by Anita Mills
“Then ’tis your task to make him content with you.” Roger scanned his daughter’s face for some sign of understanding and found none. “Would you that I spoke with him first—would that ease your mind?” he questioned.
“Roger, he awaits his bath, and I have said I will send Cat to him,” Eleanor reminded him.
“Then you bathe him!” For a moment, Catherine’s temper flared, but the seriousness of her parents’ expressions told her it was no use to argue further. “Please, Maman,” she added in a meeker tone.
“Nay, ’tis not my place, when he has a wife for the task. ’Tis fitting that you go to him now and make your peace with him. Go on,” Eleanor urged.
“Nay, but—”
“Cat, you will not disobey your lady mother.”
The sternness in her father’s voice killed her protest before it was uttered. Looking from one to the other of her parents, she realized that both were agreed. “Where is he?” she muttered.
“Since you have your own chamber, ’twas decided to put him there,” Eleanor answered. “You will need to get soap from your mother’s maid.”
Without answering, Catherine stalked for the stairs. Aye, she told herself as she stomped angrily down the narrow steps, she would bathe him if he insisted, but ’twould be a bath he’d not soon forget.
17
Catherine held the towels close to her as though to hide her thumping heart, and called out, “Open the door—’tis Catherine of the Condes!” She could hear the scraping of benches and muffled voices from within. Impatient with the delay and yet loath to see him, she shifted the towels and reached to turn the iron door handle, and to her dismay it moved in her hand. The door swung open, almost causing her to lose her balance.
“Sweet Mary, but you would…” Words failed her as she stared upward at him. There was no mistaking that black hair or those strange eyes or the faintly mocking eyebrows that rose above them. And there was no mistaking the scar, the thin white line that divided his cheek below the bone. But the man before her was a stranger, a dark giant come to take her away from the Condes. It seemed to her that he blocked the whole doorway with his tall body, looming over her like an animal over its prey. She clutched the towels tighter, pressing them against her breasts.
The first thought that crossed his mind as he returned her stare was that his memories of her did her no justice. Aye, but he’d never seen the like of the girl who stood numbly outside the door. For a moment his senses reeled from the mere sight of her and his pulse raced. In defiance of custom, her head was uncovered and her thick braids fell over her shoulders like gold-threaded ropes that reached almost to her waist. She’d changed her gown from the shining blue one he’d seen her wearing on the wall and was clad now in a plain thing of coarse wool, something more suited to a nun than an heiress, but the shapeless dress could not hide her beauty.
Recovering first, she blinked to break the spell between them and managed to observe lamely, “Art bigger than I remembered.”
The flecked eyes traveled over her, lingering on the swell of her breasts, and his mouth curved in a faint smile. “As are you, Cat.”
His voice was richer, deeper than she remembered it, and his meaning was unmistakable. She looked away to keep him from seeing the confusion she felt, muttering, “I am sent to bathe you.”
He stepped aside, still holding the door open for her to enter the chamber, and she had to duck beneath his arm, brushing past him so closely that she could feel the warmth of his body. Wrinkling her nose, she complained, “And ’tis no wonder—you stink of horses.” To avoid looking at him, she peered behind him to see Alan and William de Comminges staring at her in openmouthed admiration. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that someone had already filled the bathing tub. Laying aside the towels on one of the benches, she walked over and dipped her fingers into the water.
“’Tis cold.”
“I waited for you.”
She spun around, unable to control her temper any further. “Jesu! And why could not one of them do it? You have no right to come here and demand aught of me!”
“Leave us,” he ordered curtly, nodding to the men.
Alan looked from his master’s set face to her flushed one and suppressed a grin, while William murmured as he passed her, “’Tis a right welcome sight you are to these old eyes, Lady Catherine.”
Cat waited until she heard their footsteps on the stairs before turning again to her husband. “Why did you send them away? They could have undressed you.”
“Aye, but I’d not have them hear your carping.” He walked to face her, stopping but a pace away. “And mayhap I favor a woman’s gentle touch. “ Reaching out his hand, he caught her chin and forced it upward until she had to meet his eyes. “As for having any right, I have every right—Holy Church and my overlord are agreed that you are my wife.”
His eyes were more green than gold and utterly devoid of warmth as she stared into them. A chill descended over her at his words. “I have done naught to deserve this, my lord,” she told him finally, “and I’d not be wife to you.”
“’Tis too late. I am here at the bidding of my king, told to take you to Rivaux.” A harsh laugh escaped him as her eyes widened. “Aye, but covering your honor with my name is a small price to pay for my lands, is it not?”
“I do not know what you mean,” she retorted.
“Nay? Then how is it that Henry left me to fight in Wales, a landless knight with naught but my sword arm to sustain, me for five years—five years, Cat—and now he bids me come home to you and gives me back the patrimony he took from me?” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable as he continued, “I lost my lands for this marriage, Catherine of the Condes. The lands I gain now for taking you are mine own.”
“I did not ask you to come here—take your lands and leave me be! Aye, and bathe yourself, my lord, for I’ll not do it!” She whirled, her body stiff with anger, and started for the door, but was caught before she’d taken but a few steps. Wrenching her back painfully, his hand gripped her arm so tightly that she thought he meant to break it. “Unhand me!” she snapped.
“Nay. I’ll put up with your airs and your tempers no longer, Catherine. Try me and I will beat you—do you understand?” He released her with a shove toward a bench. “Now, I’d have my bath ere we sup.”
She met his eyes defiantly, staring into the green depths until he looked away, muttering, “One day I will treat you as you deserve, Cat.”
For a moment she considered running again for the door and calling for aid, but then the whole keep would know how things stood between her and Guy of Rivaux, and she had too much pride to endure the pity of Aislinn and the others. Not when Geoffrey of Mayenne came in less than a fortnight to wed with her sister—nay, but she’d not listen to Linn crow over her sweet-tempered lord. And she’d not be routed from her own bedchamber by Guy, anyway. If anyone must leave, it should be Rivaux, she told herself. Collecting her dignity, she nodded. “Very well, my lord, I will bathe you as is your right, but I take leave to warn you that I am unskilled in such things. In this household, ’tis my mother who tends to her guests.”
Her quick capitulation somehow disappointed him, mayhap because he was spoiling for a fight to clear the air between them, mayhap because he wanted to goad her into admitting what he already suspected. With a sigh, he dropped to a bench and extended his foot toward her.
“God’s blood, but can you not even remove your own boots?”
“It pleases me for you to do it.”
Casting him a look of utter loathing, she knelt by his leg and grasped the heavy boot with both hands, giving it a rough twist before pulling it off. When he made no complaint, she did the same with the other, wrenching it even harder.
“Now I know what ’tis I have missed about you, Catherine—’tis your gentleness,” he murmured sardonically above her head.
Ignoring him, she reached to unfasten his leather cross-garters and unwound them. The calves of his legs w
ere hard and well-muscled beneath her fingers, an unusual thing for a mounted warrior. Discarding the garters, she rose. “You will have to stand, my lord, if you would remove your chausses.”
“Aye.” He came to his feet and waited expectantly. “But ’tis custom to take the tunic first—unless you are overeager to see the other.”
“I would not know of that, my lord,” she answered sweetly despite the rush of blood to her face. “I do not undress men. And you will have to lean over if you’d have me aid you.” When he complied, she lifted his overtunic from beneath his arms and pulled it upward over them, deliberately catching his hair while his arms were immobilized. Yanking it roughly, she brought the tunic off over his head with a quick jerk that elicited a wince of pain from him.
“Hold up your arms if you would have me do this,” she ordered as she reached for the plain cambric undertunic.
“I pity your poor babe when you have one,” he told her with feeling as he lifted his arms. “Art rough, Cat.”
“Aye—if you like not my gentle touch, you may do this for yourself. And I told you to bend over.” Hastily she yanked the undergarment, making sure she gave his head a twist as it came off. He was bare to the waist now, and despite her anger, she eyed him curiously, noting an ugly scar that came down nearly to his left nipple. “Sweet Mary, but you never had that before.”
“Aye, ’tis where a Welsh arrow was cut from me—you were nearly a widow without knowing it.” His eyes met hers soberly now, the green and gold once again intermingling in them. “And you are nearly done.”
Despite the thudding of her heart and the sudden dryness of her mouth, she took a quick breath and reached for the ties at his waist. Her fingers hesitated but briefly and then pulled, making a knot instead of releasing the ends. She bent her head to hide her embarrassment and worked determinedly, feeling the tremor of his stomach muscles beneath her hands.
He closed his eyes at her touch on his bare skin, sucking in his breath and holding it as her fingers sought to undo the knot she’d made. When he could bring himself to look downward, her head was but inches from his chest, its shining crown divided by the neat, even part of her braids. For a moment he thought he could smell the rosewater again, but he decided his mind played tricks on his senses. Despite his effort at control, he could feel the tautening in his loins.
The ties gave way, freeing him, and he grew before her eyes. She stepped back hurriedly, her face aflame, mumbling, “You’ll have to do the rest, my lord.”
“’Tis nothing you have not seen before, Cat—a man is a man, after all,” he gibed. “Even Brian FitzHenry.”
“I would not know of that either, my lord,” she responded woodenly. “And your water grows colder as you tarry.”
Again he felt cheated. If she had but screamed that he accused her falsely, if she had but denied loudly, he would have felt less a loss. But as it was, he lifted his hands and then dropped them, not knowing how to bridge the chasm between them, not wanting to show her how much of him would have her still. Instead, he pushed his chausses down and stepped out of them.
She did not want to bathe him—she did not want to touch his naked body—for she feared to rouse him further and she had no wish to lie with the cold stranger he’d become. Fighting her own bitterness, she gestured toward the oak-and-iron tub. “Try not to slop water on my mats—it took Hawise a week to weave them.”
He eased his tall body into the water, shivering as he did so. “Try not to soap my eyes.” But when she picked up a cloth and began washing his back gently, he shook his head. “Nay—you begin with the hair. God’s bones, but you’ll never get me clean like this,” he complained.
“Ί never wash men,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
“’Tis apparent, but you will learn.”
Her anger flared anew at the injustice of her lot and she forgot her brief fear of him. If he thought to treat her no better than a servant, she would make him pay for his insolence. Reaching for one of the pitchers placed by the tub, she emptied it over his head, letting it pour over his face, and while he still strangled from the deluge, she grabbed the chunk of soap and rubbed it so hard against his hair that pieces broke off. Then, before he could duck away, she pulled his head back by yanking the hair so roughly that he let out a yelp of pain.
“God’s bones!” he spluttered as he tried to free himself.
“’Tis not my intent to harm you,” she assured him sweetly while she dug her nails into his scalp and raked it. “Aye, you were right—’tis so dirty that I wonder you do not have to be deloused, my lord.”
“Jesu! Have a care. I—” His words were cut off as she grasped his head firmly with her forearm, imprisoning it against her, and poured another pitcher of water straight in his face. “My eyes—” he managed before choking.
Warming to her task, she held him tighter while he floundered to clutch at the sides of the big tub. With his head now locked in her elbow, she assured him, “I will wipe it out,” and then swiped a soapy cloth across his tightly closed eyes. Releasing him while he yet groped blindly, she pushed him forward in the water and grabbed a stout brush that Gerdis used for cleaning the tub. Soaping the stiff bristles, she began to scour his back, leaving red streaks on his skin. “Aye, the water’s so dirty you will have to be rinsed twice, my lord,” she murmured above him, now enjoying herself thoroughly. “I can quite see the bath was needed.”
She’d caught him unguarded and he knew it. His eyes burned so unbearably from the lye-and-tallow soap that he could not see, and his back was being shredded with God only knew what. In defense, he caught her skirt and tried to dry his eyes, but she yanked his head back and doused him again. To his chagrin, he could hear her giggle above him. With an effort, he grasped the sides of the tub and heaved himself upward, sending a shower of water over her and onto the floor. “It amuses you to blind your husband?” he growled as he made a swipe for her.
She stepped backward but was not quick enough to elude him. His wet hand closed over her wrist and pulled her closer as he stepped from the tub. Taken aback by the fury in his face, she tried to twist away, fearful that he meant to harm her. And before she could fathom his intent, he lifted her and plunged her headfirst into the soap-scummed water. She choked and came up coughing as her braids dripped and her skirts sank. Grabbing the side of the tub, she righted herself and tried to rise, sputtering, “Look what ’tis you have done! You have ruined my gown!”
“Nay, we are not done, Catherine,” he told her, holding her shoulder down with one hand and sidestepping her clawing hands.
She looked up through the rivulets of water that coursed down from her hair, to see him standing over her, wiping his burning eyes with a towel. “You…you hateful beast!” she spat at him.
“Beast? Beast? ’Tis you who have blinded me!”
Ducking from beneath his hand, she lunged forward and tried to get up, only to be pushed back roughly and dunked again. This time, when she came up, he leaned over and tugged at the ends of her neat plaits, loosening the gold thread that bound them and combing them out with his fingers. Still choking, she gasped in pain as the wet tangles gave way. Her dark hair floated out from her shoulders, gathering the soapy film from the water.
“Stand up,” he ordered curtly.
Thinking he meant to let her out finally, she raised herself and her wet gown bagged heavily against her legs. But before she could step over the side, he grasped the shoulders of the loose gown and pulled it upward so forcefully that her head jerked back. The gown made a slapping sound as it landed against the hard floor. “Nay!” she gasped in alarm, her hands clutching at his as he reached for the waist of her undershift. “Nay!”
Twisting free, he ignored her protests to lift the clinging material away and pull it off. “Holy Mary,” he heard her whisper as he stared at her. For a moment he forgot his anger. His eyes traveled hungrily over her smooth pale skin, taking in every detail of her slender body. Her breasts were fuller now and the curve of
her hip more rounded, but her waist was narrow and her belly flat. His mouth grew dry and his blood pounded at the sight of her until pain brought him to his senses.
“God’s bones—you bit me!” he accused, dropping the undershift to rub his bleeding hand. “Art a cat in need of taming, I think.”
She scrambled out of the tub to face him, her wet hair clinging like dark strings over her bare breasts. “If I were a man, I’d kill you for the insult you offer me!” she shouted. Looking around for something she could use as a weapon, she picked up the soap and hurled it at him, missing him by inches. He bent to retrieve it and advanced on her. “Stand back,” she warned, “else I’ll break this pitcher over your head.” For emphasis, she waved the empty metal ewer at him.
“Nay, Cat—I think not.” He circled her, waiting for her to raise her arm, and when she did, he lunged and caught the hand that held the pitcher. “Drop it,” he ordered sternly.
“Nay!”
“God’s bones, but you are a stubborn wench!” Still holding her against him, he forced her back toward the tub. This time he pushed her backward over the side, wrenching the pitcher away from her as she fell, and then held her under the water until she ceased clawing. When he let her up for air, he soaped her hair roughly.
“Stop it—else I’ll scream!”
Ignoring her, he pushed her underwater again and her hair floated around her. When she came up, he emptied the last pitcher of clean water over her head. “Where is the brush you used on me?” he demanded, turning around to look for it.
She pulled up and struggled out of the tub. “Have done! Sweet Mary, but what right have you to…to…” she sputtered furiously. Hot tears of impotent rage spilled over onto her cheeks, mingling with the water that dripped from her hair. “How dare you come to my father’s house and treat me so?” she panted, brushing at her wet cheeks angrily. “You have no right to come for me—no right, do you hear?” Her voice rose almost hysterically as he turned to stare at her. “And I meant it when I said I’d not be wife to you! I care not what King Henry says, I care not what Holy Church says—I’ll not have you!”