Devil's Knight

by Geri Borcz

  "Doddering?" Agnes cocked her head and pulled her wrinkles into a puzzled frown as she slipped the gown on Juliana. "To my eyes, he's not so old."

  "To your eyes my father is a babe," Juliana said, tugging the material over her head.

  A disgusted sound bubbled from the nurse, and she averted her face, intent on the side laces.

  "'Tis your eyes that fail," Agnes said. "I've not seen so many years that my wits desert me. Do you forget Adington's last visit a few years past with his uncle, Earl William?"

  Juliana raised her elbows. "I think I was away visiting my husband's family."

  "I remember the lord was unmarried then," said the nurse. "And I've not heard any rumor that he's taken a wife since."

  "Do not even think it," said Juliana. "I've plans to speak to my father about Iain. 'Tis an alliance that'll please him. Your Lord Adington may look elsewhere for a wife."

  Agnes grunted. "You should look elsewhere. That Scot's too weak. I'll wager that within a fortnight of wedding him, you'll tire of his puling ways."

  "I've naught from my first marriage but two tiny coffins resting beneath the chapel floor. I want children, and this time, a husband I can abide. Iain is a gentle man."

  "Weak," Agnes argued. "Adington'll get strong sons on you. He impressed me the first time, and from what I've seen today--"

  "I've decided on Iain."

  Her face hidden by Juliana's upraised arm, the old woman mimicked her proclamation with soundless lips before finishing her opinion. "The wits of a dung heap and can't find his arse without that slimy oaf, Malcolm, to point the way. Hold still," she snapped, moving to the other side.

  "Mind your tongue," Juliana said. "'Tis my future husband you malign."

  "But what matter?" Agnes continued. "He's a gentle man. And Malcolm, now there's a surly lout. Iain may want you to wife, but do you think his fellow Scot won't scheme to repay you for his misery? The man's a plague on the land."

  "He'd not dare harm his friend's wife," said Juliana. "Malcolm is a mean old goat, but surely enough time has passed that the incident is forgotten. 'Twas years ago that Oliver and I slipped the purgative into his food. "Too bad it failed to sweeten his disposition as cook suggested purging would do." Juliana giggled with the memory.

  "Malcolm may have forgiven the purgative," Agnes said. "But your barring the garderobe so he couldn't get in is what I doubt the Scot will ever forget."

  "Enough," Juliana said. "You'll not sway me."

  "You're stubborn, my lady," said Agnes. "For your sake, permit Adington to come to know you. Assist him in his bath, and I pray you'll show him the gentle-woman you were born."

  "I'm in no mood to stomach the sight of a naked old toad." Juliana shuddered.

  Pudgy fingers tightened the laces and smoothed the silk.

  "Old toad? Cease your childish whims, my lady. Husbands aren't chosen for their handsomeness. If Adington doesn't possess the fairness of some, what matter? A man must exhibit strength to hold against enemies, and if his looks scare the life from stone walls, all the better. After a time, a wife wouldn't see his hard edges nor his fierce darkness."

  Juliana gasped. "He sounds no better than Malcolm. From your own mouth the man all but sits at the devil's hand. Nay, I'll not get near enough to such a one to consider." Another shudder rippled through her. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

  "Not get near enough?" Agnes cast her a sidelong glance. "You speak in riddles."

  Over the curve hugging bliaut, she tugged a brown, sleeveless surcoat, cut in a deep vee below each arm to hang loose and reveal peeks of the gown underneath.

  Juliana's head popped out. "I know that look. What wickedness lurks in your head now?"

  "Wicked thoughts? Me?" Agnes neither confirmed, nor denied. She moved to Juliana's back, combing and braiding her wet hair. "You're stubborn, Lady Juliana. 'Tis a sin, that."

  "Enough, I said. Now cease your lecture."

  Wisely, the nurse changed the subject.

  "I wonder how Sir Oliver fares?" she said.

  "At times," Juliana sighed, "he provokes my anger, but for all his faults, still I love Oliver best."

  "And see how the lackwit repays your love and trust?"

  Juliana grimaced. "If my brothers didn't tease him, I think Oliver wouldn't act so recklessly."

  "To my mind, you've shielded him far too long. He's not of their same nature and never will be. 'Tis time he acknowledged that and dealt with them."

  "Oliver lacks the strength."

  Agnes snorted. "So he seeks it in the ale?"

  "'Twas my responsibility," Juliana said. "Now my father must pay good coin for that which Oliver took for pride alone."

  "Your father can well afford it," Agnes said over her shoulder. "Don't worry for the village wenches. I know Earl Baldwin, and he'll offer more than they ever dreamt of seeing. The coin will gladden their future husbands, enough to forgive any lack they bring to the marriage bed."

  "It was my intent to scare Oliver," Juliana said. "He must realize we're no longer children."

  A grunt exploded into the room, which she took as agreement.

  Hair plaited and secured with a ribbon to match the gown, Juliana straightened her shoulders and opened the door.

  "I must see to Sir Oliver's flesh wound," Agnes said. "Unless, of course, you wished it to putrefy."

  Juliana experienced a twinge of guilt and paused in the doorway. Her brows wrinkled together.

  "You play foul, Agnes. Very well, see to him."

  The nurse turned her back and busied herself with gathering the discarded clothing.

  "So then you'll tend the old toad?"

  "Aye, so be it."

  With one hand on the latch, Juliana stepped into the corridor, then pivoted.

  "And you needn't mention your task, Agnes, and thus remind Roger of my disobedience. I hope to avoid that discussion until I can speak with my father."

  Juliana pulled the door closed, cracked it open again, and poked her head back into the chamber.

  "And understand, I go to assist the devil's toad because I don't slack in my duties and because my cousin shouldn't suffer for lack of a posset."

  Popping back out, this time Juliana shut the door with a peeved thud.

  ~~~~

  CHAPTER 3

  Rhys lounged on a bathing stool in the wooden tub. He filled the lined cask, which resembled a half barrel and had been made for someone of lesser size, but despite the cramped quarters he relished the cool water that rose chest high.

  His carrot-headed squire attended him, arranging the soap and drying cloth.

  "'Tis doubtful the new countess will assist you, my lord," Serle said. "Gossip tells that the widow, Lady Juliana, performs the duties of Stanmore's mistress." Finished with his task, he turned back around. "But 'tis doubtful you'll see her either. I do believe the lady dislikes you."

  "So you also noticed I seem to rub her the wrong way," Rhys said. "No matter. The courtesy extended thus far surprises me."

  "Do you wish me to bathe you, Lord Rhys?"

  Rhys noticed the lad's diverted attention--he ogled two maids who skirted around him, completing their tasks.

  "Nay, Serle." Rhys waved a dripping hand. "I'd soak a bit more." He grinned at the distasteful face swung back to him. "I prefer this tub to dousing with water in the stables."

  "S-shall we take these for you?" a maid said.

  Rhys rubbed a wet hand over his face and glanced to the nervous, plain-faced girls who had helped Serle disrobe him.

  "No need. My squire will fetch me a clean tunic, and he may take the mail." Rhys smiled to ease their obvious fear of him. "'Tis too heavy for such pretty ones to manage."

  They blushed and giggled, as he'd hoped, then departed. Serle wasted no time in gathering the soiled clothing and hauberk, and followed so close on their heels, he left the door ajar.

  Rhys settled back. Forearms braced on the edges of the tub, he scooted lower. Relaxed. At ease.

  His
eyes closed and he tilted his head against the linen placed on the rim behind his neck, listening to the maids' girlish chatter drift through the opened portal. He idly wondered which one his shy squire intended to pursue.

  A moment later, Rhys heard a feminine gasp. He smiled to himself. One maid braved a return trip. He listened to her quick strides cross the chamber, before a hand plunged his head under the water, tipping him from the stool upon which he perched.

  "What are you doing?" he heard Juliana demand.

  Rhys came up sputtering, dislodging water over the staves in his wake.

  "Woman! Are you trying to murder me?"

  "The thought has merit. This bath is for my lord of Adington."

  Rhys pushed away tangled hair, unable to believe the irate sable and crimson vision that stood with arms akimbo before his blurry eyes. A faint voice in the back of his mind registered the honor that her presence accorded him.

  "I know," he said, tasting water, "and a fine bath it was, until now."

  "Of all the--"

  "Jesu, lady, but you try my patience."

  "Me?"

  "Must a man keep his cursed guard up around you?" Rhys sprayed silvered drops in all directions from his waving hand. "I've fought battles and suffered less. Christ's toes, lady, much more of this and by day's end, you'll render me useless to myself, or to Henry."

  Rhys was at a loss to understand his newest blunder. He gripped the tub rim and struggled to right himself within the cramped space, knowing he probably resembled a turtle flipped on its back. As he waited for the sparks to fly, he peered at her through water trickling from his hair.

  Juliana stared back at him, indignation warring with amusement on her face. A sprite's fragile countenance. One that again struck Rhys as pretty, but one that also stirred to life a feeling of urgency deep in his marrow. The same fleeting feeling he'd experienced each time that he'd seen her, an illogical sense of dread, too elusive to examine, but so urgent as to border on fear.

  Against all reason, this woman pricked him like a thorn under the skin.

  His scowl deepened. She presented an inviting picture--laughing eyes, glowing cheeks, all freshly scrubbed. And soft. Jesu, an uncomfortable effect on his senses.

  To his surprise, though, amusement won out.

  She strove for composure, but like a bud uncurling its petals to the sun, her lips twitched before her smile transformed her into a radiant beam of light. The pleasing effect shocked him. She dissolved into gales of laughter, whose musical trill vibrated down his spine and settled in his loins.

  His stormy gaze never moved from her eyes, although it did linger a moment on her luscious mouth. Juliana challenged his thinking--and endurance--with her unorthodox manner, and Rhys never backed down from a challenge. He lacked any idea of what went on inside her head, but she'd breached a crack in his resolve to stem any interest and now spurred his determination to win the contest of wills between them.

  "What's so cursed funny?"

  His disgruntled words reflected more than his irritation. He realized that he evoked not one shred of fear in Juliana, and that pleasing admission bothered him. Complicated his road to victory, he decided.

  "Y-you," she giggled, pointing at him. "You look like a drowned boar."

  She laughed so hard, her legs weakened, and she plopped on a nearby stool.

  Despite his best effort, the sound of her delightful and contagious humor softened his grouchy expression.

  "Sir Rhys," she said, "'tis little wonder Roger dislikes you. Your audacity is greater than mine. And that, Sir, is all that saves you from my wrath."

  Rhys didn't follow Juliana's logic, but to him, few females ever made sense. Something to do with their woman's time, he suspected.

  "Contrary to your brother's opinion," he said, "and for mine own health, may we seek a truce?"

  She nodded to him, smiled a brilliant white smile, and dangled a linen square in front of her like a flag.

  His smile answered hers.

  "Then, my lady," he said, clasping her outstretched hand for balance and righting himself upon the bathing stool, "I yield and cry peace." His next words slipped out before he thought. "Pray forgive my boorish ways. Can we start anew?"

  Why did he need to apologize? Disgusted that she addled his wits, he wanted to bite his tongue off at the sudden urge to coax a sunny smile from her again.

  Her chuckles subsided and she sobered.

  "Agreed," she said. "S'truth, I should beg pardon of you. I can offer no excuse, except that the day has frazzled me. If it suits you, I should like to forget its beginnings."

  Reluctant admiration hit Rhys, while her assumption of responsibility impressed and surprised him. He pushed wet hair back to lay around his shoulders and inhaled her teasing rose scent. He tried to ignore it, but failed. His insides knotted with the warm and comfortable memories the fragrance evoked--his cousin's gentle wife favored the essence.

  "Done," he said.

  "I'd little liking for my task," Juliana continued, "and I guess I should offer my thanks for your intervention." She sighed. "But I doubt the old lord will thank you for making him second in the bath water."

  "What old lord?"

  "Why, Adington, of course."

  Rhys's momentary outrage at her insult to his age died as understanding hit him in the head. Everything that had passed between them, from the moment he'd ridden into the courtyard until now, finally came together in his mind.

  The daft woman had no idea whom she bathed. Well, he'd set her straight.

  "You know him?" Rhys asked.

  Correct the misunderstanding, good sense whispered in his ear.

  Juliana shrugged. "Though he's my father's neighbor, I've never met him."

  Instead, something about this woman brought out the devil in Rhys, and the rascal perched on his shoulder, goading him to win the day.

  "No matter," Rhys said. "I know him well enough."

  Tread lightly, this is Roger's sister.

  But good sense talked to a stone.

  Rhys's gaze lingered in appreciation on sparkling eyes, fringed with dark brown lashes. Her braid lay across her shoulder, the wet hair so rich a brown as to appear black, and he realized with annoyance that the tendrils drying around her face curled in wisps that urged his fingers to touch.

  He swore to himself. To keep from reaching for her, Rhys sought to busy his hands, so he grabbed the soap that Serle had put out for him and started to wash his hair.

  "Trust me," Rhys said, "Adington'll mind little that I avail myself of this pleasure."

  "The old lord believes immersing the body fouls the humours?" Juliana asked.

  A faint trace of clove wafted into the chamber from the ball of gillyflower, ash, and goat fat that Rhys worked in his hand.

  "Something like that," he murmured through gritted teeth.

  He guessed that his pitiful tone struck a sympathetic chord in Juliana. She considered him a moment, then stood and took over the ball of soap.

  Again surprised by her, he turned a deaf ear to good sense and enjoyed her company. Rhys closed his eyes, leaned back, and relaxed in the infrequent luxury, while he soaked amid a field of blooming roses.

  To his mind, beautiful and sensual women always smelled delectable.

  From behind him, Juliana washed his hair, and he all but groaned when she massaged his scalp with gentle strokes.

  "The length suits you," she said, combing her fingers through the tangling dark mane that brushed below his shoulders.

  "Isobel thinks so," he murmured.

  He felt Juliana's fingers hesitate, before she resumed rubbing hard circles at his temples.

  "Your lady wife?"

  Her slick hands inched down the curve of his jaw, softening the stubble for him.

  "I have no wife--ouch," he said, flinching as her fingertip mashed his sore chin.

  Hope surged through Rhys that she'd offer to kiss the hurt away, then he chewed his teeth against the ludicrous thought.
/>   "Oh, I'm sorry," Juliana said.

  A hint of insincerity? Nay, she'd called truce.

  "You did no harm," he lied.

  Gentle fingers turned rough and dug through his muscles from neck to shoulders. Rhys bit his tongue against the grunts of pleasure that sprang to his lips.

  "'Twas meeting the countess."

  Aha, a clue to what provoked her mood.

  "I remember feeling jittery upon meeting Lady Angharad, my father's second wife," he offered.

  "Stanmore is a fortress of men," Juliana said, ending the pressure on his muscles, "and to a woman it may seem rough at times. I'd hoped to please by easing the countess's way."

  Rhys wanted to beg Juliana to continue with the massage, but he heard her choke and tilted his head farther back to look up at her face. He met amber eyes that glittered within a heart-shaped face and a pursed mouth that invited with rose petal lips.

  And laughter that threatened escape.

  "She fell at your feet," he said, chuckling. "What more could a daughter ask?"

  Giggles spewed forth, and Juliana hit his wet shoulder in a playful slap.

  "More likely she swooned from disgust. You're terrible to make light of the woman's suffering." Juliana regained herself and added, "Now I only hope my father's anger isn't too great."

  Rhys quieted, while a broad grin plastered across his face. He straightened his head to her gentler motions and basked in the glow of her sun.