When the scrubbing was done and she’d run another layer of the slimy soap over her skin just to be certain she was completely clean, Elle dunked her head in the water once more and came up sputtering. It simply felt good to be clean and warm for the first time in a very long time. It felt so good, in fact, that she startled when the squire returned with food for Curtis, but she didn’t panic. Curtis remaining in the tent was one thing, but the addition of another man was quite another. She didn’t want to be put on display as a pathetic Welsh prisoner. However, there was a screen between her and the young de Lohr brother, so she simply kept still until he left.
It was something of a relief when he did.
After that, she sat in the water until she grew cold, but Curtis didn’t say a word. He ate and wrote, ignoring her for the most part. He’d probably had enough of her, and, given their interaction since their fall from the wall, she could hardly blame him. Therefore, she didn’t speak to him, either, as she finally climbed out of the pot and set about drying herself with the piece of material he’d left for her. At one point, she heard him putting more peat in the brazier, warming up the tent, and she put the towel aside to don the shift he’d provided for her. It was warm and well made, a little roomy in the chest area and a little too short, but she didn’t care. Elle had never worn anything so fine in her entire life.
Dry and warm, but still with damp hair, she came out from behind the screen and went to the brazier to dry her hair. It was giving off a good deal of heat, so she plopped down next to it and began running her fingers through her damp hair to help dry it. As she was doing this, Curtis stood up and went over to the bed. Elle only knew that because she could hear his movements. He was still ignoring her, so she didn’t speak to him. She simply kept running her fingers through her hair until a comb suddenly appeared in front of her face. Startled, she glanced up to see Curtis extending it to her. Hesitantly, she took it.
He went to sit back down again.
It was a thick, well-made comb of tortoiseshell, and she ran it through her hair repeatedly, drying the blonde strands in the heated air. She couldn’t remember the last time she had washed her hair, to be truthful, and it was drying pale blonde and shiny in the warmth. She had rather thick hair, quite straight, but it was full and lovely when she didn’t have it tightly braided into four or five braids all around her head. She continued to comb and comb as it dried fairly quickly. But the warmth, the bath, and the food earlier were having an effect on her.
She was exhausted.
It had been a day to remember, to be certain. She had lost a battle, but she had gained… something. She wasn’t sure what yet, but she’d certainly gained something. Hadn’t she? A new perspective, a new life, such as it was. The more she combed, the sleepier she became, and she yawned several times. She wasn’t sure where she was going to sleep, considering Curtis wasn’t going to let her out of his sight, so perhaps she should simply sleep on the floor in front of the brazier. It wasn’t such a bad place, because he had several woolen hides around the brazier rather than rushes, which would burn if sparks flew. The wool wouldn’t. In fact, she was sitting on a woolen hide that was warm and comfortable. Between the combing and the sleepiness and the warmth, she ended up lying down in front of the brazier. It was too much to stay upright.
Sleep claimed her almost immediately.
Curtis saw her go down. In fact, he’d been glancing at her since she came out from behind the screen. That filthy little creature who had slammed into him on the wall walk had transformed into something quite different. With her blonde hair clean and flowing, dressed in his mother’s old shift, he would have sworn that an angel had just walked into the tent. Truth be told, he hardly recognized her. He’d suspected there was a beauty underneath the grime and sweat, and he’d been right. She was exquisite.
It was a shocking realization.
He was nearly to the end of his journaling for the battle at Brython, but he paused to watch her sleep in front of the brazier. The sun was down by now, with only the light from the tapers on his table giving the tent a gentle glow. Everything else was dark. He finished off the last few sentences of his journal, listening to Elle’s slow and steady breathing. She was sleeping deeply. As hefinished the page, sanded it, and put his quill away, he began to feel caddish for letting her sleep on the ground.
His bed was a few feet away and unused.
Quietly, he stood up and went over to her, crouching down to scoop her up from the woolen hide. She smelled fresh, like lemons, a distinct improvement from the mildew smell she’d been harboring. But the moment he picked her up, she started mumbling.
“Dirty…bastard,” she muttered, trying to slap something, and ended up hitting herself in the neck. “I won’t let you hurt me. You smell like a pig. Why is it… so… dark…?”
She faded off as she snuggled against his chest, her face buried in his shoulder. Curtis couldn’t help the grin as he carried her over to the bed and laid her down, pulling the coverlet over her. She muttered something else about it being dark but settled down quickly as the deep sleep returned. When the snoring came shortly thereafter, Curtis chuckled softly. He found himself standing over her, watching her sleep, thinking many things at that moment. There was so much about her that was foreign to him, but there was also something about her that screamed of loneliness. She seemed so very alone. She’d put her own brother in the vault, so there was evidently no love lost between them, but he didn’t sense she’d done it for malicious reasons. It almost seemed like… self-protection?
Why in the world did she have to protect herself from her own brother?
The lady was, indeed, a paradox.
“Curt?” Westley suddenly burst through the tent flap. “Papa says you must come.”
Curtis turned to look at his gangly youngest brother. “Why?”
Westley pointed in the direction of their father’s tent. “Another woman,” he said. “She says she’s a cousin to your lady. You’d better go.”
That struck Curtis as something of a surprise. “Anotherlady?”
Westley nodded. “Papa wants you.”
Curtis glanced over at Elle, sleeping peacefully, before returning his focus to his brother. “You remain here with her,” he said. “She is a skilled warrior, and she wants to escape, so be on your guard. Arm yourself if you must. But do not let her out of your sight. Do you understand me?”
Westley nodded, looking at the lady with some apprehension. “She… she seems tame enough.”
Curtis snorted, but it was without humor. “The moment you truly believe that is the moment she will probably slit your throat,” he said. “Let your guard down with her at your own peril. She is not to be trifled with.”
Westley studied the sleeping woman for a moment before nodding. “As you say,” he said. “Butwhois she?”
“Don’t you know?”
Westley shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “Who?”
Curtis’ gaze lingered on her for a moment. “A Welsh princess,” he muttered. “A firebrand. She’s everything Welsh that you fear and more. Be vigilant.”
