by Sandy Blair
If he has a problem with her bathing him, he’ll let you know in short order. Then you can get huffy and tell him it’s for his own good and to just shut up.
He said not a word as she sponged the broad, muscular planes of his chest and arms. As she readied another cloth to wipe down his well-delineated stomach she dared to glance up and found him staring at her through hooded eyes. She caught a slight twitch of his lips. Suspecting he was near to grinning, she cleared her throat and put on a stern face. Better he think her annoyed by having to do this, than suspect the depth of her embarrassment. Unfortunately, touching him while he was fully aware was a decidedly new experience. Totally unnerving, in fact, since his body was the first adult male’s she’d ever touched, seen naked outside of a movie. And he was breathtaking.
He murmured, “Dosth ye approve?”
Her face suddenly felt like a blast furnace.
She chewed her lower lip. What the heck should she say? If you were healthy, I’d kill to spend one night in your arms? Not likely. “Aye, you’re being very good, staying so still.”
This time his lips did curl into a grin.
Duncan, she wished, why don’t you just close your eyes and let me finish with this before I expire. Good gravy.
Her hands shook as she wrung cool water from the cloth. She grabbed a lung full of air and placed the cloth on his muscular abdomen. Her fragile confidence wavered when glorious muscle rippled under her hands.
You can do this, she silently chided. Hell, she’d done it for five days. Today should be no different.
Right.
Her hand grazed the fine, curly hairs on his lower abdomen, and a steeple appeared within the sheeting covering his privates. She nearly swallowed her tongue.
Oh, good Lord. Now, what? She couldn’t just stop. He had a fever. Was this...reaction...simply a biological thing that happened whenever cold water came too close to a man’s plumbing? Probably. Yes. It certainly couldn’t be a response to her.
Though the tenting was surely a temperature issue, she retreated, wash basin in hand, to the end of the bed. She lifted his left foot. As her hands rose along his leg, she kept her gaze locked on the cloth in her hand. Minutes later Beth accidentally glanced up to find the steeple decidedly taller.
To her horror, hot blood flair in her cheeks.
God, if you get me through this, I swear I’ll never curse again in my life.
Chapter 8
To Duncan’s amusement, his ladywife’s complexion bore a strong resemblance to a freshly cut beet. As he watched her labor over his body he dared not laugh for fear she’d expire on the spot or run from the room screaming.
And her hands felt wonderful, as did the cool water she kept applying so carefully. She had a gentle touch. A good trait in a wife.
Wife. Something he’d not wanted but now had, nonetheless.
He felt relief knowing there was a possibility he could bed her, in knowing his cock hadn’t been adversely effected like the rest of his body by the ravishes of Eleanor’s blade.
When Beth’s hands fluttered against the inside of his left thigh, he closed his eyes and nearly groaned. Had he the strength, he would have reached out, pulled her on top of him and gladly tupped her, greasy hair and all, just to relieve the pressure she’d created in his groin. Had he tupped her the night they wed, he might even suggest she use those incredible hands to relieve his anguish, but that, unfortunately, was currently out of the question. Served him right for delaying the inevitable.
“Duncan, please roll onto your good side.”
He opened his eyes. Her color hadn’t faded and she had chewed her lower lip berry red. The color was attractive beneath her slate gray eyes. He grinned. “Ye have good hands, wife.”
He hadn’t thought it possible, but she turned an even brighter shade of red.
“Thank you.” She ran a nervous hand to her neck and rubbed. “Would you mind?” She waved in a circle.
Rolling onto his right shoulder took his breath away. Had Eleanor not been already been dead, he’d have found a way to kill her. God’s Teeth!
“Shh, just relax.”
He hadn’t realized he’d groaned. With the sheeting tucked under his back from shoulders to hip, he again felt her soft hands. She caressed his back with cool water. After a few ragged breaths he finally relaxed under her touch. As her hands crept lower--massaging the taut muscles of his lower back in slow steady circles--his manhood stained at attention. When she ran her hands around the cheeks of his buttocks, he groaned again.
She leaned over. “Did I hurt you?”
“Nay.” She might yet be the death of him, but certainly not from pain. “Have ye a tale, lass?” Trying to fathom her odd manner of speech might prove distracting enough to ease the pressure in his groin.
“A tail?”
“Aye, a ballad.”
“Ah. That kind of tale.” Her hands slid slowly down his legs. To his consternation, it took several agonizing minutes before she took a deep breath and started.
“Once upon a time a wee lass named Kathy found herself all alone. She didn’t understand—-ken—-why her parents had died or why a lady took her from home and told her she needed to find a new mother and father. Kathy didn’t want new parents, she wanted her parents, but she was brave. She didn’t cry when the lady placed her in an orphanage—-a house for lost children. She was told new parents would come and so she waited.
“Many times over the next few years she was paraded before people, but never chosen. Years passed and many adults came and took other children home, but no one ever came for Kathy.”
Hearing her voice crack, Duncan craned his neck to look at his ladywife’s face. She blinked and motioned for him to turn around.
“Kathy eventually became sullen in her resignation.” This time when his wife hesitated, her hands also stilled. True, her tale was sad, but why did she take the child’s tale so personally?
“One day the orphanage closed and Kathy was placed in foster care. She didn’t mind, believing she’d now have a mother and father of her own once again.
“But Kathy soon realized she had only been placed in her new home to help take care of babies. Try as she might, her new parents never offered affection, never hugged or kissed her. She went to school and then came home to care for the babies, day after day. Eventually, her foster parents tired. No new babies came and they sent Kathy to another family.”
Duncan had been fostered to the Campbell as a lad of ten to earn his spurs. He, too, had been lonely on occasion. What affection he did receive came only in the way of backslapping and goodhearted teasing. He’d not been hugged or kissed either. So why was his wife sounding so forlorn for Kathy? As he pondered, her hands began massaging his calves with cool water.
“In her new home,” his ladywife continued, “Mrs. Proctor was kind, but Mr. Proctor tried to corner Kathy whenever he found opportunity. At twelve years, her figure—-body--had started to curve, to look womanly. One day, she came home to find herself alone with Mr. Proctor. He tried to bed her. Terrified, she fought. She got sick on him, bloodied his nose with a lamp, and then escaped. That’s the first time I...Kathy ran away.”
Ah! He now understood the cause of his ladywife’s angst. He hoped the man had been caught and hung; him and any dog, horse or falcon found with him, which ‘tis the law of the land.
Beth sighed as she began removing the dressing around his shoulder. “Having no money—-marks—-Kathy didn’t get far. She was caught and given to a lady named Mrs. Wade, a very odd woman.”
His ladywife stopped her tale. He looked over his shoulder to see her holding a cup of the water over his wound.
“Duncan, this might sting.”
He might have shamed himself by yelling had she not warned him in advance. To his consternation she had the nerve to pour more into his wound. She then murmured, “This will hurt a wee bit more,” and jerked the dressing from his back. He grit his teeth against the agony and wondered what the hell she considered truly painful.
Duncan praised the saints that he was abed. He knew to his marrow his legs wouldn’t have held him had he been standing, so great were his back spasms.
“Are you okay?”
When he didn’t respond, for he couldn’t just yet, she asked, “Did I cause you much pain?”
He blinked the tears away, thankful his back was to her. “Nay.” He took a deep shuddering breath and managed, “About the odd woman.”
“Ah, yes, the odd woman. Mrs. Wade took great pains to find fault with Kathy from her hair roots to the soles of her feet. Between the woman’s constant badgering and Kathy’s inability to read like her peers, Kathy had many headaches.” Beth stopped to dry his back. “One day when Kathy complained about another headache Mrs. Wade snuck up behind Kathy, lifted Kathy’s pony tail--her long hair had been tied with a band at the top of her head—-and cut it off. At the scalp.”
“Ack, the poor lass had lice.”
“No. Just headaches and now no hair.”
“Humph.” Many a lass’s only beauty lay in her hair. No wonder Lady Beth’s voice cracked.
A moment later Beth warned, “I’m sorry, but this will sting.”
His ladywife did not lie. The salt-infused packing stung, but not nearly as horribly as the removal of the first. After a moment he felt compelled to ask, “Why doth the odd woman bear such ill will toward Kathy?”
“I don’t know. In any event, she told Kathy, ‘Now, you’ll have no more headaches.’”
“Do the headaches vanish?”
“Eventually, but not until Kathy turns eighteen and escapes the woman.”
Silent now, Beth wrapped a fresh strip of sheeting around his shoulder with gentle hands. As he lifted his left arm to accommodate her, he murmured, “Ye tell a sad tale, wife.”
“Not so sad. Kathy grew into womanhood, tougher than most. She worked hard and became a respected lady.”
He frowned as Beth helped him roll onto his back. “Doth ye knowest this Lady Kathy?”
She nibbled at her bottom lip. “I’m afraid so.”
Before he could ask if Lady Kathy married and lived happily ever after, someone knocked.
Seeing his solicitor, Duncan smiled. “Ah, Isaac. Come in.”
Chapter 9
After Beth excused herself, Isaac asked, “How fare ye, mon ami?”
“I live. Something I hear ‘twas in serious question not long past.”
“Aye. Ye look better. Have ye much pain?”
“Nay, though I feel as brawn a newborn bairn.”
“‘Tis good to hear for I bring troubling news.”
“The Bruce?”
“Mayhap. ’Tis regarding yer good ladywife.”
Brow furrowing, Duncan growled, “Out with it, man.”
“I’m verra sorry to say this, but I believe ye wife isna the woman sent by Albany.”
Duncan guffawed. “Ye’re as wode as I first thought Lady Beth, Isaac.”
“Nay, something is verra wrong. I questioned the lass myself, as has Rachael. Lady Beth claims never to have lived in France and never to have married. Her tale remains unchanged with each telling.”
“But she wears my ring.”
“Aye, but Lady Beth has no memory of how it came into her possession. She claims you must have placed it on her hand after she fainted.”
Duncan looked incredulous. “Nay! She had it on when I lifted her from the carriage. She must be the one.”
“Mon ami, I’m just relaying my concerns. Ye are married to a woman we know little or nothing about, who claims her Christian name to be Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding. ‘Tis not the name of the woman ye contracted to marry. Lady Beth may well be the right bride, but is so delus...insense’ she does not know who she is. Or she could be another, entirely.”
Isaac started to pace. Lady Beth had not hesitated to answer when asked about her past. Only one truly crazed--or intent on appearing so--would respond in such a manner. More troubling was her denying being Catholic. “We must discover the truth before Albany hears of this. If he believes you deliberately defied him by marrying a woman not of his choosing, or worse, if she is his niece and he hears ye refused to consummate because she’s crazed, he’ll not hesitate to strip ye of all ye have.”
“Aye.” Duncan scowled out the window in thought. “Lady Beth must be Albany’s niece. Why else would the Bruce have tried to kill her? ‘Tis no other possibility.”
Isaac wasn’t so sure. They had a boy king, James I, trapped in the Tower of London and the lad’s ambitious regent uncle held sway over all in Scotland. While Albany--in no hurry to pay Henry IV the lad’s ransom--played God, half of Scotland’s chieftains were either plotting, raiding, or at each other’s throats.
Isaac ran a hand through his thinning hair. He’d be bald before this ended. “Wode or sane, if ye believe Lady Beth be the one sent, ye canna give the Bruce reason to cry foul to Albany.”
“‘Tis decided,” Duncan grumbled. “Sane or wode, I will tup the woman as soon as I am able. Consummation binds the marriage. Since the woman is a widow and willna bleed, ye must act as witness.”
Isaac shuddered at the prospect. “Ask the priest. He has no love for ye. And John the Bruce will not be able to claim that we--being friends--ye lied about bedding the lady and I swore to it in an effort to defeat him. The priest bearing witness would be safer.”
After a moment’s thought Duncan nodded. “Aye, then should I learn Lady Beth deliberately deceived me, I’ll deal with her.”
It was the sanest plan given the circumstances and Isaac nodded. “Shall I send her to ye?”
Trepidation climbed Isaac’s spine as Duncan growled, “Oh, aye, Isaac, send my lady in.”
~#~
“Ah, she returns.” Duncan’s gaze traveled down the length of his wife’s lithe form. “Wife, come ye closer.”
At his side, she asked, “Are you in pain? Did Isaac say something to upset you?”
“Nay.” He pointed to her feet. “What, pray tell, are those ye wear?”
She looked down and waggled a foot. “Sneakers.” She smiled as if they were the most natural things in the world for a ladywife to don. “I can run three miles in thirty minutes and not feel a thing in these.”
“You lie, lass.” He waved toward the small window and the mountains beyond. “My horse can barely run that distance in that time.”
She grinned. “Where I live the ground is flat. I run along the paths in Central Park.” When he continued to just scowl she added, “In New York, where I once worked. Remember? I told you about it when I arrived.”
She’d said much--most of it confusing babble--that first day. Now, being more accustomed to her speech, he prayed he’d have less trouble garnering the truth. His future depended on it. As she started to unbraid his hair, he said, “Tell me of this new York.”
“New York has very tall buildings, some with over one hundred floors, levels. We call them skyscrapers.”
He craned his neck to stare at her in disbelief.
She nodded and turned his head back around. “As I was saying, New York is our financial capital and has the best food in the world. You should taste Junior’s cheesecake.”
She sighed a bit too wistfully for his liking and he wondered what this junior meant to her.
“We have theaters and universities—-you might call them colleges.”
“And your home in the new York?”
“My home was nothing special, a small apartment. Before I got transported here, I had been thinking about staying at my castle permanently.”
Ah huh! Now he was getting somewhere. “Tell me of this castle.”
“I recently inherited it from my mother’s people. It looks exactly like this one. But I have indoor plumbing, cranky as it is.”
“Plum ink?” He kenned this not but heard the note of pride in her voice.
“Plum-ming. Running water inside the keep. I even have a contraption to heat the water. Just turn a faucet—-tap—-and voila, hot
water any time you want it.” She ran her fingers through his hair then picked up the brush. “Most of the time, anyway.”
Her imagination had to be the grandest he’d ever witnessed for her world to be filled with sky scrapes and plum minks.
“I want to turn the castle into a bed and breakfast—-a place for travelers to stay overnight--but I guess that will be delayed.”
“How many be in yer hostiel?”
“I live alone.”
He knew her to be a widow, so she must have misunderstood his question. “Aye, but how many suggits, guards?”
“None. As I said, I live alone. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to convert the castle into a bed and breakfast. So I’d have company, occasionally.”
God’s teeth! He spun and found her smiling like a bairn on Michaelmas Eve. ‘Twas no wonder Albany wanted her wed.
No woman in her right mind would invite strangers to her hearth without armed protection. She would have endangered herself and the holding. Dumbfounded, he shook his head in utter disbelief.
Before he could ask another question, a scullery lass arrived with fresh water. “Out!” He wasna allowing his softheaded wife to change his dressing again quite yet. His stomach still shook from the last change.
“Duncan, your hair needs to be washed.” Beth wrinkled her nose.
“Oh.” He nodded to the girl. “My apologies, lass. Do as my lady wife lustes.”
Beth ordered him flat on his back. After the girl left, Beth tapped the container in her hands. “What do you call this?
“A posnet.”
“I call it a pan.” She positioned it under his neck then scooped warm water over his head, carefully shielding his eyes as she did it. “Do you understand—-ken--most of what I say?”
“Not all, but most.” He relaxed as her hands gently massaged soap into his hair and scalp. He’d been a wee bairn the last time anyone other than he had washed his hair. How odd—-and kind—-that she should think to do this.
“Duncan, I’m confused by how I got here.” She paused. “Do you know?”