“Wherever I am, Crispin, I will have my bath,” she told him. “I know how many of my companions use scent to cover up their stink, but my nose is sharp. When we first were introduced I knew you bathed more than twice a year with water and soap.”
He grinned. “I’ll begin fetching the water,” he told her, letting her go. “Peter!”
Lucy directed them to fill two large cauldrons which she then swung over the fire. “It will be a while before the water is hot enough for you,” she said.
“Then let us eat here,” Philippa decided. “It will save you the trouble of bringing it upstairs to us. We’ll eat now before we bathe. What of the men-at-arms and the coachman? They must be fed too.”
“ ’Tis done. Peter and I took their meal out to the stables just a while ago,” Lucy responded. “We’re all eating the same tonight. Venison stew. I made two pots with what was left in the larder. Arranged it with his lordship’s cook before we went to Oxfordshire at the beginning of the month.” She bustled about, putting pewter plates and mugs upon the big kitchen table. She pulled a large loaf of bread from the warming oven and put it, with a board, a knife, and a crock of sweet butter, on the table. Then looking to the earl’s manservant she snapped, “Peter! Get that jug of cider from the larder, and fill the goblets.” Taking up a small cauldron she ladled stew into the two dishes. It was rich with a winy gravy that embraced the chunks of venison, the leeks, and the carrots in it.
“Sit down, sit down,” the earl invited the two servants. “There’s no sense in you waiting. The food will get cold, and cold venison stew is not pleasant to eat.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Peter said as Lucy added two more plates and mugs to the far end of the table, and filled the plates with stew.
They ate, and Philippa could hear the water for their baths beginning to boil up in their cauldrons. She mopped the remaining gravy from her plate and waited patiently for the others to finish. When they had, Peter stood up.
“I’ll fill the tub for you, my lady,” he told her.
“And I’ll make certain the temperature is just right,” Lucy said as she gathered up the plates and mugs and took them to the stone sink to be washed. “My lord, if you do not mind, a bucket of cool water from the well would be appreciated. Peter, when you’ve got the water in the tub, go to the stables and get the stew pot back from the men.”
Finally all was ready for the bath. Peter had gone, returned, and gone again to the stables where he would keep company with the men-at-arms. Philippa was in her little tub, pleased she was able to wash. It was unlikely she would be able to do so again until they reached France. The earl had sent Lucy away, and now sat watching his wife as she bathed. Philippa had a beautiful young body, and it gave him pleasure just to look at it.
“Ply your brush, my lord,” she suddenly spoke, breaking into his train of thought. “Did you not say you would scrub my back?”
Kneeling next to the tub, he picked up the brush, soaped it, and began to scour her back. “I am sorry this little oak tub is not big enough for us both,” he murmured in her ear, kissing the little curl of flesh. “I like it when we bathe together, Philippa.”
She giggled. “When you bathe with me, Crispin, we seem to become entangled in each other,” Philippa teased him.
“I am going to make love to you tonight,” he said low.
“We must make an early start,” she protested.
“And when will I have the time again once we get to Dover?” he asked her. “And I know how you feel about passion in a public inn.”
“I shall have Lucy bring us an extra pitcher of water tonight,” she said softly. “Now stop, Crispin, or you will have all the skin off of my back.”
He gently laved water over her, rinsing away the heavy lather he had built up. Philippa stood up, and the droplets from her tub sluiced down her lithe body. Reaching out, she wrapped herself in one of the two large towels Lucy had placed on a drying rack by the fire. She stepped from the tub, and his arms wrapped themselves about her.
“Crispin,” she murmured warningly, seeing the bulge between his thighs.
“I don’t choose to wait, little one,” he told her, pulling his shirt off and loosening his other garments. He backed her with his body to the large table where they had just eaten, his hands imprisoning her heart-shaped face between them, kissing her hungrily.
“Crispin!” she protested again. “Lucy and Peter!”
“Peter dices with the men-at-arms, and will sleep in the stables. Lucy is above stairs, and will not return unless called,” the earl told his wife. His manhood was freed now from its constraints, and it was ready to play. He pushed her down, and her legs came up to fasten themselves about his waist. He drove into her in a single smooth motion as her arms went about him, and she sighed. “Ah, countess,” he told her, “you consume me, I fear. No woman has ever entranced me as do you, Philippa.”
She sighed again. “Then it is fortunate I am your wife, Crispin,” she told him. Sweet Mother of God, how he filled her. His bare skin crushing her breasts was almost hot. Her nipples had tightened into hard points, and she arched herself into him. She loved the possession he took of her. It thrilled and overwhelmed her. Philippa’s head fell back, and his mouth began almost at once to press wet, hot kisses on her vulnerable throat. His tongue lapped from the pulse at the base of her neck up beneath her chin. She unlocked her grip about his neck, her hands smoothing down his long back, scoring him with her nails, lightly at first, and then with more vigor as her own ardor increased.
He felt her nails digging into his flesh. Reaching back, he took her hands and pulled her arms over her head, pinioning them there. “Would you mark me, little one?” he growled in her ear, and then his tongue teased the delicate flesh. His hips did all the work now, thrusting forwards and backwards, driving himself deep into her, enjoying the little mewling cries that had begun to issue forth from her throat. He could feel the very faint trembling beginning from within her, but he wasn’t ready yet. He drew back slowly, and held himself still.
“Oh, Crispin, don’t!” she pleaded. “I need it! I need it!”
“In a moment, little one,” he promised her, and his mouth found her sweet lips, brushing them gently at first, and then kissing her with a fierce and demanding yearning. He began to move within her once more, feeling himself so swollen that he actually ached with the pleasure being inside of her gave him.
Philippa had thought she would die of the unfulfilled longing that had swept over her when he had briefly stopped. Then he had kissed her, and she was quickly lost in her own desire for him. The storm began to once more brew. It burgeoned and swelled until it finally burst over them both, and he collapsed breathless atop her. Suddenly she could feel the hard wood of the table beneath her shoulders, her back, and her buttocks. Philippa began to laugh. “Get off me, you great beastie!” she told him. “Your wicked games have made it necessary for me to get back in the tub again.” She pushed at him.
Crispin groaned. He was drained. His limbs felt like jellies. She pushed at him again, and he managed to pull himself up. “God’s boots, woman,” he complained at her, “you weaken me to the point of exhaustion with your constant demands.”
“My demands?” Philippa sat up, and then she slid from the table. “My lord, you are mistaken, I fear. ’Tis your demands that are so insatiable!”
