“On your knees, I think.”
She dropped to her knees without even thinking about this new order, and was faced with the thick bulge beneath his chausses. Color came hot into her cheeks again, and her fingers trembled now as she reached up to untie his laces to free that vengeful weapon of his.
“’Tis quite satisfying, seeing you in that humbled position—like a pet at my feet,” he continued in a casual tone. “Mayhap I will have you serve me at table just so.”
In front of everyone? “Please.” The word was torn from her with a groan.
His hand came to the top of her head—just as if she were no more than a pet dog panting for attention at his feet—and pushed back until she was looking up at him. “Will you hesitate again in your duty?”
“Nay, I will not.”
He said no more, leaving her in an agony of doubt that her answer had satisfied him. She was on her knees now because she had dared refuse to finish, a punishment swift and humiliating. Was that not enough?
She pulled the braies and chausses down his legs, but avoided looking at what sprang forth by bending over to see to his boots. When she finished, he still just stood there, so she stared at his bare feet, a defiance, but not an exact disobedience, for were his feet not part of him?
“Verily do you test my patience,” he said when she continued to just stare at his feet.
But he did not press the issue this time, and she watched his feet move away and then disappear into the tub. She sighed in relief. But she was forgetting what else “attending him at his bath” signified. He reminded her.
“What do you wait for now, wench? Come and wash my back and hair.”
’Twas part of “attending” him. She knew that. And at least he was not insisting she wash all of him. But she did not want to get close to his naked body again, when just the thought of it was making her feel warm and mushy inside, which in turn sparked her temper.
She fetched the washing cloth, soaked and soaped it, but before she touched him with it, she demanded, “Why does your wife not tend to this?”
“I have no wife.”
“But you have two daughters.”
“And I had two wives, both long dead. Yet I would have had another—” He suddenly grabbed her bliaut to pull her close and growled, “I was to meet her, but I was otherwise detained, so she rode on and is now missing. Know you where I was, wench, that I could not meet my bride as intended?” She was afraid to answer. He did not wait for her to. “I was chained to a bed foryourpleasure.”
God’s mercy, he had this, too, to blame her for? “Not my pleasure,” she whispered.
He let go of her with a slight shove. “Best you pray Lady Isabellaisfound and not dead.”
Another dire warning with unknown consequences. She wondered if the lady was not lost, but had taken the opportunity to flee a marriage to this man. Rowena certainly would have if given half a chance.
The subject had angered him. She could feel it in the tautness of his back as she quickly scrubbed it now. So she was not truly surprised, when she handed him the cloth to finish, that he did not take it. She had earned another punishment for getting him riled.
“I find I have overtaxed myself this day, so you may wash me, wench—everywhere. And best you remove your clothes to do it so they do not get wet.”
Damn him to perdition.Whydid he have to take revenge for the tiniest little things? He was the devil’s spawn, to be this cruel.
But Rowena did as instructed, whipping off her chemise and bliaut together, ripping several laces in her haste. Then she immediately slipped the sleeveless bliaut back on before he noticed that she was, in fact, defying him again in solving the problem of getting wet in her own way.
And when she came around to kneel by his side and began soaping his chest, and he saw what she had done, it did surprise him. She held her breath, wondering if she would now have her first slap from him. But when he did naught, she finally glanced at his face—and found him smiling, a genuine smile that restored his handsomeness. Her own expression mirrored her amazement, and that caused him to burst into laughter.
Rowena sat back on her heels, chagrined. The last thing she cared to do wasamusethe monster. But she was not gettinganythingthatshewanted today.
When he was merely smiling again, he said, “Come, finish ere the water grows cold.”
She did, but the washing of that large male body was pure torture, could be described as naught else. It made her heart pound to do it, her pulses race, and her pointed nipples became almost painful, prodding against the scratchy wool of her bliaut. Washing him was just too reminiscent of the times she had forced him to readiness, too similar to caressing him. And his manroot had grazed against her arm enough times that she knew it was fair to bursting before she got around to washing it, too.
Her face was on fire. His was still strikingly handsome, for he was still grinning, amused by her discomfort. She did not even care about that now, because her face was not the only thing heated. She had the sudden, mad urge to crawl into that tub with him.
She leaped to her feet instead and began soaping his hair. But she did it too vigorously, with too much soap that drifted down into his eyes.
“Enough, wench,” he complained. “Rinse it now.”
