He smirked. “Not like the rue I usually ingest, then?”
She smiled. “No, my lord.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other several times. “It’s time you started calling me by my name, Farah. You are the daughter of a king. I am not your lord.”
But I want you to be.
“Very well—Izzy. You are to take five drops of this medicine, but you must ingest it with food. I have combined it with honey to soften its unpleasant taste.”
He secreted the vial in his tunic. “I will instruct Aubin to have someone guide you to the Still Room. You can take stock of it and instruct him as to its disposition. I doubt it has been used for many a year. This castle has no healer.”
Her spirits rose. A Still Room of her own to stock, as if she was the lady of the castle—but she would be gone in a few sennights. Still, she thanked him. “Merci, Izzy. Safe journey.”
He came closer. Desire glowed in his eyes in the grey light of dawn. He brushed a kiss on her forehead. “Merci, Farah, for the medicine. I hope to be back before dark.”
She could only nod, barely able to walk the few steps back to her chamber as he strode away. She would need to consult al-Kindi’s writings for the source of the wet heat that seeped between her legs.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Izzy returned in time for the evening meal. He looked tired, but some of the strain had left his face. Farah’s heart lifted. He had taken her medicine.
She had not taken a seat on the dais, feeling it was not her place in his absence, but as he strode into the Great Hall he beckoned her to sit beside him. He seemed in good spirits.
She followed him. “You look well, Izzy.”
He smiled. It took her breath away and her heart pulsed between her legs. “I am well. The pain flared again after we had ridden for a while. Whatever was in that concoction you gave me certainly helped. Tell me, who is this Alkindi fellow?”
She laughed. “Al-Kindi. He was born in Basra three hundred years ago. His father was the emir of Kufa. His family were direct descendants of the King of Kinda, companion of the Prophet. He is highly revered as a great physician by Muslim peoples.”
He frowned. “And how is it you know of his writings?”
She squirmed in her seat. “My master in Jerusalem allowed me to study them.”
Izzy scowled. “Adowla?”
She touched her fingertips to her scar. “Oui, ad-Daula. Governor of Jerusalem.”
Izzy reached for her hand. “He did this to your face?”
She turned away from him, her eyes downcast, but he put his fingers lightly on her chin and made her look at him. “It does nothing to mar your beauty, Farah. It is the mark of a warrior, something to be proud of. Only a cruel man would do such a thing, yet he allowed you to study and remain untouched.”
She stared at the roasted chicken on the trencher before her, but had no appetite. “Ad-Daula was a pig of a man. He was merciful only because he believed I was capable of miraculous healing.”
Izzy cut into his chicken with his eating dagger and held out a piece to her. “I can believe it. When you took away my pain it was a miracle, and now your brew has left me feeling like a new man. But when you heal, you do it by taking the pain into yourself. Did ad-Daula not know that?”
She accepted the chicken, licking the grease off her fingers. “He did not care. I saved his life. During the voyage to the Holy Land, he was seriously hurt in a storm. I touched him and he was healed.”
Izzy had stopped eating. “But how did you know you had the power to heal him?”
She chewed her bottom lip. “It is hard to explain. I simply knew. The terror of the storm left me and I knelt beside him and laid my hands on him.”
“But you were a child.”
“I was ten.”
Izzy looked around the Hall, his eyes following several village children scurrying here and there. Was he trying to imagine any one of them in such a situation?
“You can heal by laying your hands on a person?”
The conversation was heading in a direction she did not want to go. “Not everyone. Only some people. I tried and failed to heal many in Jerusalem. That is why ad-Daula turned against us, especially when it was apparent the city would fall. He would have slit my throat and my mother’s if Milord Georges and his men had not overpowered the harem guards and broken through.”
Izzy frowned. “But you were able to take my pain? Did you know before you touched me that you would have the power to heal me?”
“Non, not until you touched me. Then I knew. It filled me with euphoria.”
“And pain.”
She touched his hand. “I was happy to take your pain, if only for a short time.”
~~~
Izzy shook his head, but did not withdraw his hand. She had touched him willingly, as if it gave her pleasure, something he had longed for. He thirsted to know more about this intriguing Spaniard. “I cannot imagine what your life has been, Farah. Did your mother ever speak of a time before she was captured?”
Farah’s eyes took on a wistful look. “Many times. She and my father were deeply in love and she willingly followed him to Badajoz, though she was with child. He did not love his wife. It was an arranged marriage with Felicia de Roucy, the daughter of a Count. My mother was a noblewoman, but far below him in rank. They could never have married. She did not blame my father for her capture. His ally, the King of Castile had underestimated the threat.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
Tears welled in her eyes. “María,” she whispered. “María Catalina Tarazona. But ibn Tashfin called her Johara, his jewel. She secretly named me María Sancha Tarazona, after my father, but in the harem I was Farah. It means joy, so my mother was not too upset.”
Izzy had at one time longed for joy in his life, but had steeled himself to never attaining it. He swallowed hard to clear the lump in his throat. “What manner of man was ibn Tashfin?”
“He was a ruthless warrior, but a good man. He doted on my mother. I remember his soft voice and black eyes. Rumour reached Jerusalem just before our departure that he died only recently, at the age of one hundred. He knew my mother taught me the tenets of her religion and the dances of her homeland, but turned a blind eye.”
“Why did he give you to ad-Daula?”
She smirked. “Oh, we were not a gift. Ad-Daula was willing to pay handsomely, and ibn Tashfin needed the coin. The governor of Jerusalem did not want my mother. It was me he lusted for, but ibn Tashfin insisted I not go alone.”
Izzy’s gut roiled. A grown man lusting for a ten year old. He glanced at the few remaining children in the Hall, girls helping their mothers. They seemed happy, carefree, and innocent. For all his faults, François de Giroux was not known to be a molester of young girls. Too bad ad-Daula had not died from his injuries aboard that ship. But then Farah would not have been blessed with the miracle of being declared Untouchable.
Izzy’s shaft ached unbearably as he envisaged her lying beneath him, offering up her maidenhead. Was she still a virgin? He doubted that a woman could survive for years in the Holy Land without surrendering her innocence, though Georges and her mother had been there to protect her for most of the time.
Farah leaned closer. “Do you trust me now?”
Izzy’s heart skipped a beat. He had never trusted a woman, apart from his mother and grandmother, Lady Wilona Melton. They loved him come what may and he loved them. Trust implied love. This woman could never love him. She deserved a man who was whole, a man of her rank.
He returned her gaze. “Oui, I trust you, Farah.”
A mischievous grin played on her lips. “Enough to allow me to enter your chamber this night and ease your pain?”
Some nameless creature tore around inside Izzy’s body, carrying every drop of his blood to his loins. Behind his eyes naked shapes entwined and rocked. Farah’s exotic perfume filled his senses. He had died and gone to heaven. He blinked rapidly, trying to steady his rapi
d breathing. What was she saying? Was this some feminine wile learned in the harem?
Her eyes still mocked him. “You do not trust me. I want only to ensure you pass the night in peaceful sleep. I have oils I can fetch to massage your hands. With your permission, I will go to the Still Room to retrieve them.”
Izzy hoped he was not drooling. He clung to her words like a drowning man to a raft, praising the saints for a safer subject of conversation. “Still room? Er—someone took you there?”
Farah’s radiant smile glowed like a beacon in the darkening shadows of the Hall. “Oui, it’s an excellent Still Room. Madame de Giroux had made sure it was kept clean. The maids had only to dust a little. There is a goodly supply of furniture polish and soaps. I took my preparations there after the midday meal and spent the afternoon sorting and organizing them. There were a few potions and salves already, which I checked and—”
She stopped abruptly and reached forward to dab the corner of his mouth with her napkin. “I’m sorry. I tend to talk too much about my medicines.”
Izzy swallowed hard. He had been enthralled by the rich glow of her voice as she spoke of her calling. He took her hand and pulled her to her feet, knocking the bench over with a resounding clatter as he stumbled to rise. “Non! You don’t talk too much. Go to the Still Room. I will await you in my chamber.”
~~~
Farah did not feel the bite of the cold stone floor under her feet as she flew to the Still Room, her mind in turmoil. What was she thinking? The longing to put her hands on Izzy de Montbryce had got the better of her sanity! He was an important Norman noble from a powerful family. She was the bastard child of a foreign king who had spent her life as a prisoner. He was handsome, she was scarred.
She had offered the massage to help him, her only motivation to ease his pain. But that was not the whole truth. She wanted to touch him, everywhere. These wanton urges left her gasping for breath as she turned the handle of the heavy door of the Still Room. The door creaked on its hinges and she clung to it for a moment, lifting the candle high with her free hand to illuminate the shelf where the precious oils lay, ready to release their mystical powers.
She set the candle down on the bench. Her hand shook as she drew her finger in front of the row of vials. Which to choose? She decided to take a risk and bring the Garden of Love, and the infuser. She reached for the spikenard, then changed her mind. Too soon.
Gathering her supplies into a satchel, she retrieved the candle and proceeded to Izzy’s chamber, her heart thudding in her ears.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Izzy sat on the edge of his bed, feeling foolish. A maiden was coming to his chamber to put her hands on him and he had no idea what to do. Should he disrobe? Keep his boots on or take them off? Sit on the bed or in a chair? Let his rock hard shaft have its way, or control himself?
He shook his head. Forcing Farah was not what he wanted, and he doubted she would surrender her innocence willingly. If she had survived life in a harem and the streets of Jerusalem intact, he would not be the one to steal her maidenhead. He lay down impatiently on his back, fisting his hands at his sides, wondering if he had time to see to his own needs before Farah arrived.
A tap at the door had him cursing. He fell off the bed in his haste to compose his clothing. “Entrez!”
The candle she carried illuminated Farah’s face as she peeked cautiously into the chamber. He had thought all angels had fair hair. She seemed relieved, perhaps because he was still clothed. He took the candle from her, snuffing it out.
“There is enough light with the torches and the firelight,” he rasped, wondering what had happened to his normally deep voice. He coughed to clear the persistent lump in his throat. “Shall I sit in a chair while you administer to me?”
She must think me an idiot.
The corners of her mouth edged up. “Non, Izzy. Lie down on the edge of your bed, after you have removed your boots.”
She walked to the sideboard and placed a satchel on it. Despite his determination not to blush, he felt his face redden, but did as she bade him. She returned to his side and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. “You won’t need your dagger—I hope.”
He laughed then at his foolishness, despite the warmth of her hand seeping through the fabric of his tunic, relieved she had eased the tension between them. He had never given a thought to his dagger. He was rarely without it. When his affliction flared, swordplay was beyond his capabilities. A dagger he could manage. He pulled it from its scabbard and handed it to her.
“I sometimes forget I carry it. It’s the only weapon I can handle when my—”
Why am I telling her this?
“And the scabbard,” she insisted. If she had sensed his embarrassment, she hid it well.
He undid the fastening, lifted his hips, and slid it from beneath his body. She tucked the dagger back into its leather sheath and whirled off to the other side of the chamber, the hem of her silken robe swishing on the wolf skin rugs. He was glad she still wore eastern garb. At first he had found it offensive, but now it seemed fitting, a part of her exotic nature.
He heard the sound of his weapon being placed on the sideboard. He turned his head to see what she was doing, but her back was to him. She reached out one arm to a wall sconce, a twisted spill held in her elegant fingers. The sleeve of her robe fell back to reveal her bare arm. He groaned inwardly and looked away. He smelled the flame when the spill caught. She busied herself. It sounded like she was washing her hands. He licked his lips and closed his eyes.
Soon an aromatic fragrance took the place of the odour of the burning sliver of wood. He felt an overwhelming urge to stretch and purr like a kitten. He pointed his toes and raised his hands above his head. Every muscle in his body pulled tight then relaxed. He yawned, feeling boneless, lightheaded.
“Give me your hands,” Farah whispered.
His eyes flew open. His mind had been a thousand leagues away, free of care for he knew not how long.
He held out his hands. “Are you burning something? What is that aroma?”
She swallowed and smiled nervously. “It’s an infuser. I lit the candle in the bottom to warm the fragrant oil in the top. Do you like it?”
Like it? How to describe the feeling that had stolen over him—a soul deep desire for the woman who held his hands carefully, lovingly. It was different from the hard lust he always felt around her. His need was still great, but he wanted to cherish her, love her.
He opened his mouth, but she touched a fingertip to his lips. “Hush, don’t talk. Close your eyes.”
He obeyed.
“I will try not to hurt you, but there may be some pain,” she whispered. He breathed a contented sigh, resolving to give her the same reassurance the first time his shaft slid into her warm heat.
Farah’s firm fingers pressed into his forearm, kneading from elbow to wrist. She repeated the procedure with his other arm. She worked though the fabric of his shirt. He wanted to tear it off and have her put her hands on his flesh. His body warmed, his eyelids grew heavy. She curled his right hand into a loose fist, then put her fingertips in the webbing between the swollen knuckles and pressed, over and over and over again. She repeated the massage with his other hand. She pressed her thumb and forefinger into the pads at the base of his thumbs, massaging rhythmically.
She had cut her beautiful nails, for him. He felt only the firm, yet gentle pressure of her fingertips as she repeated the process again and again.
“Your nails—” was all he could stutter.
He heard the chuckle in her reply. “You would be in more pain had I not cut them.”
Suddenly it was important for him to know. “They were red.”
“Yes, the Egyptians discovered how to turn nails red with henna and strawberries. I had no fruit, so—”
His mind wandered. He would plant strawberries alongside his apple orchard.
She turned his hands over and pressed her thumbs into the flesh of his palms. There must have been
pain, but Izzy drifted on a cloud of euphoria where pain did not exist. Once or twice he came partially to his senses, and licked his lips, wondering if he had snored. A current of something he could not name coursed through his hands. He stretched his fingers to their full length for the first time in a long time.
He opened his eyes to see Farah’s smile, then closed them. The next time he awoke, bright sunlight flooded the chamber, and Farah was gone.
~~~
Farah sensed Izzy would come to the Still Room when he discovered she was not in her chamber, nor in the Great Hall. Should she feel guilty that she had infused aromatic oils in his chamber that she knew were arousing? He would be angry if he knew. She had been too clever for her own good. Her desire to take away his tension had resulted in a different kind of desire flooding her body. Not allowing her hands to roam over his muscular frame had been torment.
But he had slept—a deep, peaceful sleep. She had carefully loosened the lacings of his tunic and leggings to give him ease, stealing a glance at the dark cloud of hair on his chest. She had never touched a man’s male part before, nor ever wanted to. But yestereve she had itched to lay a tentative hand on the arousal that swelled in his leggings as the powerful oils took hold. She had gazed at him for a long while before returning to her chamber, longing to curl up on the big bed with him and cuddle against his broad back. He was a beautiful man when the scowl left his face.
His admission of his difficulties with a sword preoccupied her. She had a sword, one much lighter and requiring much less force to do its work than the Norman sword Izzy used. She had never allowed anyone else to touch the shamshir since Georges had wrested it from ad-Daula’s grip.
How long Izzy had stood in the doorway of the Still Room she did not know. Had he watched her as she daydreamed? She whirled round in surprise when he wished her good morn. “Or should I say, good afternoon? I have never slept this late in my life.”
He was not wearing gloves and she was elated he no longer hid his hands from her. She had given no thought to covering her scar. But his face was unreadable. She was thankful her dark skin did not reveal her blush. “You needed to rest after your long day in the saddle.”
Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love Page 6