‘I thought—’ He ruffled one hand through his hair. From his armpit, reddish-gold hairs sprouted vigorously. ‘My God,’ he whispered, ‘you really are an innocent, aren’t you?’ Raising his hand, he trailed his fingers across the plush velvet of her cheek. Her lips parted, as if of their own volition; her breath kissed his knuckles. His groin tightened.
‘What of it?’ Eva whispered. ‘Better to be an innocent than to be a whore.’ Runnels of lightning fire burst beneath his touch, a dam breaking, looping around with such velocity she thought her heart would burst.
‘I agree,’ he murmured, smiling at the fire in her eyes. Her grip loosened fractionally on the towel. He glimpsed the tantalising curve of one round breast, shadowed by her knuckles. Below the snare of her hand the towel flowed downwards in loose gathers. What would it be like to dip his hand beneath, to lay his fingers across the warm, scented flesh of her belly?
His jaw tightened. Gripping her shoulder, he turned her violently around, pushing his fist into the sinuous indent of her spine. His voice was a low, grating command. ‘Go! Get out of here.’
Chapter Twelve
Eva staggered to the four-poster bed, knees whippy as saplings, her muscles wrung out, barely supporting her. Delight scorched her slim frame: wild, pulsating waves of heat, relentless, turning her logical mind to mush. Clawed by a deep yearning, her belly hollowed out, jerky and volatile. The briefest touch. The skim of his fingers against her cheek. Her body had responded to him with such force that a tremble of fear rattled through her.
Flinging herself across the bed, she buried her hot forehead in cool linen. She wanted to shout aloud, to thump and bash at the plump pillow, to tear at the fragile cover; make the feathers fly. But she bit down hard on her bottom lip, reining in her careering frustration. For the man who had made her feel like this was also the man who sat in a bathtub a few feet away. She mustn’t make a sound.
How dare Bruin have this power over her? This ability to turn her limbs to mush, a helpless pulp. To turn her into one of those simpering maidens in their filmy satin gowns, wafting about great halls, doing nothing all day but glance covertly at the handsome knights and hang upon their every word as if they were pearls of wisdom. She was not one of those women! She was Eva, practical, forthright Eva, the woman at whom people laughed because she could ride and run as well as any man. The woman who had fought for the right to run her own estate after the death of her family, only to have it stolen away from her by Lord Steffen’s underhand methods.
She yanked the towel more securely against her back and hips, holding the edges closed within the hollow of her belly beneath her. The fur coverlet tickled her clenched hands. Desire stalked her: a treacherous lust that gripped her loins, made whispering promises. The way she reacted to him, his nearness, his touch; the way she looked on, an impotent observer, as her cheek rubbed against his knuckles. Self-restraint fled, a mocking banshee cackling into the wind, no help to her at all. She had never known anything like this before, this need, this craving to lie with a man, to delight in his flesh, to revel in it. Startled, she blinked against the pillow, eyelashes scratching against the linen. She wanted to weep at the shame of it. Her thoughts were that of a wanton, surely, not a respectable maid! And yet, for all her self-chastisement, the flame of devilment burned brightly, hugely, in her heart, refusing to be doused, refusing to be cowed by such outrageous thoughts. She wanted him. She wanted Bruin. She wanted to lie with him.
‘Oh, I thought you’d be dressed by now.’ Bruin’s voice ripped through her scandalous thoughts, a knife through silk.
Startled by how quickly he had bathed, Eva rolled over, not thinking. The towel parted, falling aside to reveal slender legs, skin like gossamer satin, curving hips, her womanhood nestled beneath the slim indent of her stomach. Her wet, unbound hair, snaking across the furs in loose tendrils. A fleeting glimpse of devastating beauty. Her blue eyes rounded in horror and she wrenched the towel back into place, flushing angrily.
He drank her in. Devoured her. Shocked to the spot, stunned, his gaze galloped across those silky legs, the lustrous skin of her belly, her breasts a shadowy hint beneath the towel, cramming in all that he could see in that moment. The ethereal delicacy of her limbs. The sweet crook of her knees. All that feminine softness, plush and velvety. He wanted it all. Like a man starved, he thought, desperate to fall on her, to drive himself within her tender folds. Sweet Jesu. Heat pumped through him, sheer undiluted lust, rocking his big body. How easy it would be to take her, to take what he wanted, right now, her puny strength no match for his.
Dredging frantically for the scattered remnants of his self-control, he tore his eyes from her, turning to the door in absolute disgust at himself. He was not that sort of man, to rape and pillage without so much as a by-your-leave. He never had been. Not even when he had been at sea with the exiled Lord Despenser, plundering merchant ships in the Channel, with women waiting for them in every port. Not even then.
‘Put your clothes on,’ Bruin snapped. ‘I will wait outside.’ The iron latch rattled violently as he slammed the door behind him. Mortification washed over her, a swelling flood of defeat. For a moment, she lay there, winded by his harsh tone. Eyes filling with tears, she gathered up her clothes, pulling on her chemise and undergarments, then each gown, lacing the garments with rough, jerky movements. Bending down, she rolled her stockings up over her ankles, up to her thighs.
The damp towel lay in a crumpled ball on the floor, mocking her. How could she have been so stupid? Why had she not dressed as soon as she had finished her bath? Recalling Bruin’s look of pure disgust as he turned from her, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to eradicate his harsh expression. He had made it absolutely clear what he thought of her, what he thought of her body. Puny. Short. She had heard it all before. She was surprised he hadn’t laughed in her face.
Securing the pink ribbons that threaded through each stocking top with tight, decisive knots, Eva stood up, skirts skimming the floor, glancing about for her leather boots. She sighed; maybe this was a good thing to happen, after all. His rigid scowl and terse commands had taught her a valuable lesson. She was a commodity to him, a bundle to be delivered; she was a fool if she thought she was anything more than that. It was imperative that she controlled her feelings around him. Knotting her hands across her belly, she nodded to herself to emphasise this decision, to confirm it. But her heart pleated with sadness.
Securing her hair into a loose knot, she clamped her veil and circlet on her head, then smoothed her hands down the front of her skirts. There was nothing left to do; now, she must face him. He would be waiting for her in the corridor. Her blood picked up speed, filling her cheeks with colour as she lifted the latch with tentative fingers.
Flickering torches had been slung into iron brackets along the corridor. Bruin stood beneath the nearest one, one massive shoulder propped against the plastered wall. Bunched muscle roped his forearms, sinews sleek and toned beneath his skin. His hair was wet from the bath, the gold-red colour darkened to copper, damp strands falling across his forehead. He had shaved the gold bristles from his chin and his jaw held a satiny gleam.
‘Bruin—’ She reached out, her fingers grazing his elbow.
Deep shadows etched the slashing lines of his face. ‘I must dress,’ he growled, pushing away from the wall. He strode past her, into the chamber, leaving the door ajar. ‘Stay there where I can see you.’
Misery surged through her at his brusque manner. He was revolted by her, by what she had done. But it hadn’t been intentional. She clapped a hand across her mouth, aghast. Mother of Mary, did he think she’d rolled over deliberately, offering her naked body to him? She wanted to sink to the floorboards in shame.
‘Ready?’ Bruin asked, appearing in the doorway. He barely glanced at her. His chainmail hauberk had been replaced by a shirt of white linen, long-sleeved, over which he wore his customary re
d surcoat. He wore the same fawn leggings and leather boots that he had worn with his chainmail. The civilian outfit should have made him more approachable, less warlike somehow, and yet one glimpse at his stony, blank expression made her almost want to run down the stairs without looking back. But no. She was made of sterner stuff; she had endured worse than this. Setting her shoulders back in a straight line, she tilted her chin up at him, blue eyes flaring.
‘Shall we go?’ A note of impatience entered his voice when Eva failed to move. She was blocking the doorway.
‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I want to say something first.’ Her voice was a muted whisper, echoing around the confined space. She cleared her throat. ‘I wanted to say that—that I’m sorry about—in there.’ She tilted her head towards the chamber. ‘I should have dressed straight away.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Incredulous, Bruin stared down at her, eyes glowing like coals in the half-light. ‘Please tell me you’re not apologising for what just happened in there?’ He rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. ‘Are you?’
‘Yes, Bruin, I am!’ Her voice rose shrilly. ‘You have to know that I’m not the sort of woman to do something like that! As if I wanted you to—to—’ Her words wobbled, then stalled in her throat; she couldn’t say them. A raging flush rose up her neck, flooding her cheeks. ‘I’m not that sort of woman,’ she finished limply.
‘Eva, I know.’ Bruin’s voice was gentle, the low melodic tones curling through her heart: a balm. A faint smile played over his mouth.
‘Then why are you so angry?’ she asked in a small voice.
‘Angry?’ He jerked his chin up. The smell of burning tallow filled the air; a ragged pall of smoke drifted above them. ‘I’m only angry with myself, Eva. Not you.’ He sighed. ‘I am the one at fault. I should have checked you had something on before I came out from behind the screen.’
‘I’m sorry you had to see what you did.’
He blinked down at her, stunned. She talked about her body as if she were ashamed of it, as if it were something ugly. Did she honestly not realise how beautiful she was? How entrancing? Sweat gathered across his chest, in his armpits. His hands shook as he lifted them carefully from her shoulders. ‘It wasn’t that bad, Eva,’ he managed to croak out. ‘Come on, let’s go and eat.’ Spinning on his toes, he walked off down the corridor, gold-tipped hair glinting beneath the torches, expecting her to follow.
He only stopped as they neared the entrance on to the high dais. From the other side, the merry sound of harp and pipes emerged, muffled, coupled with bursts of raucous laughter, shrill chatter. The steady, thumping beat of a drum. Bruin turned to her, seeking out Eva’s bright face in the gloom, his eyes sparking like diamonds. ‘Remember that we are supposed to be married.’ He stuck his hand through the wet hair on his forehead, ruffling it. His words held a trace of reluctance, as if he regretted ever making such a suggestion in the first place.
‘I will play my part,’ Eva assured him, ‘if you think it will protect me.’
A vision of Eva’s naked body spread-eagled across the bed danced before his eyes. ‘It will,’ Bruin replied. Doubt swirled in his mind, the flicker of desire burning steadily. He could protect her from others, aye, but from himself? Of that, he was not so sure.
* * *
The top table was set for feasting: pewter plates, silver goblets, huge serving platters containing meats and cooked vegetables. The air was hot, hazy with woodsmoke, filled with the scent of food and candle wax. Knights and their ladies sat in ornate carved chairs, ranged along one side of the top table, chattering and laughing. They glanced behind them with interest as Bruin strode in, Eva at his side.
‘Bruin, my good man, over here!’ Goodric, his bulbous nose red and sweaty, lifted his fist up, pointing out the two empty places either side of him. ‘Allow me to introduce my good lady, Margaret.’ A tall, elegant woman rose up, her rose-silk gown glowing, a myriad of rainbow colours in the candlelight, and bowed towards Bruin and Eva. Further along the table, Goodric’s four daughters sat, inclining their heads in unison towards the visitors, brown eyes flaring with interest at the sight of Bruin.
‘Come and sit beside me, my dear,’ Margaret said to Eva. ‘I’m anxious to hear all about you! We are starved of news, stuck away in this place!’ Eva slipped gratefully into the chair beside Margaret. With the substantial, noisy character of Lord Goodric between her and Bruin, she had some small respite from him.
‘Have some wine.’ Margaret picked up the earthenware jug in front of her and sloshed the red liquid liberally into Eva’s pewter goblet. Her hair had been rolled high on either side of her head; the arrangement poked out of her heavy linen veil in an odd fashion. A voluminous wimple obscured her neck and throat, the material falling in dense curving gathers beneath her chin. ‘I hope you and your husband have been made comfortable in our guest chamber?’
Husband. The lie stabbed into her, sheening her spine with sweat. Eva wriggled awkwardly, her mind crowding with images: Bruin, his chest bare and gleaming, fingers stroking her cheek; Bruin, turning away because he couldn’t bear to look at her. ‘Aye, thank you, my lady.’ She inclined her head respectfully. ‘Everything has been done to make us feel welcome.’
‘I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you before, have I?’ Margaret jabbed a fork into a plate of chicken and lifted several pieces on to Eva’s plate. The chicken skin was roasted, crisp, shiny with grease. ‘Your family owns Striguil, I understand?’
‘Owned it, yes,’ Eva corrected. ‘It belongs to Lord Steffen now.’ She fought hard to keep the bitterness out of her voice, her stomach roiling at the sight of the meat flopping over the side of her plate.
‘Ah, yes.’ Lady Margaret waved her fork airily. ‘This wretched civil war drags on and on. I heard there was some trouble—but then, we women don’t normally involve ourselves in that sort of thing, do we?’
‘We do when we happen to be right in the middle of it,’ Eva said bluntly. Picking up her goblet, she sipped at her wine, wiping her mouth delicately with a napkin.
Lady Margaret cleared her throat. ‘I know—I know things haven’t been easy for you.’ She was trying to be kind, Eva realised, even though she had so little knowledge of what had really happened. ‘But tell me...,’ Margaret lowered her voice conspiratorially ‘...how did you come to be married to Bruin?’ Her eyes flicked down to Eva’s bare fingers; she frowned.
Eva tucked her hands hurriedly beneath the table. Of course, she should be wearing a wedding ring! ‘I left my rings upstairs; I forgot to put them on again after my bath,’ she explained hurriedly, face flaming.
‘Do be careful leaving them about, my dear. We trust our servants, but some have been known to pilfer.’ Margaret patted her arm, smiling. ‘Never mind. I’m anxious to hear how you met and how you came to be married to him. We never thought he would, after his last betrothal. After what happened.’
Eva jerked upright, startled. She choked slightly, grabbing at her wine to cover her confusion at Margaret’s words. What in Heaven’s name was this woman talking about? Bruin, betrothed?
Lady Margaret laid her wrinkled hand on Eva’s, her weighty silver rings winking in the candlelight, sparking green fire. ‘Oh, my poor dear, do not distress yourself. What a time you must have had. He became a different man after what happened.’
Eva nodded. As Margaret removed her hand, she unfolded, then refolded her napkin carefully, slowly, her thumb digging along one edge to smooth out the creases. She felt like a traitor to Bruin, drinking in Margaret’s words. But something pushed her on, made her want to find out more, to discover the man behind those enigmatic grey eyes. ‘Aye, he did,’ she whispered the lie, for she spoke of a time unknown to her, the time before she had met him.
‘And all that time at sea, with the exiled Lord Despenser. Raiding and looting merchant ships with no thought to life or limb. The King was in
despair. He thought he’d lost his best commander.’
Eva nodded, shock sparking through her. She had not realised the extent of Bruin’s lawlessness. He was fortunate the King hadn’t decided to clap him in irons for what he had done. Eva’s heart was in her throat. Every revelation from Margaret seemed to plunge her further into ignorance, as if she were wandering around lost, abandoned, in a vast marsh, her foot about to plunge at any moment into an unseen hole, to sink without trace.
‘But to look at him now, well, marriage seems to suit him. He’s a changed man.’
‘Is he?’ Eva kept her tone deliberately neutral. If Bruin had changed so much then he must have been utterly terrifying before she had met him. This was the man who had scared her witless in the snowy forest, who had wrenched open the trap on her leg and boosted her on to his horse without a second thought. Who had pulled her, angry and spent, from the churning river water. But he was also the man who, with a single glance from his silver-gilt eyes, made her belly plummet with desire, made her long for his body next to hers. Eva flushed, her fingers skating across the tablecloth, setting her knife straight, fiddling with the ridged base of her goblet. Who was this man who could do such things to her? Obviously, she did not know him at all.
Margaret nudged her shoulder. ‘Oh, you jest, Lady Eva! When I saw you walk in together, I thought to myself, now there’s a couple who love each other.’
Eva flinched, reddening. How wrong Lady Margaret was. If only she could have seen what had happened in the bedchamber, earlier. Bruin’s look of disgust as he turned away from her naked body. Her shame. Resting her arms on the table, she hitched her hips forward to glance past Goodric’s expansive hand gestures. Bruin’s grey eyes glowed over her; he raised his goblet slowly, a terse smile pinned on his lips, the mildest look of irritation.
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