by Anne Stuart
“I never lie.” The soft female voice shouldn’t have come as such a shock, but he’d been too miserable to realize that the tread was lighter or to recognize the faint, lovely smell of cinnamon in the air.
He tried to sit up, but the effort was shockingly painful, and he sank back down with a choked gasp. “What are you doing here?” he demanded in a rough voice.
“Your servant came looking for my mother, but she’s off cavorting with her new husband,” Julianna said coolly. “He insisted there was no need for me to bother, but considering that you decided to tumble across the courtyard to my . . . Lord Hugh’s feet, I presume your back must be paining you. This time you can’t object if I physick you.”
He turned his face to look at her. The branch of candles left a pool of light around them, and the room was cold, though he could feel a faint film of sweat against his skin. Even with the pain he was in, he was in no mood to have those soft, pale hands touch him. “Send me Bogo,” he said.
“I can’t. The abbot is hearing his confession. There was no way he could get away from him.”
Nicholas choked back a laugh. “I don’t know who I pity more, Bogo or the good abbot.”
“I don’t think Father Paulus is deserving of much compassion after what he did to you,” Julianna said.
“Go away, my lady. I’ll wait for Bogo.” He turned his face away from her, dismissing her.
“The shirt is ruined,” she said in a calm voice, ignoring him. “I don’t dare try to pull it off yet—it will make the wounds bleed again. Lie very still, and I’ll put damp cloths on your back to loosen it.”
“Go away . . .”
“Be quiet,” she said, and for once he was too weary to argue. The first touch of damp cloth to his back was agony, and he arched up, cursing beneath his breath. And then he sank back into the mattress, closing his mind to the pain, to the soft hands on his back, the scent of cinnamon, the soft sound of her breathing.
He must have dozed, an impossible thing, since he never slept in the presence of a woman. But Julianna of Moncrieff was no ordinary woman, and his back made him less than himself. Her hands had left him, the wet cloths were removed, and he turned his head to look up at her. She stood over him, dressed in her dull clothes, a wicked-looking dagger in her slender hand.
“Are you planning to unman me, my lady?” he murmured in a pain-dulled voice. “Or simply to stab me to the heart?”
“If I were to cut off any part of you, I imagine I’d go for your tongue,” she said tartly.
“Now that would be a terrible mistake, love. You’ve yet to sample the delights of my tongue, only its annoyances. I could bring you quite astonishing pleasure with my gifted tongue, all without saying a word.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I expect I’d rather not know. Doubtless it’s something bawdy.”
“You bring bawdy thoughts to mind, my lady.”
He was bemused by the expression on her face. Clearly the lady didn’t believe herself deliciously worthy of his lustful designs. He wondered why.
“I’m going to cut your shirt off,” she said, ignoring him. “If you don’t have another one, I’ll have Lady Isabeau see that it’s replaced.”
“I have enough clothing that I can spare one,” he said. “You could keep it as a love token.”
“You should watch yourself when I’m holding a knife over your back,” she muttered.
“I trust you, my lady.” Though he wouldn’t have put it past her to be rough in her dispatching of his shirt, she wielded the knife with slow, gentle delicacy, the sharp blade slicing through the damp cloth. She pulled it away from his skin, pushing it off his shoulders, and her shocked intake of breath told him Father Paulus had done a thorough job of meting out punishment.
The cool night air was both painful and soothing on his torn flesh. “Are you going to pray over me?” he murmured, “or did you bring bandages?”
“I think you’re past praying for,” she said in a voice that trembled slightly. “I’m going to put a salve on your back. It will hurt,” she warned him.
“Everything does,” he replied, gritting his teeth as he waited for the touch of her hands.
It was worse than he expected—not the pain, but the pleasure. She touched him lightly, spreading the unguent into his wounded flesh with a touch so delicate that it was a feather-soft caress. She leaned over him, intent on her work, and he could feel her thick braid brush against his arm. Feel her breath warming his back. Feel his cock harden in the dark cushion of the mattress. He closed his eyes and smiled in sinful pleasure, imagining just how he’d return the favor when his time came.
She was humming underneath her breath, a quiet little song that he assumed was some sort of plainsong to keep the dangerous fool at bay. He suspected she wasn’t even aware of her voice, and he wanted to roll over on his abraded back and pull her down against him. He kept still.
“How did the happy reunion with your mother go?” he asked.
The song stopped abruptly, her hands stilled above his back, and he could feel the tension. “I don’t expect that’s any of your business.”
“I’m in mortal pain, my lady,” he said, a lie. In fact, the salve and the feel of her cool hands were wonderfully soothing. “I need something to distract me.”
“Think on your sins.”
“I’d rather think on yours.”
“I don’t have any!” she snapped without thinking.
He turned his head to look at her as she leaned over his back. “A saint in our midst? How did I fail to recognize it? A thousand pardons. And you’re not even troubled by the sin of false pride.”
In any other woman he might have thought that was a reluctant smile curving her stern mouth. “I spoke hastily,” she said. “No one is without sin. Mine are far too ordinary to be interesting, however, and I’m not about to share them with anyone but my father confessor.”
“Somehow the abbot seems the sort to consider even the most menial sin interesting.” He groaned, more for effect than out of real distress. “Of your goodness, my lady, distract me. Tell me your sins, and I’ll tell you mine.”
“No, thank you.”
“I’ll go first. I’m mad, they say. But then, most fools are. Not that that’s a sin, though Father Paulus might argue that my tragic mental affliction is punishment for my past crimes.”
“I don’t think . . . ,” She stopped herself, just as things were about to get interesting.
He wasn’t the sort of man to let it go easily. “You don’t think what, my lady? Don’t think I’m mad? Would a sane man talk in rhymes, dress the way I do, cavort in a most improper manner, and fail to address his lord and master as befits his station? Would a sane man refuse to ride a horse when any other mode of transportation is slow and uncomfortable? Would a sane man roll on his back when he’s been flayed by an over-zealous priest?”
“If he had reason,” she said.
That stopped him. He’d been imprudent with the Lady Julianna. But then, imprudence was one of his many sins. “Perhaps,” he agreed. “What other sins torment me? I’m greedy, gluttonous, a lover of wine and ale and good food and wicked women. I’m lustful, crude, lazy, and a devout coward. I sleep through Mass, lie through confession, and tumble any lady who takes my fancy, be she trollop or nun or even holy saint.” He rolled to his side, staring up at her through the candlelit darkness. “And I never take no for an answer.”
She didn’t move. She sat on the wide bed beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her brown eyes wide and wary. “Then you’re more like most men than you believe,” she said. “Rape and plunder and pillage—”
“I have yet to commit rape,” he said, watching her carefully to gauge her reaction. “I don’t need to take a castle by force when there are all sorts of interesting ways to storm her
barricades and breach her private compartments. And I’m far too lazy for plunder and pillage. You need a horse for that.”
“And you don’t ride?”
“Never. They’re huge, vicious creatures. They step on your feet and drool on you. Confess it, you’re just as glad you were forced to ride in the litter with me.”
“You are mad,” she said flatly. “There›s the proof of it.”
He rolled onto his back, looking up into her eyes. “Perhaps you are a saint, my lady,” he murmured. “My back is miraculously healed.”
“Your back is far from healed,” she said sternly. “You shouldn’t be lying on it.”
“That’s all right, then,” he said sweetly. “I was planning on being on top the first time anyway. We can be more creative later.”
The color flooded her cheeks quite nicely. It surprised him to see it—after all, she was a widow, a woman who’d spent almost ten years of married life with a supposedly lusty older man. She’d run her own household quite efficiently, according to Nicholas’s sources, and if she failed to produce an heir for her husband, she’d surely been satisfactory in all other areas or the old man would have dispensed with her.
She scrambled away from him, but his hand shot out to capture her wrist, keeping her there beside him. He didn’t hurt her—he derived no secret pleasure from bringing pain to others—but he wasn’t about to let her run away. He was very strong—few people knew that about him—but he could keep her at his side with only minimal effort.
She struggled for a moment, pushing at him with her other hand, and he wondered if she’d try to use her feet. He’d like that—it would ensure that she’d have to swing her legs onto the mattress to reach him, and then he’d keep her there until he was finished with her. Until he taught her to purr.
But she remembered her dignity and abruptly stopped struggling. “Let me go,” she said. “Please.” She sounded deceptively calm. He wasn’t fooled for a minute.
“I don’t want to. Humor the madman, Saint Julianna. One chaste kiss would heal my wounds and show me the error of my ways.”
“I hadn’t realized that chaste kisses were what you had in mind.” She’d managed to bring a touch of asperity into her voice, and for a brief moment he wondered whether she was simply being coy. And then he saw the real shadow of fear in the depths of her warm brown eyes, and he released her.
She was off the bed and out of his reach in a flash, so quickly that she probably assumed she was safe. She wasn’t, but for the moment he felt oddly chastened. She was afraid of something. Of him, perhaps. Or possibly men in general.
It would be a great shame if his sainted Julianna found lovemaking repugnant. She was far too desirable to waste on unwarranted fears. Her husband must have treated her very badly indeed.
She would have to be handled delicately, but he was capable of truly wicked subtlety. He’d have her on her back, weeping with pleasure, before she even knew what had happened to her.
But this castle must be taken by stealth, not force. He smiled at her with beguiling sweetness. “Have I frightened you, my lady? I assure you, I mean no disrespect. I’m only a poor fool, unwise in the ways of gentle ladies.”
“You’re far too clever for your own good,” she said severely, not the slightest bit deceived.
He liked that about her. It was dangerous, this ability of hers to see through his machinations, but it was enchanting as well.
“My lady’s wroth doth wound me deep
In sorrow will her anger keep
My heart is cleft, my tongue is tied
But one fool’s needs shan’t be denied.”
She looked less than thrilled, and he decided he was fortunate there was nothing close at hand in his spartan room. She would likely pitch it at him.
“Clearly I made a mistake in coming to your aid,” she said stiffly.
“Ah, but my lady, ’tis a saint’s duty to tend the unworthy. Count it as penance for those uncommitted sins of yours.”
She was standing by the door, but she hadn’t run away yet, a fact which pleased him. “I could commit a sin or two,” she said in a slow, meditative voice.
She’d managed to astonish him. “Oh, lady, commit your sin on me,” he said, rising on his elbows. His back still hurt, but it was fast on its way to healing, and he was more than willing to ignore it if she would give him half a chance.
Her smile was dazzling, erotic in its sweetness. “Lord Fool, I will,” she said in a husky voice full of promise. She moved toward him, her luscious hips swaying, her mouth curved in a promising smile, and he held out his hands for her, ignoring the stiffness in his shoulders.
She slid out of his way with a graceful step, reached down for the bowl of water and rags she’d used to soak his back, and dumped the contents over his head.
She was already out the door before he could explode in rage. By the time he reached it, she was racing down the darkened hallway, her skirts dragging on the floor behind her, and he wondered if that was a breathless sound of laughter drifting back toward his ears.
He shrugged out of the remains of his tattered, water-soaked shirt, and shook the droplets out of his hair. He’d made the sorrowful Lady Julianna laugh. For that he’d gladly go through a thousand dunkings.
He’d make her laugh again. He’d chase the sorrow and the fear from her brown eyes, and he’d teach her to love her tall, luscious body. He would love her, well and often.
And when he left, the Blessed Chalice of Saint Hugelina the Dragon and Julianna’s own personal saintliness would be gone for good.
Chapter Six
JULIANNA’S LAUGHTER halted abruptly when she reached her room. It was a large room with an adjoining chamber, and she’d expected to share it with several women, as was the custom in most large households. Indeed, it was only one of the many things she mourned about her lost life at Moncrieff—her solitary bed. Other women snored, or were less fond of bathing, or were even, occasionally, infested with tiny bugs.
But she would have chosen a dozen lice-infested slatterns to the woman sitting in the chair by the fire. Lady Isabeau looked up at her daughter, her serene face expressionless, her needlework still in her lap.
“My lady,” Julianna greeted her with cool courtesy. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” It was likely a vain hope that her mother wasn’t there to stay, but at least by tomorrow she’d be a married woman, sharing a bed with that huge, frightening man who’d called her “daughter.”
“This is my room, Julianna. I wanted you with me, at least for one night.”
Julianna glanced behind her at the still-open door. She could see several of the household women beyond the portal, obviously curious, and she shut the door quite firmly in their faces. “Very well,” she said in a neutral voice.
“The abbot has requested our presence,” Isabeau continued, seemingly undaunted by Julianna’s coolness. “I believe he wants to hear our confessions before he takes up his duties.”
“I have nothing to confess.”
Isabeau’s smile was only faintly wry. “What about the commandment?”
“Honor thy father and mother? Have I shown you any dishonor, my lady? Any discourtesy?” Julianna fought the quaver in her voice. She didn’t want to talk about it or think about it. She was exhausted from the endless, uncomfortable trip in the bouncing litter, disturbed and oddly excited by her encounter with Master Nicholas. She was in no mood to discuss her sins with the harsh priest, nor to quarrel with her mother.
Indeed, Isabeau was far too much like Julianna’s dreams, and less like the monster her altered memory had painted her. The small, pretty woman sitting by the fire looked far younger than her years, and her soft voice was the same that had once sung lullabies to a baby, had whispered soothing words to a weeping child. The small, delicate hands had stroked J
ulianna’s hair and comforted her in times of grief. The huge brown eyes had been filled with tears the last time Julianna had seen her, as her father had carried her off to her new home, ignoring her screams.
Odd, but she’d forgotten her mother’s tears until now. And if her mother were not the unnatural monster she’d remembered, then what was truth and what wasn’t?
“You’re a most dutiful daughter,” Isabeau said softly. “But you’ve never forgiven me, have you? You thought I could save you.”
“I thought you could try,” Julianna whispered.
“Oh, my angel . . .” Isabeau said brokenly, but a loud rapping at the closed door stopped her words, and Julianna moved quickly to open it, anything to halt the painful conversation.
She recognized the servant standing there as Master Nicholas’s man—a swarthy, wicked-looking fellow, the perfect foil for the trickster who called himself a fool. “Father Paulus is asking for you, my lady,” he said in a raspy voice, looking less than pleased. “I’m to bring you to him before I can see to my master.”
“Your master is fine, Bogo,” she said. “He’s just been enjoying the benefits of a cooling bath.”
She’d expected to confound him. Instead the ugly face curved into a surprisingly gleeful smile. “What did you do to him, my lady? Whatever it was, it was way overdue, to my way of thinking. You’ll be good for him.”
“Good for him!” she echoed in shock. “I won’t have anything to do with him!” Before Isabeau could ask any difficult questions, such as why her daughter would have been alone with the fool, Julianna rushed on. “And we can find our way to the abbot’s chambers on our own—you can see to Master Nicholas.”
“Sounds like you’ve already seen to him,” Bogo chortled. He glanced past Julianna to Lady Isabeau, and his manner changed subtly. “Do you need my help, Lady Isabeau?”
She smiled up at him, in the smile that enchanted all men, Julianna thought. There were times when she would have given anything to have her mother’s beguiling smile, her ability to turn men into slaves with nothing more than a soft word and a friendly glance—before she realized that she wanted no slaves, male or otherwise. She just wanted to be left alone.