He held up a hand to beg pause while he called to a soldier and muttered something to the man about the screen. As the soldier headed away, Curtis returned his attention to Elle.
“Let us speak more when you’ve had a chance to bathe,” he said. “Then I will make my decision.”
Elle wasn’t sure if she felt better or worse. “Then you understand that I am unsuitable?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “I understand that youwantme to consider you unsuitable.”
“But I am!”
“The truth is that you do not want to marry an Englishman, and for no other reason than that.”
That brought her pause. “That is true,” she said. “I’ve not made any secret of it.”
“You cannot always have what you want.”
Elle sighed heavily. “So I have been told.”
He gave her a long look and turned away, tossing the garment back onto the bed. Then he returned to his table and writing kit, sitting down to continue recording the battle. Elle satthere in silence, listening to him scratch his quill against vellum, her attention turning toward that steaming bath. She could see the soap and scrub brush on the chair, and she had to resist the urge to smell the soap. She couldn’t remember the last time she had bathed, but because she lived with men and lived as one of them, things like baths—and the lack of fine garments mentioned by Curtis—meant nothing to her, not really.
But perhaps there was a part of her that wished that weren’t so.
Truth be told, there had been a time when she wished for that kind of thing, back in the days when she was envious of a woman with a pretty dress or flowers in her hair. But she knew she would never be that kind of woman, nor have pretty things, so she told everyone she didn’t care. She’d said it so much that she’d talked herself into it. She had talked herself into the life that she had because there was nothing better in her future. Not even Cadwalader offered her any hope for a better future where she wasn’t entrenched in regaining lands from the English or plotting ambushes for enemies.
But now…
Now, she was in a completely different world as the prisoner of the English. It occurred to her that perhaps therewasa future ahead of her that she hadn’t expected. When this day began, she hadn’t anticipated it to go in this direction. She hadn’t anticipated being in this particular situation, but here she was.
Life was funny sometimes.
She remained quiet, huddled on the stool, while Curtis scratched away on the vellum. He must have been writing an entire epic volume, from what she could hear. She’d been sitting for several minutes when the soldier who had been sent away for the screen suddenly appeared again, bearing the mythical de Lohr screen. It was three attached panels of wood, painted in blues and yellows. Curtis took it from the soldier and proppedit up in front of the pot half filled with water that was still steaming. Silently, he went to the bed, picked up one of the shifts, and slung it over the panel. Then he went to dig around in his own chest again, only to come forth with what looked like a cloak or a coverlet.
Elle wasn’t sure what it was, but she’d been watching him curiously since the screen came. She watched him toss the cloak or coverlet over the screen so it, too, was hanging. When he noticed she was looking at him, he simply gestured to it.
“You can use it to dry off with,” he said. “And you can sleep in the shift.”
He went back over to his table and sat down again. Unable to withstand the lure of hot water and soap, Elle stood up.
“Aren’t you leaving?” she asked.
He was looking at his writing. “Nay,” he said. “That is why I brought the screen. So you could have some privacy.”
She stiffened. “I will not—”
“And I am not leaving you alone so you can try to escape,” he snapped, looking at her. It was an uncharacteristically severe expression. “Get used to it, lady. You will do as you are told. Get into that pot or I’ll put you in it myself.”
That sounded much more like the knight Elle had hit in the midsection and toppled off the wall. That harsh knight with the iron grip who had manhandled her and spoken harshly to her. The man who was three times her size and far more powerful than she was. It didn’t occur to her that she probably should have a healthy fear of the man, but she genuinely didn’t like being ordered about.
Still…
She wasn’t stupid.
Without another word, she stepped behind the screen and began pulling off her smelly, dirty clothing. It wasn’t even completely dry from having been in the moat, and as she pulledit off, layer by layer, she came across leaves and debris trapped in the fabric and, eventually, against her skin. When she was finally stripped down, with only her damp, dirty hair and her grimy skin exposed, she quickly climbed into the cauldron to discover that it was, indeed, still fairly hot. As she sat in it, cross-legged, the water rose almost to the top, nearly covering her completely.
With a sigh of delight, she submerged her entire body, including her head.
Coming up for air, she wiped the water out of her eyes and went for the soap and scrub brush. The soap was strong, smelling of lemons, which was a precious commodity in England, but she used it liberally and scrubbed every inch of her body, from her head to her toes. She even scrubbed the nooks and crannies, under her arms and the soles of her feet. Her hair, neck, ears, and face got a particularly strong scrubbing because once she started, she couldn’t stop. She was determined to scrub away that nasty moat water. Perhaps she was determined to scrub away the remnants of a battle that had been unsuccessful and the turmoil her life had become. Or, more correctly, what itwouldbecome. Whatever the reason, she scrubbed herself silly.
And it felt wonderful.
