Devil's Knight

by Geri Borcz

  "Lean up, Rhys, and cover your eyes," Juliana said.

  The throaty way she spoke his name stirred the cauldron of his heating blood. Rhys obeyed, the water again sloshing with his movement. He noted the care with which Juliana poured clean water from a pitcher to rinse out the soap. She squeezed water from his hair, replaced the vessel on the floor beside the tub, and hesitated.

  Good sense refused to stay quiet. Relaxed and comfortable with her, Rhys broke the truce on a pang of guilt.

  "My thanks, Juliana," he said, "but I take you from other duties. And I suspect Roger will be displeased to learn of your aid to me. You needn't stay, I can manage."

  "'Tis my father's house," she said.

  That sounded like she quoted scripture, but with the surly tempered Roger for a brother, no doubt she used that phrase often with visitors.

  "I may as well finish," she added.

  Rhys's little devil laid the blame at Juliana's feet for not recognizing the out that he handed her. Meanwhile, good sense screamed the earl's name and warned Rhys to protest harder, conjuring an ugly picture when Juliana learned that he'd duped her.

  "I think 'tis best not to wet this further," Juliana said, then pulled the dampened surcoat over her head.

  Rhys opened his mouth to a more forceful dismissal, but no words came out. His breath caught in his throat, and he swallowed good sense with a gulp.

  Jesu, but the woman possessed a body to tempt a saint. And he was no saint.

  The temperature of the bath water rose, amongst other things.

  He gaped at the scarlet gown that enhanced to perfection the lithe form hidden from view. She wore no chemise, and the clingy material outlined the curve of her breasts, defining her nipples, and sheathed a waist that Rhys itched to see if he could span with both hands.

  He gawked his fill as she folded the embroidered garment, then laid it over the stool. When she turned back to the tub and leaned over him, he all but swallowed his tongue. She unwittingly dangled her voluptuousness like ripe apples.

  Roger's sister, the earl's daughter, her ire--all sane reasons for additional argument fled from his mind. Instead, he clamped down on the urge to drag the temptress with him into the bath water.

  "Close your eyes, Rhys," she said.

  The unexpected view of her surely affected his hearing, for he imagined a huskiness to her voice. He obeyed her quiet command with a breath of relief, but soon realized that magnified her touch.

  His traitorous mind fixed a sensuousness to her slightest movement and drew provocative images as soap slick hands skimmed over his face, slid down his cheeks, glided down his muscular neck, slipped past the width of his shoulders, edged over his chest muscles, plunged through the black hair, rushed over the taut belly . . . .

  "Refreshing after the day," she said. "Is it not?"

  "Aye," he managed to croak as sweat beaded his upper lip.

  Rhys sucked in a breath and clenched his teeth harder. He'd never allowed his lust to control him before, and he scolded the unruly fellow for disobeying him now.

  He cracked his eyes open. From between beads of water that spiked his lashes, Rhys saw her cupped hands before him, then a sudden splash of water on his face, so he closed them again. Jesu, he wouldn't last through the rinsing.

  To distract his wayward thoughts as she sluiced the water over him, Rhys drew upon the last battle in which he fought. Behind his eyelids, he mapped the positions from the seige machines, to the left flank, to the center charge, to the smooth palms that grazed his nipples, to the fingertips that fluttered along his ribs and down the path of an old scar.

  "I wonder that any came so close," she whispered. "You're such a formidable man."

  "I've enjoyed my share of successes," Rhys gasped, his mind far from the battlefield.

  The maddening effect of her slow descent strained the hold on his baser instincts, but he preferred death from the sweet torture to lessening the thrill. Rhys squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the tub rim with iron fingers, building in his mind the anticipation of her hands roving lower, only to feel an abrupt halt to her tantalizing motions.

  "What is it?" he drawled.

  The expectant silence broke the spell.

  He raised heavy eyelids, not to the passion aroused hunger of his overworked imagination, but to her wild-eyed stare, an intent gaze that centered over his shoulder.

  "A spider," she said in a strangled whisper, and dropped her hands.

  Juliana shivered and inched away, her eyes glued to the furry invader.

  Rhys struggled to hide his disappointment at the loss of her attention over so trivial a thing. He half turned, but the source of irritation watched them from atop the table, out of arm's reach.

  "He'll go away," Rhys said and turned back, coaxing her to resume. "Pretend he's not there."

  "Pretend? I hate spiders. Hate them! Please do something. Kill him."

  He stifled a frustrated groan. What a quandary. If he stood up, she'd see clear evidence of how her bath affected him and end his truce celebration all too soon. But if he stayed in the tub, his further exploration of this new sensual delight appeared doomed because of her abhorrence for creepy things--unless he talked her out of her worry.

  Ever a risk taker, Rhys sat still.

  "Juliana, you frighten him more," he said. "Be reasonable, you're a greater size. He'll tire of us and leave anon."

  "Not likely," she said, "unless you plan to saddle and ride him out. Rhys, he's brown and furry--and big." Juliana swung a disbelieving gaze to him. "Where's your chivalry? Get up from that tub and kill him."

  Rhys blew an impatient breath. At this moment, in or out of the tub, either way damned him for an uncouth lout. Perhaps another tactic.

  He lifted a dripping hand and pointed to the floor.

  "Pass me my boot," he said, then mumbled, "given the size of my foot and the short distance to hurl, I could probably kill a small hound."

  Quick to obey, Juliana bent over to retrieve the heavy footgear.

  Rhys muffled an oath. Her gown lay in folds below her belt and emphasized her well-formed derriere. Round enough to fill his hands, while he anchored her and slid himself between. . . .

  "Where is he?" Juliana said.

  She gasped and straightened towards Rhys, then jumped back. His boot dropped to the wet planks with a dull thud of finality.

  Frustrated, Rhys envisioned his self-indulgence crawling away on eight legs.

  "Juliana? My bath?"

  "Nay! What if he swims in there with you?"

  "Spiders don't swim," Rhys fibbed.

  His diversion failed.

  Juliana twirled, surveyed the chamber, then shook out her surcoat and hugged it to her like a shield, before bolting to the door.

  "You keep him company, I--"

  "My lady," interrupted the plain-faced maid from the doorway. "Lord Roger bid me summon you--at once." She paled beneath Rhys's black frown and turned to her quickly approaching mistress. "S-shall I f-finish with my lord of Adington for you?"

  "Lord Ad--?" Juliana's head jerked toward the tub.

  Rhys feigned innocence, watched the fire leap to her rounded eyes, and saw the moment's indecision flicker in her gaze. Gauging by the dark scowl she then shot to him, he knew she'd realized his ruse.

  Their truce was over.

  "Marta," Juliana gasped to the maid as she passed by her, "there's a big spider in here."

  The last of the little maid's color stripped away, and she slammed the door closed behind them.

  Rhys stared at the empty chamber, slapped the water, and cursed under his breath. A movement on the opposite rim caught his eye, and with unreasoning violence, he squashed his palm on the unwary spider.

  "And the same to Roger, if he punishes Juliana for my sorry whim," Rhys said, disregarding the little voice that wondered why he cared.

  Then, a slow, wicked smile graced his face, and he leaned back in the cool water. The day was not yet won.

  He'd seen Julia
na's fierce pride and stubbornness in one form or another since they'd first met, and he knew with absolute certainty she wouldn't let this trick slide.

  He wondered how she'd retaliate. Then, he laughed aloud with anticipation.

  * * *

  Juliana spent a tedious afternoon alone in her chamber for disobeying Roger's order about using her bow. Overlaying the sewing in her hands, vivid images of bathing Rhys swam in and out of her vision, although she'd performed the mundane task for others countless times before.

  She frowned and stabbed the needle into the fabric, punishing the cloth for not being the trick-enjoying toad, Adington. Raimund's dog stretched at her feet, rolling onto his back with his paws spread-eagled in the air and his jowls lolling to the side.

  Her frown slid into a wry smile and a chuckle escaped.

  "Very well then, my purpose was sinful--but only to you will I admit offering him a wee bit more aid than hospitality."

  Juliana laid the sewing in her lap and gazed toward the arrow slit, picturing Rhys's lazy, compelling smile and the resilient flesh that warmed under her stroke. Smooth skin, the color of sweet honey. Again, she felt the repressed strength and power in the muscles that rippled beneath her sensitive fingertips.

  Rhys leashed that strength around her, she realized. He was confident enough of his abilities to face down Roger, yet the sense of excitement Rhys provoked in her exceeded any fear of him.

  For lusting after that man, Father Duncan would give her a penance to make a saint weary. How to tell the good priest that Rhys made her daft, but she still caressed his naked body and savored such an intimacy? Juliana didn't understand it, either.

  Her chamber overlooked the bailey from where muted noises drifted to her ears, stirring her restless energy. She rose, stepped around the dog, and ambled to the narrow opening to glimpse the activity again. He padded behind her. For the hundredth time, she caught herself hoping to see her dark-headed neighbor.

  "There are too many marks against him," she said to the dog, and counted on her fingers. "One--my wits turn to porridge around him, and a woman needs her wits about her or she stands prey to any whim a man may concoct. Two--’tis obvious he's in love with another."

  The naked caring Juliana had heard in Rhys's voice when he spoke another woman's name still irritated, a disquieting realization.

  "Three," she said, "he and Roger hate each other. My father would never consent to ally with someone displeasing to Roger."

  She banished the prospect, picked up the half-sewn chemise, and resumed her seat. Iain was the wisest choice. Wasn't he?

  Worse than teasing thoughts, she had no one to speak with, except a timid serving girl who had brought in a meal tray. So Juliana's burning curiosity about why other messengers came and went so often remained unsatisfied.

  A knock at the door drew her attention, and Roger entered the room. The dog bounded from the floor to greet him.

  Juliana resigned herself to the coming lecture.

  Beneath the deep, stark blemishes marring Roger's once handsome face, he appeared haggard, weighty with troubles. Lines furrowed his wide forehead and he seemed pale. The hazy light broadened his stockiness and shadowed his hair, the dusty-brown hue favoring her richer sable coloring, even though she and her brother were ten years apart in age and from different mothers.

  "Today was your own folly, Juliana," he said, "and you've suffered penance. God's teeth, my brothers were of little aid to me."

  Mid-step, Roger clasped his hands behind his back and turned to her. For a second, Juliana's heart ceased beating. Sometimes when the shadowed light touched his face. . .

  Gooseflesh rose on her arms, and she lowered her eyelids in shame. Did the hideous scars bother Roger? She didn't know, for he'd never spoken of them.

  He shook his head in bewilderment. "I truly question my sanity in not drowning them at birth. Now that they've reached manhood, they seem intent upon that course."

  Juliana opened her mouth in their defense, but Roger held up a calloused hand, and she clamped her lips shut.

  "I confess I shoulder some of the fault," he continued, "for too long I've watched you run wild. I had hoped marriage would temper your actions, but he had not the spine to draw rein on you." Roger's eyelids drooped and he heaved a sigh of long-suffering patience. "I'll hear your promise now never to raise a weapon again."

  "But Roger--"

  "Cease, Ana. When you were but a child, I permitted you on the training field with Oliver for one reason: Agnes tended your lady mother's illness and had not the time to devote to you. I admit you learned far more than our cousin, but I now see my indulgence was a mistake. 'Tis ridiculous to shoot a bow as poorly as you, but that you shoot one at all is a most unseemly trait in a woman. Now, your promise."

  Juliana hesitated, but saw no way around it.

  "Aye, Roger, I swear never to pick up another weapon."

  "Good," he said. "But that's not why I want to speak with you. Oliver is another matter."

  Her breath suspended.

  "'Tis time to cry peace and quit your unseemly bickering. Your antics, Juliana--yours and Oliver's--are at an end." Roger drew in a breath and blew it out, running his hand across his weary face. "I ordered him away from you."

  Her bottom jaw dropped to her chest, and her empty stomach to the floor. This couldn't happen. Fear spiraled through her body. Every man she'd ever cared for spared little thought for her--everyone except Oliver. Since she could remember, her father and brothers had moved through her life as waves rippling on a pond. Even the husband chosen for her had shown little regard before he died.

  Only Oliver--her playmate since childhood, her constant in a string of people, the one forever at her call--never pushed her aside. She'd always stood the stronger of the two, and though she hated to admit it, she needed Oliver. She relied on his unconditional support, the security of his steadfast devotion and his unwavering acceptance. The thought of losing him, never seeing him again, unnerved Juliana.

  As she did so often in the past at the first hint of threat, she forgot her squabble with Oliver. Petty differences fell to the wayside. They banded together, a collective defense against those bent on prodding them into a preconceived mold. In Juliana's mind, for her to order the sometimes pesky Oliver to leave was one thing, but for Roger to do so. . .

  "Please reconsider," she said. "He's my friend and meant no harm."

  Roger lowered himself into the chair. "He's ever an odd one, but I'll whip him into a fighting man yet. I now understand why you've tolerated his presence, Juliana."

  Her stomach churned.

  So, the moment she'd dreaded had at last arrived. Although Oliver tried, he failed to measure up to the brawling, wenching example of a man set by her brothers. For that offense he faced exile, and no doubt, an untold amount of labor. Stupid, stupid Oliver. He should have spoken years earlier of his desire for learning and music. Now Roger and her brothers couldn't understand his choice, nor forgive her encouragement of him.

  "I realize he's aided you in your grief over Hervey," Roger continued, "but sister, 'tis time to set aside your love for a man long dead."

  Confused, Juliana closed her mouth and stared, her eyes darkening to a deep amber.

  Why would Roger think she pined for her late husband? Granted she once had a fondness for Hervey, after all it was her duty as his wife, but thoughts of him hadn't crossed her mind in over two years. His death had saddened her, but she hadn't grieved long.

  "I see that look cloud your eyes," Roger said, "and I'm loath to bring him to your mind again."

  Juliana saw her advantage, and her mouth turned in a petulant moue.

  "Then why do you? Why do you add to my burden by sending Oliver away. Why are you unkind to me?"

  "You mistake my meaning." Roger sighed, his feelings for her blunting the sharp edges of responsibility. He leaned forward, bracing his forearms on his thighs. "Sweeting, I see to your future. 'Tis not Oliver who leaves Stanmore, pet, but you."
<
br />   "What?" She jumped to her feet, outrage kindled behind smoky eyes.

  The dog growled from the corner.

  "Me leave? But you said. . .what about Oliver?"

  Roger leaned back, his mask of hardness in place.

  "Enough of Oliver. Even you must realize that Stanmore cannot have two mistresses. 'Tis time you were mistress of your own home."

  "She's staying?" Juliana said, with a nervous laugh. "After this morn, the countess decided to stay?"

  Roger fanned the air, the morning incident of no consequence. "The countess has little choice in the matter, for she carries his child."

  Incredulity swamped Juliana's features, and the words dived out before she thought. "So our father's wife dares to usurp my place?"

  Roger arched a thick brow. "You've little heeded my words. She's his countess, and this is her rightful place, Juliana, not yours. Besides, you've held this castle in your hand too long. Surely you don't care to abide under her rule."

  Juliana plopped down on the bed, mulling over that truth. The thought of not being wanted stung. Where would she go?

  For an instant, the picture of a dark lord with sapphire eyes flashed across her mind. Again, she heard his rich voice and deep laughter and sucked in her breath at the flutter of a thousand diaphanous wings in her stomach.

  Until reality intruded. Roger despised him. Iain was her wisest choice. Now she must speak to her father about wedding Iain.

  The flutter died.

  "Mistress of my own home," she said, alarmed by an odd note in Roger's tone. "And that means?"

  "Just what it says. Wife. Mother."

  Ugly suspicions burned in her chest. Unconvinced of his sincerity, she shot to her feet again.

  "Father promised me the choice," she warned, "and I've yet to speak to him of my selection for another husband."