. She wanted to be with him forever.
“My guess is we’ll reach Bilbao in another three days.”
“Three days!” Faith gasped. It could not be so soon. She glanced at the unyielding profile of the man beside her. She just knew he was going to make her leave once they got to Bilbao.
She had just three days in which to make him love her!
She avoided his hands and tightened the reins, causing her horse to take a few steps backward. “I don’t want to camp here,” she declared. “I’m tired, and my back is aching. I want a hot bath, and I want to sleep in a proper bed.” She avoided his eyes in case he divined her scheme.
He scowled. “I told you to expect hardships, madam.”
“You did, sir,” she retorted. “And I’ve endured them so far without a murmur. But now I want a bath and a bed.” She gave him a friendly smile. “You can stay here and camp. I still have the money you gave me in Calais. I’m sure it will be enough to pay for a bedchamber and a hot bath at the next town.” And before he could respond, she wheeled her horse around and cantered down the road.
He followed a few moments later, thundering after her, as she knew he would. She refused to slow her pace, and he was forced to canter along beside her while he shouted, “What the devil do you think you’re doing, madam?”
She called back cheerily, “Finding myself a bedchamber and bath, sir. Didn’t you hear me?” It was a shame her horse was tired. She would have loved to have raced him, but even at a canter, the poor horse wouldn’t be able to keep up the pace for long.
“You married a soldier, madam, and as my wife—”
“But you’re not a soldier anymore, surely? The war is long over—isn’t it?” She gave him a challenging look. If he wanted her to treat him as a soldier, let him explain his mission in Spain and Portugal.
“I told you at the very beginning—”
“And I listened.” It felt gloriously freeing to be riding along like this in the twilight, tossing arguments back in her husband’s face. “I think I have done quite well. I have learned to fish and—” She broke off, flushing, remembering her disastrous attempt at hunting, then hurried on, “And although Stevens has done most of the cooking, I have helped.”
His mouth quirked. “Yes. I remember some charred and blackened chunks you claimed were toast.”
“That was entirely your fault,” she retorted airily. Recalling that he didn’t know she’d been watching him naked at the time, she continued before he could demand an explanation, “And I have learned to wash in streams and set up a camp and sleep on the ground and I have tended wounds—or at least learned how they are tended—”
“But—”
“And now, having been a good soldier’s wife, I want a hot bath and a bed. It’s not too much to ask, is it?”
He hesitated, then said, “No, it’s not.” And he gave her a smoky, dark look, which sent a small bubble of hope rising inside her.
The bathtub was made of enameled copper and was heavy enough to require two men to carry it up the stairs and set it in front of the fire. Buckets of steaming hot water followed, carried in by several maidservants and men. Faith stopped one of the girls as they were leaving and asked her to bring up a cup of white vinegar. Nick could not imagine why.
The maidservant brought the cup of vinegar just as the last girl set her bucket down beside the bath, for rinsing purposes, Nick assumed, and then the two girls carefully set up a folding screen around the bath.
And then suddenly their small bedchamber was empty. There was just Nicholas and his wife. He lounged on the bed, bootless and in his shirtsleeves, watching her careful preparations for the bath, enjoying the feminine ritual of it; the combing out of the hair, the careful unwrapping of the sliver of rose-scented soap, which was all that remained from her wedding gift from Marthe. Nick made a mental note to buy her some more. The scent of roses was now inextricably linked in his mind with Faith, her skin, her hair, the warm, sensuous feel of her in his arms.
He felt privileged to be part of this, even as an onlooker. He’d had lovers before, though not many; he was too fastidious to dally with camp followers, and he was reluctant to make promises he knew he could not keep. So for the most part he’d enjoyed temporary, lighthearted liaisons of the sort common to soldiers the world over, mostly with older, experienced women who wanted nothing more from him than his body and protection. Ladies they were, for the most part, widowed or with long-absent husbands, wanting Nick in their bed—discreetly—but not in their life. When the army moved on, they’d parted with few regrets.
Never had he experienced this, this daily…intimacy. The intimacy of knowing every garment she owned, the feeling of her small, soft body curled against him every night, of holding her through the night without making love, oblivious of the hard, uneven ground, drinking in the scent and feel of her and the small sounds she made in her sleep. Of days and nights filled with kisses both light and passionate, of small gestures of affection: a touch, a look, an unspoken shared reaction to small events, conveyed by a look or a smile.
Intimacy. It terrified him. And yet he could not resist its pull.
She removed her shoes, stockings, and outer garments, then stepped behind the screen for the final disrobing. Nick grinned. Such a modest little creature she was. He’d explored every inch of her body in bed, and she’d explored his, shyly at first, then with growing confidence. In bed she’d learned to shed her modesty and made love with an enthusiasm and passion that stole his breath away.
He found it endearing that now, after a few nights of not making love, she’d grown shy with him again. He loved the contradiction of her: this wife who’d made love to him naked in the sea and then sent him to fetch her drawers, this wife who’d slept naked with him night after night and now stepped behind a screen to bathe.
What if they’d never met? What if she’d run the other way that night, when she’d fled? He shuddered to think what would have happened. What if she’d stayed on that ship he’d put her on, and gone to England as he’d told her to?
He�
�d never have learned what intimacy could be.
He wondered whether the lesson would be worth the pain. Whether she would think so. He pushed the thought aside. He had this moment, now, and by God, he would live it to the fullest.
Her silhouette was outlined by the glowing fire. He watched as she unbuttoned the bodice of her chemise, then lifted it over her head. His mouth dried as she bent and pushed down the legs of her drawers, lifting out first one leg, then the other. She stretched, arching her back, and he almost moaned aloud at the enticing sight she made.
He heard the splash as she cautiously put one toe in the water and swished it around. He watched as she stepped in and slowly, by agonizing inches, lowered herself into the bath. She settled back with a sigh of satisfaction, and that was enough for Nick.
He stepped behind the screen and placed his hands on her shoulders. She jumped and instinctively covered her breasts. “N-Nicholas, what are you doing?”
“Bathing you. It’s a husband’s privilege.” His voice sounded hoarse. She was all pink and peach and warm, wet curves, and his body craved to pull her from the water, throw her on the bed, and take her at once, without finesse, without preliminaries. But he knew the power of delay and anticipation. And the divine pleasure of seduction.
He took the soap and lathered it between his fingers, then slowly rubbed it over her skin, her fine white skin, starting with her shoulders. She was tense. He kneaded her shoulders and felt her muscles gradually relax and loosen under his ministrations.
“Ohh, that’s better,” she said. “I’m a bit stiff.”
“Me, too,” he said with irony. He was hard as a rock.
She didn’t notice. “We rode a long way today, didn’t we?”
“Mmm. Lean forward, and I’ll do your back.” He didn’t just soap her back, he rubbed it hard, massaging it with his fingers. She moaned with pleasure as his hands slipped down along her spine, kneading and soaping.
Without warning he slipped his hands around her ribs and cupped her breasts, warm and silky, bobbing in the water. She arched against him as he brushed his fingers over her nipples. They hardened at once. He stroked and caressed her breasts, arousing, teasing, soothing. She gasped and made little movements in the water, sending the water splashing at the edges. He took the washcloth and gently abraded the distended nipples, and she moaned and pressed her head back against his shoulder, and he felt one of the pins holding up her hair.
He pulled it out and took out the remainder, letting her hair tumble down around her nape. It was not long, but it was silken and curly, and he loved the texture of it in his fingers. He lathered her hair with the soap, and she smiled. “This is bliss. I think I will always require your attendance at my baths, Nicholas.”
He said nothing; there was nothing to say. They had now.
He massaged her scalp, and she rubbed against his hands sensuously, her eyes squeezed shut against the soapsuds, and he could not help himself; he slid his hands down her front, over her breasts, and between her legs, soaping the golden curls there, delicately at first and then with greater urgency. She gasped and writhed and clutched him, leaning forward and planting small, clumsy kisses on any part of him she could reach. The water slopped over the side.
“Now, Nicholas, now,” she begged, but Nick knew the value of delay.
“I’ll just rinse your hair,” he said, and she opened her eyes and looked at him almost indignantly, as if she could not believe he could think of such a thing at such a time. But he was hard as a rock, and his whole body ached with need, and it was himself he was torturing, not just her. He focused on the task at hand, concentrating on each step, the tension and anticipation building in his body, knowing that soon, as soon as she was ready…The pleasure-pain of delayed gratification.
Carefully he rinsed the soapy bubbles off her body. “Bend your head, and I’ll rinse your hair,” he said.
“Use the jug on the table and add that cup of vinegar.”
“Why?”
“It clears off the soapy scum and makes my hair shinier.”
“But then you’ll smell of vinegar, not roses.”
“No, I won’t, or at least not for long. I always do this, and you’ve never yet complained I smell of vinegar.”
Doubtfully, Nick poured the vinegar into the warm water in the jug. “Close your eyes,” he said and carefully rinsed her hair.
“Now stand up, and I’ll rinse the rest of you.”
She tried to stand, but her knees buckled, and she made a grab at him that soaked them both and the floor a good deal more. And if he thought he was torturing his body before, it was nothing to having to hold a wet, naked, giggling, amorous wife upright while he rinsed soap bubbles off her. It was, in fact, not humanly possible.
“Oh, to hell with rinsing you! That soap is good enough to eat, anyway!” And he lifted her from the bath and carried her to the bed. She was ripping at his shirt, pulling it off him and covering his chest with kisses and nips. She found his nipple and fastened onto it with her mouth, teasing it softly with her tongue. Then she bit it, lightly, experimentally, and Nick almost came off the floor as exquisite sensation burned through him. She kept nibbling on him, even as her hands were busying themselves with the buttons of his breeches.
“Aha!” she declared triumphantly as her hands found their object, closed around it, and squeezed.
Nick heard himself groan.
So much for his modest, shy little wife. And thank God for contradictions.
Faith woke to an odd feeling. Something was wrong. Her husband’s warm bulk lay beside her, and she nudged him, saying, “Nicholas, are you awake?”
He didn’t move. Not surprising, since they’d made love half the night. She could not shake the uneasy feeling, so she turned and shook him, “Nicholas, I don’t know what it is, but…” Her voice trailed off. He hadn’t responded. He lay in the bed, unmoving, breathing evenly but almost imperceptibly.
“Nicholas!” She shook him again, harder. He didn’t move.
This was no normal sleep.
She flew out of bed and grabbed the jug of water that stood on a table. She scooped a handful of cold water from it and splashed his face. He didn’t stir. She threw another and another and shook him hard, but he lay there passively, unknowing, uncaring.
He wasn’t asleep; he was unconscious.
She ran out onto the landing and called for help. The landlady produced smelling salts, and when that produced no effect, burned feathers under his nose. All to no avail.
In the middle of the chaos, Stevens, Mac, and Estrellita arrived. Faith quickly explained the problem, and they all crowded into the small bedchamber and stood around the bed.
“Do you know what it is?” she asked Stevens.
“Not exactly.” Stevens sounded evasive. “I think we should leave him be.”
“What, just leave him and do nothing? I can’t do that! He’s sick, can’t you see? I must help him.” Faith was beside herself. She needed to do something—anything. She dipped a cloth in the water, wrung it out, and went to smooth it over his face.
Mac stopped her by the simple expedient of catching her wrist. “He looks wet enough already, lass.”
Faith flushed. “I tried to wake him with cold water.”
“Aye, I can see that.” Mac bent over Nicholas and examined him carefully. “Stevens is right. We’ll let him sleep it off.”
“He’s not drunk! And he’s not asleep!” Faith almost yelled. “He’s insensible! He needs a doctor. One of you must fetch one immediately.”
Mac and Stevens exchanged glances. Mac answered for both of them. “Nay. The cap’n gave orders we were never to do that.”
“But how could he know—”
Stevens patted her shoulder in a fatherly manner, “Now, now, it’s just another one of his headaches; no need to fret and carry on.”
She flung off his hand in frantic irritation. Stupid men, acting as if she was making a fuss over nothing while Nicholas lay there insensible a
nd unmoving! “But he didn’t have a headache last night; he was perfectly well. You must fetch a doctor! If you won’t go, I will!”
The landlord poked his head into the conversation and said sorrowfully. “There is no doctor here, señora. The closest is Bilbao, and he is not so good.” He made a quaffing gesture with his hand to signify the doctor in Bilbao was a drunkard. He glanced at the still man on the bed. “I could fetch the priest, perhaps.”
“No!” all three of them said at once.
Faith wrapped her arms around herself and stared in helpless frustration at each of the men in the room. She was frightened. She had no idea what to do.
Mac, who had been in quiet conversation with the landlord, raised his voice. “Breakfast will be served in twenty minutes downstairs, lass. Ye can do no good sittin’ here and fashin’ over the cap’n. Have a wash, get dressed, and come downstairs. Estrellita here will help you.” He gave the girl, who had been hovering near the doorway, a little push.
“You expect me to eat breakfast?” Faith began incredulously.
“Aye. The cap’n will wake when he’s ready, and in the meantime, starvin’ never did nobody any good. Now do as I say and don’t argue.”
He spoke quite softly, but Faith blinked. McTavish had been Nicholas’s sergeant in the war, she remembered. It seemed even sergeants had habits of command. And though her mind screamed that she ought to be doing something, she couldn’t think what. It made sense to dress and break her fast; she didn’t know what else to do.
“I don’t want Nicholas to be alone.”
“I’ll stay,” Stevens offered. “Mr. Nick would never forgive me if you let yourself starve a’cause of him, miss.”
“Very well,” she said unhappily. “But I’m coming back up here straight afterward, mind.”
Nicholas lay insensible for the rest of the day. In the afternoon, Mac forced Faith to go out for a walk with Estrellita. When Faith was inclined to argue, he just pushed her out the door, saying in a low rumble in her ear, “Estrellita isna used to being cooped up indoors. You’d be doin’ the lass a favor as well as yoursel’ and Stevens and I will stay wi’ the cap’n. Take the dog, and nobody will bother you.”
Anne Gracie - [Merridew Sister 03] Page 24