Her mother, before she died when Lily was a child, had told her wondrous stories of Valhalla, the Norse heaven, peopled with gods like Odin and Thor and Freyr. Thor was Lily’s favorite. He was the strongest, a giant, but he was clever, too, and according to Lily’s mother, of such manly beauty a maiden might fall instantly under his spell. Lily had listened to those stories, her gray eyes wide, dreaming that one day she might be-hold such a creature.
And now she had.
Radulf’s back was broad and brown, with well-defined muscles roped beneath his skin. Lily was tempted to run her hands over his shoulder blades and down his spine, smoothing her palms over that firm, healthy body. And as for his arms, why, she would need two hands to measure their upper circumference, and even then her fingers would not meet! Hew had been slim and golden, while Vorgen had been old and sinewy. Not like this. Never like this.
Stop it. Are you losing your wits? Remember who this is, remember what he could do to you.
The wound—she must tend the wound.
It was but a shallow gouge in his flesh, just beyond the ridge of his shoulder. Lily could see where the arrow had sliced through his skin, luck-ily not piercing it too deeply. There had been some bleeding, though that had stopped, and there was now only a slight leaking of watery fluid. Still it looked red and sore, and must hurt him quite a bit.
“Does this hurt you?” She pressed the edge of the wound, gentle but firm. It was best to know now if there was any swelling or poison. Lily had seen men die of something so small it was hardly noticed by them, and yet they sickened and, within a short time, died in great agony.
“No,” he said, his deep voice husky. “Your hands are gentle, lady. ’Tis long since I have had such tender care.”
Lily suddenly became very brisk, bathing away the dried blood, careful not to inflict further pain or hurt. Radulf sat as a statue, never flinching or crying out as Vorgen had always done. During her ministrations Stephen returned with food and more wine, setting both silently upon the table and once more leaving them alone. When Lily finally lifted the earthenware pot and opened the stopper, she held it up to her nose and sniffed sharply.
Radulf turned his head to look up at her. A glint of amusement shone deep in his eyes. “Do you mean to anoint me with it, lady, or eat it?”
She ignored him. “I know it,” she murmured with relief. “’Tis from the marigold plant. A goodly potion for healing wounds such as yours.”
“You are a healer?” he asked sharply, still watching her.
Lily laughed, genuinely amused. “No, my lord, I am no healer. I have learned only a little. But enough,” she added. There was no need to tell him too much; she must not give her secrets away.
Radulf seemed satisfied and nodded, turning back to his contemplation of the food on the table.
It must be growing cold and he was hungry, yet he hadn’t spoken angrily to her, he hadn’t lifted his hand to strike her. He had sat still and patient and allowed her her way with him.
What sort of Norman was this?
“Have I time to see to your hand?” she asked quickly and a little breathlessly.
Radulf lifted his hand in surprise, as if noticing the cut on it for the first time. Had he not felt the discomfort? Was he so used to these things that they were normal for him? And, now that she thought on it, his shirt had been damp and his breeches were definitely so.
“As you will, my lady,” he was saying, and watched her curiously as she gave his hand her attention.
To distract herself, Lily clucked her tongue and instructed him. “You should see that your servant keeps you dry and warm. The north of England is different from the south, my lord. Here the cold creeps into your bones and lies there, making them ache. You will become ill if you do not change into warm, dry clothing.”
He laughed, but he sounded pleased.
“Enough,” he said, still smiling. “We will eat first, and then you can strip me and rub me dry.” One eyebrow lifted slowly, suggestively. “If you wish.”
Lily knew the color was rising in her cheeks again. “My lord,” she began breathlessly in denial, but the thought was between them, vivid as if it were already a fact. She could not seem to look away from his eyes, and he appeared to be in similar difficulty.
“You must be hungry, my lord,” Lily managed to say through the constriction in her throat.
Radulf lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing her bottom lip, as it had in the church. Lily felt the earth beneath her shift and tremble, or was it only her own legs that shook?
Radulf’s other arm curled about her hips and drew her slowly against him.
Lily looked down into his eyes. “My lord? What are you doing?”
“I am doing what I wanted to do the first moment I saw you,” Radulf murmured. He lifted the long strands of her hair, winding his fingers in them, gently drawing her face closer to his. Lily felt his warm breath on her lips. His eyes really were black, she realized. She could see her own reflection in them, and for a moment didn’t recognize herself. She looked flushed, her lips moist and parted, her gray eyes half closed. She looked seductive. She looked as if she wanted to be kissed.
Lily wasn’t surprised when Radulf did kiss her.
What did surprise her were the sensations that went with such a simple act. Her mouth throbbed, her breasts tingled, and the place between her legs felt achy. The tip of Radulf’s tongue followed the outline of her lips, and then slid inside. Lily opened her mouth to him, quite unable to resist, no longer sure she wanted to. In another moment she would have been lost . . .
