Part 12 (2/2)
Mon Dieu, how she burned with shame each and every time she found the Wolf's smouldering gaze upon her. How she ached with the knowledge of where his hands had been and what they had done. What did he think? What did he remember? Could it be one tenth ... one hundredth part as devastating as what she agonized over each time she drew a breath or released it?
A resounding shriek of metal slicing along metal startled Servanne's thoughts back to the sun-drenched courtyard. The two antagonists were crouched and stalking in a slow circle, their swords gripped double fisted, their faces tensed into murderous grins. There was blood dotting the Wolf's sleeve and a row of cleanly severed thongs hanging where the front seam of his s.h.i.+rt had once been bound together. Sweat sleeked his hair; it streamed down his face and neck, and glistened from the breastplate of dark hair that clouded his chest. His flesh was undoubtedly hot. Steaming. Salty.
Servanne cleared her throat and sat a little straighter on the wooden stool. She was aware-acutely aware-of a heart that beat too fast, of blood racing too quickly and too warmly through veins that ran alternately hot as fever, cold as ice. A knot of tension sat in her belly like a fist, growing and twisting upon itself until it seemed to be sapping the strength from her limbs as well as draining it from her chest.
Out in the courtyard, the two men rose up like rampant lions, their bodies clas.h.i.+ng together, their blades crossing one over the other, locked in a tremendous outpouring of raw energy. The Wolf snarled an oath questioning Friar's ancestry, and lunged mightily to throw his adversary off balance. Friar feinted to the left, his sword arcing off the Wolf's with enough force to create a shower of sparks. Two clean, blunt strikes later and the blades crossed again, grinding in a screaming weal of flas.h.i.+ng silver to lock again at the hilt guards.
”A draw?” Friar suggested through his clamped teeth.
”The third this month?”
”Fourth. But one I fear may be too violent for the more faint-hearted in the bower.”
The gray eyes flicked to the shade of the ancient yew. Servanne's pale face registered first as a blur, then as a glaring, fundamental mistake any bowed-legged page should have been able to see through. But before he could correct the error, Friar had already taken advantage of the distraction to hook a foot around the Wolf's ankle and thrust forward with his full weight. The two crashed heavily onto the ground in a churning cloud of dust and cartwheeling swords, and, when the curse-laden air cleared, the Wolf was flat on his back, his neck forced to an impossible arch by the biting tip of Friar's dagger.
”Declare it, my lord!” he gasped triumphantly.
”An unfair win,” protested the Wolf.
”A win nonetheless. And by the same tack you used to best me but a month ago. Declare it, by G.o.d, or forfeit the need to shave for a week.”
The Wolf laughed. ”A fair win, you black-robed b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Now heave off me, and give a shout for ale, else we both die of thirst before we have a chance to celebrate properly.”
Coughing with laughter and the effects of their strenuous bout, Friar collapsed beside him on the scuffed earth. The Wolf was grinning with genuine pleasure, for he was not one to grudge a man his due, and Friar had indeed come a long way from being the soft-eyed, soft-voiced acolyte he had rescued from a death cell seven years ago.
He was still grinning when he stood up and started smacking the dust from his s.h.i.+rt and leggings. A round of good-natured bickering between Mutter and Stutter drew his gaze to the old yew again and, after a brief moment of debate, he walked over, noting the care Servanne took to studiously ignore his approach.
”I trust you regained the coppers you lost last week,” he said to Mutter, surprising and pleasing the twin into squirming himself into a state of deep crimson. The Wolf was one of the few who could tell the twins apart at a glance, although how he did so was anyone's guess. This unfathomable ability was what had once saved the brothers from being impaled and burned as demons-which had, in turn, made them loyal to their mentor to their last breath.
The Wolf looked at Servanne. ”And you, my lady: I trust you were not overly bored by our practicing.”
”I ... was ... much impressed by Friar's skill,” she said hesitantly, unable to quite lift her eyes above the heady view of his bared torso.
The Wolf glanced down and casually thumbed the severed thongs.
”A hair less skill,” he agreed with a crooked grin, ”and I warrant I would be sporting a fine new red stripe.”
Servanne's flush darkened to the point of discomfort, for now his scent had surrounded her and threatened to engulf her. The rich, pungent musk of well-spent sweat swamped her senses, prompting every movement, every gesture he made to result in a shower of hot, silvery sparks slithering down her spine.
”I ... fail to understand why either of you would risk life and limb in such a ... a meaningless display of male rivalry. Especially if, as you would have me believe, there are far weightier matters to be decided by blood and by sword.”
The Wolf lowered his hands slowly, ignoring the salty moisture that continued to roll down his temples and cheeks. Her eyes commanded all of his attention ... and his interest. He was as conscious of her delicate state of arousal as if he were inside her body sharing it, and its discovery intrigued him.
”In truth,” he murmured, ”Alaric and I have practiced some moves that are deliberately intended to look more dangerous than they are. It ... inspires confidence in the men.”
Her gaze inched a tiny measure higher, stalled again by the broad column of his neck. ”Alaric?”
”Friar ... Alaric,” he said by way of an explanation. ”He of the horsehair robes and wood-soled sandals.” ... Alaric,” he said by way of an explanation. ”He of the horsehair robes and wood-soled sandals.”
Servanne's eyes fled downward to where her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, surrounded by a shredded bed of straw. It felt like the fine hairs at the nape of her neck were being similarly shredded; his nearness was playing havoc with her determination not to succ.u.mb to any more curiosities about the man-an impossible resolution, as well she knew it. She could look neither right nor left, not up nor down without feeling the seductive pull of his virility.
”I should think it would be a sacrilege to a.s.sume the guise of a priest of the Holy Order.”
A dark brow arched. ”We all of us commit small sacrileges at one time or another. Alaric's is no lesser and no greater than most.”
”Why did he not complete his vows?”
”He lost his love for the church.”
”It could not have been a very strong love to begin with.”
”It was a good deal stronger than mine.”
”You can say that, having nearly lost your life on Crusade?”
”My reasons for taking up the cross were far from holy. Nor was it G.o.d's wrath that challenged me on the deserts of Palestine.”
”Still,” she sighed, ”I have seen you join your men in prayer each Matin.”
A small grin betrayed more than his amus.e.m.e.nt. ”It also inspires confidence in the men.”
The Wolf was finding it difficult to keep his eyes from wandering down to the pouting softness of her lips. Equally alluring was the telltale prominence of the two hard buds of flesh straining against the sea-green velvet of her gown. A corresponding hardness in his own body was giving him some reason for distraction, and for the briefest of moments he allowed himself to recall the taste and feel of her, and the sound of the ragged little gasps that had almost been his undoing the other night in the garden.
He drew a deep, cleansing breath to fill his lungs, then flexed his arms. ”Friar's skill seems to have taken a heavier toll on my old wounds than I had supposed. I have in my mind a hot soak would ease them.”
”A hot soak? As with every other basic convenience you have so thoughtfully provided, both tub and hot water are but dim memories.”
”If I could provide you with both? Would you then play hostess to my aching muscles?”
Servanne was instantly on guard and this time her gaze climbed as high as the sardonic grin tugging at his lips. Playing hostess by way of a.s.sisting a man to bathe was a duty often performed by the chatelaine of a castle, paying honour to a visiting guest of importance. But this was no castle, she was not the chatelaine of the forest, and this pagan renegade was of no importance to anyone but himself! Furthermore, there was no bath anywhere on or near the abbey grounds. Biddy had already conducted a most thorough search and there had been no receptacle large enough to escape her keen nose.
He was still grinning-a grin that was widening over her perplexed expression.
”Would you not even condescend to scrub my back?” he murmured. ”Tsk tsk. Poor Sir Hubert. Was he made to groan and grovel to you each time he sought to beg a favour?”
Servanne's eyes flicked up to his, driven by a reckless sparkle of disdain. ”Sir Hubert never had to beg for anything. All I did for him, I did gladly and willingly, and ... with the greatest of pleasure.”
It was the Wolf's turn to stare, for she had melted her tongue around the words greatest greatest and and pleasure pleasure, and had done so with enough relish to win snickers of delight from Mutter and Stutter.
”An obliging wife and hostess, were you?”
”Obliging ... and eager.” eager.”
”I would see some of this saintly domesticity firsthand,” he mused, the silkiness of his voice as deceiving as the stillness of his body. ”Come. The thought of a bath grows in appeal.”
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