Part 2 (2/2)
But when he turned back to her and told her to give the filthy cloak to a man named Thomas, Bella knew this insanity had gone on long enough. She turned and ran.
She got four steps away when the wool tightened so fiercely, Bella feared it would tear from her grip. She staggered around, confronting him. The cruel b.a.s.t.a.r.d had put his foot on the corner of the scarlet blanket. Trapped, her terror mounting, Bella dared to risk only one hand to tug the cloth out from beneath his boot.
He s.h.i.+fted more of his weight onto the captured corner beneath his boot, barking an order over his shoulder to a boy he called squire. Immediately, the well dressed youth stepped forward with Sir John's magnificent sword and scabbard attached to its heavy leather belt. As Bella frantically tugged upon the wool, the youth withdrew the scabbard from the leather.
”Bella!” Her name exploded from his lips with a whip-like crack. Bella jumped and looked at his dark face immediately. Her heart already thrummed a terrifying cadence. What he said next nearly brought the escalated racing of that organ to a chilling halt.
”My dearest lady wife,” Sir John snarled. ”Do you want to be beaten within an inch of your life, run from me. I swear by the Holy Rood, for every step I take to bring you back to this well, I will ply a strap across your back. Here, naked, before all our people. Do you understand me, Isabella de Saint Pierre?”
Bella stared at the black knight. Her mouth sagged open, wanting to scream at him that he was not her husband, wanting to ask how he could know her name...her maiden name...but no words came out of her constricted throat.
Her logical mind contradicted what her senses reported. This was not real, not a movie nor anything remotely like that. She was dreaming. This was a nightmare. What else could it be?
Sir John put out his hand to her and motioned with his fingers for her to come closer to him.
”Come to me, Bella.” His voice dropped to a croon used on high-strung skittish animals. ”Come to me. You cannot go inside our home with this stinking filth on you. The water will be cold, but I will douse you quickly, then wrap you warmly in a clean blanket. Clarise is already heating water for your bath. You do not want to spoil your pretty things with this terrible dirt, do you, Bella?”
His fingers touched the arm she had exposed to pull upon the cloak. His grip was firm, not hurtful. One little tug started her forward and she found the momentum to move to the line of buckets on the edge of the well. The squire he'd told to bring a blanket reverently placed the folded wool at the end of the line of buckets then bowed to her and turned his back to the well.
Humiliated and terrified, Bella swung her eyes toward the manor and back to the line of shops. All his people had disappeared from sight. The inner ward had gone as quiet as an empty church, disturbed only by the continuing patter of the rain. A woman at the weaver's stalls s.n.a.t.c.hed a playing toddler from the ground and ran inside the lean-to.
It's only a dream--a nightmare, Bella told herself. I'll wake up in a minute and none of this will be real.
She shut her eyes, seeking the oblivion of dreamless sleep as he grasped the cloth and swept it off her body. Bella felt the splatter of rain dance against her scalp.
She clutched her arms tightly across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and gasped when the first awful douse of ice cold water poured over her head. Her sticky, filthy hair loosened and spread across her back.
He raised the second bucket and after the shocking deluge of cold water ended, she swept one hand across her face to clear her eyes and saw the black, foul puddle forming at her feet. She was blue with the cold and shaking with palsy when he poured out the last. He set the bucket down and turned to get the blanket. Bella wiped water from her eyes and looked at her feet.
Blood ran from one knee and horrible bruises dotted her legs. She had no time to catalogue other injuries. He pulled the blanket firmly around her, and rubbed her head with it for a moment or so to sop up the water.
Then he lifted her into his arms.
As Sir John strode the entire width of the ward, the castle came alive again. The boy who looked like Iain ran out of the stables. The ring of the blacksmith's hammer started up again. The doors of the hall were flung open and a flood of people came outside. Every man Sir John pa.s.sed bowed to him. Each woman spread her skirt or ap.r.o.n and curtsied deeply.
This was the most unusual dream she'd ever experienced.
Bella could not control her shaking or the clacking of her teeth. She was too cold to faint, but would have welcomed that oblivion if she had.
Sir John resolutely crossed a foyer and mounted a set of spiralling steps that wound counter-clockwise inside a bartizan. The only light on the dangerous steps came from arrow slit embrasures. Eventually he stepped onto an upper floor, where Bella saw a cheery fire burned in a ma.s.sive fireplace of an asceticly furnished room.
Two footmen swung open double doors at the end of that long room and closed them after Sir John pa.s.sed through.
Here, a ma.s.sive, high bed, draped and canopied, dominated the chamber.
Another fire burned in the fireplace and before that sat a huge wooden tub filled with steaming water. He said, ”Voila, mon mari. It is as I promised, n'est pas? And here is Clarise, with hot towels and soft soap and all the cooing you will need.”
The woman spread her ap.r.o.n and bobbed to him as he set Bella on her feet, holding her gently at the waist to make certain she did not collapse. He tested the water with his hand then his other palm pressed against the small of her back, urging her forward.
Bella wanted in that steaming water more than she'd wanted anything in her entire life. Her s.h.i.+vers and shakes had turned to tremors. She reached out to grasp the edge of the high tub and found the knight's hand instead. It was rock hard and steady.
As the heat swept up the one leg she dipped into the tub, he whisked the blanket away, slid his warm hands under her arms and a.s.sisted her over the rim. As he lowered her into the water, Bella let out a deep sigh of relief for the immediate warmth.
His hands slid forward, cupping her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. That was the most exquisite, intimate touch she'd ever felt in her life. He knelt at the edge of the tub, behind her and his elbows flared along the rim. His palms drew her back against the solid resistance of his naked chest.
Bella closed her eyes, glad that her dream had turned pleasant and sensual.
His head bent to her shoulder and lips touched her frozen ear. His breath warmed her s.h.i.+vering skin. The point of his tongue traced the sensitive curves, forcing an altogether different sort of s.h.i.+ver onto her racking body.
Bella felt her nipples harden against the rough skin of his palms and she craned her neck as his teeth nipped her throat. She sighed deeply, opening her eyes to sensual slits, wispering a soft prayer, because this sort of dream, she wouldn't want to ever stop.
”Hmm.” Sir John's lips lifted from her shoulder and she felt the intensity of his hungry gaze on her hardened and aroused b.r.e.a.s.t.s that filled his hands. ”Perhaps, I should stay and bathe you myself, Bella. You haven't been this compliant in a long, long time.”
One of his hands dropped below the water covering her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and swept across her belly. But when she felt his fingers touch her curls and cup her between her legs, his touch was too real. Bella caught hold of his hand, staying his exploration. Was she really dreaming? Or was this real?
She looked up and found the servant woman stood right there at the side of the tub. Her eyes were politely downcast, but for heaven's sake! A public exhibition, even in her dreams, went strongly against Bella's principles.
What if this wasn't a dream?
Bella had to get a grip upon herself, right now! And not the grip her fantasy knight was intent upon delivering, either!
She lifted his other hand away from her breast, scooting over in the large tub and twisted out of range. ”I'm filthy. You said so yourself. I think I can bathe myself. Please, go away.”
His hands returned to the rim of the tub. Bella covered her b.r.e.a.s.t.s with both her arms. She could feel the heat of his stare and sensed that he regretted the impulsive caress. Bella drew up her knees and huddled deeper in the water, s.h.i.+vering in spite of the heat. Her eyes followed him as he stood.
”You may have your bath, my lady.”
She had to raise her chin to see his eyes. They were as cold as the icy water in his well. Dear Lord, but he was tall and terrifying, hard and cold as stone. He stared at her without blinking his eyes once.
”I have yet to decide whether to forgive you or not, Bella. Best you pray that you never again forget whose wife you are. Nor where your loyalties belong.”
John de Chandos stalked out of his wife's bed chamber to the sound of water squas.h.i.+ng in his boots. Her footmen shut the doors behind him. He resolutely crossed the solar, pa.s.sed through the opposite alcove and entered his own chamber.
His manservant, Guilamu, bowed and offered the flowing salute of a true believer, sweeping hand to his brow, his lips and his heart. ”My smoldering lord, I have brought hot water and laid out dry clothing for you. How else may I serve you?”
Chandos flashed a withering look at the Muslim. ”You may start by wiping that smirk off your heathen face and open the windows so I may breathe clean, untainted air.”
The lord of the manor dropped onto a stool beside his steaming copper tub and brought right foot to left knee to unfasten the buckles on his cross-gartered leggings.
Guilamu reluctantly opened the shutters beneath the stained gla.s.s window and dutifully removed the pillows from the window seat so that the deluge of English rain would not damage costly Eastern silk and tapestry fabrics.
He and Lord Chandos were ever at odds over England's climate. Guilamu demanded fires burn all days of the year. Chandos revelled in fresh air and cool, damp winds. Despite differences over every subject in the world, the Arab and the Christian were bound for this lifetime by the debt of each owing his life to the other.
Boots off and leggings disposed of, Sir John stood and stripped away his sodden, wet breeks. He grunted audibly as he sank into the steaming tub scented by oil of sandalwood. The fragrance wafted upward with the steam to mingle with the lingering, unpleasant odor of the Well of Souls in Chandos' nose. John closed his eyes and allowed the heated water to obliterate the last trace of l.u.s.t from his groin. When, he sourly asked himself, would he cease to be affected by Isabella Saint Pierre's alluring body?
”Allah has granted his mercy again, my lord Chandos,”
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