Sin and Surrender

by Julia Latham

  “But the water is filthy. I even used it for laundry.”

  “It will still do for a quick wash.”

  “But you’re wealthy and arrogant. Simply send for more.”

  “I cannot do that. The wench’s back looked bowed enough.”

  His thoughtfulness for a servant warmed her. And then she thought of him undressing and bathing right in front of her. She came to her feet, trying not to betray her concern by moving too quickly. “I’ll dress and leave you to—”

  “No need. Close your eyes if you wish.”

  Knowing she’d betray her nervousness and ignorance to him if she fled, she calmly sat back down, faced the fire, and resumed combing. She could hear his clothes hitting the floor, then the splash of water. He didn’t sigh with pleasure as she had, but the water was barely warm by this point. At least he’d brought a fresh bucket to rinse with.

  She tried to clear her mind, to calm herself and focus on nothing, but then she realized her fingers were trembling. What was she so worried about? He would hardly attack her.

  “You did not need to wash my things as well,” he said from just behind her.

  She started to turn, saw too much bare flesh as he toweled himself, and then turned back to the fire. “‘Twas not an imposition.”

  “So you’re my servant in every way?”

  “I imagine you wish so,” she said dryly.

  “You know men too well.”

  Not too well, nay, but she would not admit to that. And she didn’t know him well, because she’d thought he might apologize for putting his hands on her with such familiarity, but he made no mention of it. And he wasn’t the sort to let embarrassment render him mute.

  Perhaps he wasn’t sorry at all. Or perhaps it had been nothing to him, a tease, a way to fight boredom. The only thing she really knew of him was the kind of man she’d built him up to be in her youth. And that man had vanished. He was no saint, no great teacher, but a man without gratitude for what had been given him.

  When she knew he was decently clothed, and her hair was dry, she plaited it, then went to bed, setting her weapons carefully on the floor nearby.

  “Cover yourself against the chill,” he said. “I shall be there soon.”

  Again keeping her dressing gown on, she lay down. He hadn’t donned a shirt, she realized with a start—she’d been so busy trying not to look at him. Keeping her eyes closed proved too difficult, so at last, with great reluctance, she opened them enough so that she could look between her lashes. He was laying out his weapons, wiping them one by one. His blond hair was drying in random waves, as if he’d only run his fingers through and nothing more.

  She still couldn’t believe she’d told him of her father’s sentence of treason. Since her arrival with the League, and their assurances that her past didn’t matter to them, she hadn’t spoken of her parents. She’d banished them from her mind, for the memories only brought sadness and confusion and guilt.

  But she’d told Paul. Why?

  Perhaps because she’d wanted to shock him, to show him that he should stop talking about the outside world as if she had a place to go there. Or had she wanted to remind him of the goodness of the League?

  But he hadn’t returned her honesty, had stopped himself from talking about his past. He’d claimed the League had wanted more than to simply protect three little boys, but wouldn’t explain further. It was a mystery that intrigued her too much.

  Perhaps he was the wise one, holding back, trying to keep his distance from her. This was an assignment, after all.

  But then he’d touched her. She quivered as if she could still feel the way his thumbs had caressed the base of her spine. But she knew men, knew that copulating with women was something they did with ease, without attachment or emotion. And she was convenient to him.

  She should keep her distance, as he did. If only his secrets didn’t call to her …

  At last he reached for a shirt, and she opened her eyes wide so she could drink in the sight of his body moving, the play of muscles in his back, the way the firelight flickered across his skin. She caught sight of several scars, evidence of a hard-fought life.

  So much for keeping an emotional distance, she thought with a sigh, then realized she’d been too loud.

  He glanced at her. “Forgive me for keeping you awake.”

  “Nay, you are not.” She used the first excuse she could think of. “I am simply still chilled, and hoping that tomorrow’s dawn shows the sun.”

  “Perhaps I should warm the bed.”

  She stiffened, then once again calmed herself. He couldn’t know how he affected her. The fire lit him from behind as he approached her. She went to sit up, but he put a hand on her shoulder.

  “No need.”

  He knelt on the edge of the bed, sinking her against him, then crawled right over the top of her. She inhaled without too obvious a gasp, holding still as she felt the heat of him, the brush of his loose shirt across her hands, the insides of his thighs against her hips. And then he was on his own side, and she forced herself to breathe.

  “A good night to you, my duckling.”

  Taking an unsteady breath, she said, “Can you at least come up with a better term of endearment?”

  “I like it. A man wouldn’t call his concubine his love.”

  “As I did to you.”

  “Ah, but you only showed your devotion to me.”

  She didn’t like his satisfaction, as if her words had been real. “You mean my supposed devotion to your money. Without that, you certainly do not have enough to attract a woman such as me.”

  “In truth?” His voice was deep and husky, suddenly intrigued.

  She realized she’d practically challenged him.

  “Paul, you know what I mean,” she said, her voice firm and cool. “My character, the worldly concubine.”

  There was a moment of silence between them, where she lay still on her back and barely kept from retreating to the edge of the bed. She was beginning to be afraid of her attraction to him. After spending these last few years learning the peace and satisfaction of controlling herself and her emotions, she didn’t want to throw it all away lusting after a man who would be gone from her life in but weeks.

  Yet her skin twitched as she waited for him to touch her, to—

  He suddenly chuckled. “My worldly concubine, you need to sleep and think of better ways to flatter your man.”

  She closed her eyes, her breath leaving her lungs in a long, slow exhale of relief.

  And disappointment.

  A thump against the wall woke Paul later that same night. A Bladesman stood guard in the corridor, and no one had come inside the bedchamber, but … something was wrong. He took a moment to listen, ears straining, eyes seeking in the gloom of the nearly dark chamber. He sat up, only to find that Juliana was already crouched beside the bed, reaching for her dagger.

  Trying to protect him already? he wondered.

  She glanced over her shoulder at him, gestured with her head, and crept toward the door, her dressing gown billowing about her swiftly moving feet. He followed, but before he could take the lead nearest the door latch, she placed herself there.

  Stepping swiftly, he reached for the latch. She batted his hand away, her gaze narrowed fiercely at him. Staying in the character of a weak prince, letting someone else protect him, was far harder than he’d imagined it would be. Although he felt his teeth grinding together, he put his back against the wall on the other side of the door and watched her.

  Another thump sounded from the corridor, this time closer. Their gazes met, even as she carefully raised the door latch and eased the door open. She was cautious and correct in her technique, eyes sweeping as the opening door revealed more and more of the corridor. But he felt tense waiting for something to happen—to happen to her.

  And then she threw the door wide and darted into the corridor. Paul followed. He caught a glimpse of a man struggling in old Roger’s arms, only a moment before Juliana us
ed the hilt of her dagger to render him unconscious.

  As the intruder sagged, Roger bent and hoisted him over his shoulder.

  “There’s no one else?” Juliana whispered.

  Roger shook his head. “The man was outraged at a threat to his king and the hard-earned peace of his country.”

  “Drunk,” Paul said.

  “Nay, though at first I believed the same. He was serious in his affront. Didn’t want to have to kill him. I’ll keep him well hidden and trussed up until we leave. You have my thanks, mistress.”

  “Do you need help carrying him?” Juliana asked.

  “I think he can manage without you,” Paul said dryly, tugging her arm.

  She stiffened, her eyes going cool as she looked at him.

  Though Paul was confused at her reaction, he ignored it to say, “We should retreat before anyone else notices.”

  In the near darkness of their bedchamber, Juliana calmly hid her dagger and climbed back into bed.

  He studied her, sensing her shift in mood, feeling like he was missing something. But pressing her would accomplish nothing.

  “Well done,” he said quietly.

  “I am certain you think you could have done better.”

  “I did not say so.”

  “You did not have to.”

  Feeling confused and wary, as if battling an opponent with words rather than weapons, Paul carefully crossed the bed, trying not to touch her, sensing that that would make everything worse.

  Chapter 6

  The morning did not improve Juliana’s sense of balance. Before Paul dressed himself, he insisted on helping her pick out her gown. Perhaps he didn’t think a woman could even pick out her own clothing, she thought, still feeling irritated about his behavior during the night while she’d been performing her duty, protecting him. He’d made it far too clear that he felt he should be protecting her, not the other way around. More than once in her short career, men had openly questioned whether a woman could be trusted in a position of authority. She just hadn’t wanted to believe that a man who’d briefly trained her could feel the same way.

  And now he was meddling in her clothing!

  “I will be wearing a cloak. ‘Twill not matter what I wear,” she insisted stiffly.

  “The sun will soon be up, and the sky bodes a clear day. You will be seen by many.”

  She watched, her teeth gritted, as he laid out three gowns he hadn’t seen. She felt invaded as his rough hands touched her delicate things.

  “The bodice on the pink gown is far superior to the green,” he said.

  She ignored him, packing away her damp laundry, knowing she would have to lay it out again that night.

  “It shows a daring hint of cleavage, but the obvious wealth and craftsmanship of the gown gives it enough refinement. Of course, the waistline of the green gown does flatter you more than the yellow.”

  “And why is that?” she asked with studied indifference, as she checked the edge of her blade before sliding it into her boot.

  “This really means nothing to you, does it?” he asked at last.

  “Nay, not a bit. The gowns are lovely, they all mark me as a wealthy concubine. ‘Tis enough for me.”

  “Do you ever even wear gowns?”

  She glanced at him. “Never, except on assignments.” Perhaps her dearth of femininity was a way to make him keep his distance.

  “Because you never see other women.”

  “And neither did you,” she said thoughtfully. “Surely as a young man, that must have been difficult. Or did you take journeys away from the League fortress?”

  He turned away, folding up every gown but the pink one with its fine bodice.

  She’d struck deep, she realized with interest. “You did not, did you? Did you even know about women?”

  “Of course I did,” he answered almost crossly.

  She held back her triumph at bothering him the way he so easily bothered her.

  “Was I the first woman you saw—nay, wait, you’d already been on missions before I arrived.”

  “Robert saw a woman before I did.”

  He took off the shirt he’d slept in, a deliberate attempt to distract her from what he obviously wished he hadn’t said.

  She approached him, interested in his faint touch of wariness. “How did Robert see a woman? Did one arrive at the Castle, lost in the mountains?”

  “You have a vivid imagination. As some boys do, Robert simply ran away.”

  “Ran away?” she echoed.

  He unlaced his breeches, lowered them a bit with his thumbs, until she could see his hipbones, which framed the ridges of his abdomen. She refused to back down and turn away.

  He sighed. “He simply wanted to meet girls. Adam was sent to retrieve him. Robert was quite excited to have kissed a dairymaid before he was captured.”

  “Surely you made him tell you all about it,” she teased.

  Did his face actually turn a bit red? Her good humor was beginning to feel restored.

  He lowered the breeches even more, until she glimpsed a scrap of linen, and even more dark blond hair. She turned around at last, feeling a bit too breathless.

  “You could ask me to give you some privacy,” she said crossly.

  “And you could realize when I need it.”

  “But what I most realize is your embarrassment. You do not need to feel so, Paul, especially not with me. I know how you were raised. Young men are drawn rather obsessively to girls.”

  “Obsessively, is it? What a choice in words. Did someone obsess over you?”

  She suddenly remembered the Bladesman maneuvering her into a dark corridor, and the way she’d let him know with her fists that she wanted him to stop. The incident had changed all of her training.

  She laughed lightly. “Obsess over me? The girl in breeches? Nay. But I live with men, Paul, and I do not idealize your sex.” She didn’t risk facing him, but did cock her head with exaggeration. “Hmm, so you never saw women. At all. You did tell me of the concern that your parents’ murderer was looking for Keswick’s heirs. So of course, they kept you well protected. But you never walked through a village when you were young? After all, who would have known your face?”

  He didn’t answer, and she risked a glance over her shoulder to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boots.

  “How did you feel the first time you saw a woman?” she asked. “What did you do?”

  He set down his foot and looked at her for a moment. “Do you want the truth?”

  “I do.”

  “The girl I first saw seemed like a magical creature, all soft, pretty hair and a secretive smile.”

  She couldn’t stop staring at him, at his broad shoulders and long arms as he leaned back on the bed they’d just shared.

  “And then she invited me to her bed.”

  Her smile faded and she blinked at him. “Just like that?” she asked with dismay. No wonder he had such a bad impression of women, and what feats they were capable of.

  “Just like that.”

  “You must have been quite the young pup, all desperate and needy.”

  He laughed rather than take offense.

  “And being a man, you did not resist,” she continued.

  “Nay, I did not. She taught me everything I needed to know to please her.”

  Juliana spoke without thinking. “But did not the League teach you that?”

  His eyes widened. “They taught you about intimacy?”

  She wanted to refuse to discuss her foolish outburst, but that would only make him more interested. All she did was laugh. “Wouldn’t you simply love to imagine that?”

  He narrowed his eyes, but when he said nothing more, she almost sighed her relief. Someone knocked on the door, and she quickly went to lift her bag.

  He took it from her. “Let the servants do that.”

  And he was correct, of course.

  As they left Ware, she could not stop wondering about the mysteries surro
unding his childhood. He’d had but two years when his parents had died. No one would have recognized him a few years later. He should have been free to learn about the world, to be with people, even if only occasionally.

  But the League had kept the three Hilliard boys isolated, alone. Reluctantly, she began to see that that might make a man like Paul long to see more of the world.

  After a morning spent sloshing through mud and avoiding holes, they lined up in single file to cross a small wooden bridge. On the far side, she reigned in her horse until Timothy caught up to her.

  He eyed her, his expression concerned. “Roger told me what happened in the night, and that you performed well.”

  “He had the situation well in hand. I did little.”

  ” ‘Tis only the beginning, where danger is concerned. Men both for and against the king will have reason to want Paul dead. Satisfied am I that he has you at his side.”

  “At least someone feels that way,” she murmured, shaking her head.

  “Your pardon?” he asked, watching her too carefully.

  “Nothing, sir.”

  They rode on side by side, letting the motion of the horses lull them both. She glanced at Timothy when at last he took a deep, satisfied breath of the country air.

  “‘Tis a good thing the weather seems clear today,” he said, “because we will make camp this night. Our position will be far more precarious than within the walls of an inn.”

  “We will keep careful watch,” she said firmly.

  He nodded as if he expected nothing else.

  She hesitated, then spoke her mind. “Timothy, Paul told me a story today, but I cannot believe it true.”

  “One never knows with Paul,” he said, shaking his head.

  She squinted into the sun as she glanced at him. “He said Robert ran away to see a girl.”

  He shrugged good-naturedly. “Boys will be boys.”

  “I received the distinct impression that Robert—and his brothers—had never seen a girl before that.”

  Timothy’s smile faded to one of faint melancholy.

  “You know I cannot discuss a Bladesman’s past, Juliana.”