She didn’t dare permit her shoulders to droop until she was safe from curious eyes, but, oh, how tempted she was to slump into a heap where she stood. She looked down. On second thought, she had no desire whatsoever to touch that muck with anything beyond the soles of her boots.
Nicholas noted the iron control Catrin exerted over her weariness. While he admired her strong will, he couldn’t believe she’d lasted so long without wilting. When she looked up, he unfolded his arms and stepped closer. “Are you through ordering my household, madam?”
“Someone had to do it,” she snapped. The fire in her eyes dared him to disagree.
“Aye.” He stifled his amusement as he met her glare. “And you’re far better at it than I would be. My usual method is to flay about me with a sword. Since I’ve lost mine, I believe I’ll leave such things to you.”
He could see she’d spent her burst of strength. Scooping her into his arms, he headed for the stairs to the keep. Other than a little squeak, she didn’t make a sound, but the tension on her face eased immediately. She closed her eyes and laid her head on his shoulder, apparently comfortable even though she rested against the rough weave of his hauberk.
“How long will it take those sluts to clean a room?” he asked. He paused at the top of the stairs and opened the warped door. As pleasant as it was to hold her, he couldn’t continue to do so. He had much work to do before nightfall.
“I couldn’t say,” she murmured against his neck, her lips on the skin of his throat sending a jolt of fire through his veins. “Depends on how filthy it is.”
“Then it might take days.” He laid his palm on her forehead and frowned. The fever, though less intense, still burned within her. Catrin needed comfort, care and good food, but he had doubts about whether she could get them here.
Perhaps she’d been better off in the cave than in this sty.
He hoped that after Catrin regained her strength, he could take her to l’Eau Clair and then be on his way to Llywelyn. It had been nearly a week since the attack. Surely Catrin’s absence had been noted by now.
Her family would be worried; he had no wish to cause them further pain. Messengers would set out for Gwal Draig and l’Eau Clair at first light.
He should not wait long before continuing on his journey, either. ’Twould take very little to push him out of the king’s favor altogether, especially since last year’s debacle. King John still hadn’t forgiven him for losing l’Eau Clair to the Earl of Pembroke’s foster son—Rannulf FitzClifford. The king had wanted a man in control of the Marcher Keep whose first allegiance was to him—not to a man whose power nearly rivalled his own. Although Nicholas knew he’d done the right thing by encouraging Rannulf and Gillian to wed, he also realized—now—that the king had planned for him to marry Gillian.
That would have been a mistake for all of them. Though he loved Gillian well, he thanked God she belonged to Rannulf, not to him.
But for the moment, Catrin was his concern. She’d begun to worry about Gillian once she began to feel better. He wasn’t sure that Catrin’s health would improve completely while she continued to brood about her cousin. But the journey to l’Eau Clair would have been too much for her, he was convinced of it. Despite the conditions at Ashby, coming here had been the right decision.
He stood in the doorway of the hall, squinting into the gloom. Shouldering aside the door, he carried Catrin into the room. “Kindle some lights here,” he shouted. Not waiting to see if his order was obeyed, he crossed the chamber to a group of benches and chairs in front of a shadowy area he took to be the fireplace.
He stepped carefully through the debris that littered the floor, glad he couldn’t see what it was. Judging by the stench, he’d rather not know.
As he lowered Catrin into a chair, a maid brought several lighted tallow candles and placed them on a table. The smoky flames provided the perfect illumination for the shabby furnishings.
“Perhaps the candles were a mistake,” Catrin said as she surveyed the room. “It looked better before.”
He took up a candle, intending to start a fire, but the hearth was piled high with ashes and he didn’t see a stick of wood nearby. “I wonder how long it’s been since the place was clean?” He kicked at a large bone lying among the tattered rushes. “Likely not since my uncle died.” He slouched onto a bench and plucked the dagger from his belt, studying the edge of the blade, avoiding the curiosity in Catrin’s eyes. He sighed. “I think Clarence managed well at first. I received an adequate income from Ashby. The past two years the amount had dwindled, but Clarence wrote that they had trouble with the crops.”
“You should have come to see for yourself,” Catrin said quietly. “’Tis too much of a temptation for a weak man, to allow him free rein over your affairs.”
He forced himself to meet her steady gaze. “And thus I pay for my ignorance.” He indicated the disorder around them with a sweep of his hand.
Shoving the knife back into its sheath, he stood and paced the expanse of the hearth. “I’m almost too weary to care. I tell myself it doesn’t matter—I never had anything of value before. But I owe my people better than this. It’s past time I attended to my duties.”
He looked beyond Catrin to see Tildy descend the spiral stair to his left. “Beg pardon, milord,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. “We’ve cleaned a chamber, leastways enough so yer lady can rest. Couldn’t help but notice ye’re ill, milady,” she added with a nod toward Catrin. “And I told them lazy knaves in the scullery to haul up water so ye can bathe, if ye like.”
Nicholas found Tildy’s assumption that Catrin was his wife amusing. Doubtless Catrin hadn’t noticed, else she’d have flown into a temper by now. But he said nothing to correct the woman’s mistake; surprisingly, the notion didn’t bother him as it once would have. “That’s fine. See that food is brought for her.” Once Tildy left, he picked up Catrin again.
“You did that very well,” Catrin said as he carried her up the winding stair. “You see, you do know how to give orders. A little courtesy wouldn’t be amiss, but that will come with practice.”
At her teasing tone, he responded in kind. “Your flattery will turn my head, milady. If you persist, I’ll become as arrogant as the king himself.”
“I look forward to seeing you deal with the entire household.” She giggled.
The sound startled him. “You won’t be there to see it,” he told her, infusing his voice with mock severity. “You will stay in your chamber and rest.”
“Aye, milord,” she murmured so softly he could scarcely hear her.
Suddenly he wished he could see her face, but the stairwell was dim and Catrin had nuzzled her face into the hair at his nape. As it was, her breath on the back of his neck was enough to drive him mad. Wanting her had made him crazy; knowing she’d been raped, he should consider her beyond his reach, unattainable, a nun.
He certainly shouldn’t be imagining what it would be like to run his hands over her until she giggled again.
“I could grow accustomed to being carried about,” Catrin whispered, her lips tickling his ear.
“Stop that,” he growled as his loins tightened in response.
“Stop what?”
Nicholas didn’t know if he should trust that innocent tone. She couldn’t possibly be trying to provoke him…
Could she?
Whether it was intentional or not, Catrin had succeeded in heating his blood.
He hurried up the last few steps, slipping past the goggling maid in the doorway and nearly dumping Catrin onto the bed. “I have to leave now,” he said, his breath coming much too fast. Before I make a complete fool of myself, he added silently, staring down at her as she sprawled across the mattress. “Enjoy your bath.”
He sped out the door.
Wrapped in a length of linen fragrant with the scent of roses, Catrin drowsed in a cushioned chair by the fire. The bath had been sheer luxury, a true surprise, given the state of the keep. She’d soaked in the perfumed water u
ntil her skin was wrinkled and all the warmth had vanished. Tildy took away the tattered remains of her clothes, promising to find her something to wear by the time her hair dried.
Clean and fed, she waited.
For Nicholas to return?
After days in his company she should be heartily sick of him, but she missed him. Life seemed flat without him there. He provided the spark to her temper, intensifying her reactions, her emotions, bringing to life feelings she’d believed long dead.
His touch didn’t bring Madog’s mauling to mind, but she had no idea how far she could go without rekindling the horrible memories.
Yet Nicholas had already carried her deeper into passion than she’d ever believed it possible for her to go. In the past, she’d found the mere thought of a man’s touch repugnant.
Nicholas did not repulse her…in any way.
Perhaps he could erase the memories of the past, replace the shadows with the bright glow of passion. Not that it could ever lead to anything, she reminded herself.
A knock on the door jolted her. “Come,” she called, staring into the fire.
The solid tread of boots on the floor told her this wasn’t Tildy bringing her clothes. Tugging the linen towel higher over her breasts, Catrin shifted in the chair until she could see the door.
Nicholas closed the door quietly and crossed the room. He, too, had bathed; the shirt and chausses he wore, while threadbare, were clean. His hair was combed away from his face, but a damp curl drooped over his brow. Her fingers itched to smooth it back.
His violet eyes skimmed over her, hesitating a moment where the damp linen clung to her bosom before coming to rest on her face. She’d been idly brushing her hair when he came in. Kneeling beside the chair, he took the brush from her unresisting fingers and drew it through her hair.
She felt as though she were caught in a dream, held there by the passion burning in Nicholas’s eyes. Each leisurely stroke of the brush sent a ripple of sensation from her scalp to the soles of her feet. He touched her so gently she scarcely noticed when he began to trace the fingers of his other hand over her neck and shoulders.
All she noticed was the sensations he aroused.
Laying the hairbrush aside, he gathered her hair in one hand and draped it over her shoulder, allowing the long tresses to pool in her lap. His hands gentle, he turned her slightly in the chair so that he was behind her. He skimmed his lips over the back of her neck, carefully avoiding the bandage, then nipped lightly on her earlobe.
Shivers coursed over her skin, sensitizing her flesh. Closing her eyes, Catrin let herself wallow in Nicholas’s touch.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice causing an insidious warmth to grow within her. He continued to stroke her neck, his fingers dipping lower with each caress until they slipped beneath the edge of the linen.
I should tell him to stop, she thought, but it felt so wonderful she couldn’t force the words past her throat Her breasts seemed swollen; she wished his hand would dip lower still and ease the throbbing ache.
“Nicholas,” she murmured, reaching behind her to sink her fingers into his hair.
He slipped around the chair to face her. “What do you want? Shall I kiss you?” Bending his head, he glided his tongue along the seam of her lips, nudging them open to allow him entrance.
His kiss was an act of possession, his tongue enticing her to follow his lead. All the while his hands maintained their teasing caresses, until she yearned for more.
She moaned when he released her lips, blindly reaching out for him. “Open your eyes, Catrin.” She obeyed his low-voiced command, staring in wonder at his flushed face and the intensity of his gaze. He took her hand and placed it atop his. “Show me what you want. Shall I do this?” He drew his fingertips over her collarbone until they came to rest in the shadowed cleft between her breasts. “Or this?”
Catrin moaned as he dragged his lips over her aching nipples, nibbling at them through the cloth. “You taste so sweet,” he said, reaching for the top of the material. “Let me—”
The sudden pounding at the door was like an icy torrent of water pouring over their heads.
Chapter Eighteen
“Christ’s bones!” Nicholas rested his head on Catrin’s shoulder. Heaving a weary sigh, he looked up and shouted, “Go away.”
The pounding continued. Cursing beneath his breath, he disengaged himself from Catrin’s arms and stomped across the room.
He wrenched the door open, causing the birdlike old crone hammering away on the splintering panels to tumble into the room. He caught her before she fell, the deed earning him a glare as he set her back on her feet.
He hadn’t seen her among the motley band of servants and retainers assembled in the hall earlier.
Reaching up—she stood no higher than the middle of his chest—she grabbed his ears in a surprisingly hard grip and tugged. “Lean down here, you fool, where I can see you,” she said, her voice squeaking like a rusty hinge.
With a frown, he obliged. She made him feel like a child about to receive a scold. But perhaps if he did as she demanded she’d release him.
As soon as he stooped nearer her level she let go of his ears, giving a hard tug on the hair at his nape before she moved her gnarled fingers away. Rheumy blue eyes examined him, her gaze coming to rest on his face. “Aye, you’ve the look of him,” she said, nodding once. “Have you his disposition, too?”
“Who are you talking about, old woman?” he asked, in no mood to be poked at and badgered. He straightened and glared down at her.
“Don’t you remember me, milord?” She shook her finger at him. “I remember you. Pretty little lordling you were, trailing along after that slut your father ran off with. ’Twas a wonder your uncle didn’t die on the spot from the hate-filled looks you gave him.”
Nicholas felt all the old anger resurface at her words, kindling the white-hot rage that tainted his memories of his mother. He could hardly beat an old woman, no matter how much she irritated him.
But he didn’t have to listen to her impudence, either. “Watch your tongue, you old besom. I’ll not have my mother insulted. Especially under my own roof.”
“It’s no insult to speak the truth, boy. Didn’t your father teach you that?” She bent to pick up the bundle she’d dropped when she fell into the room. “Like as not he didn’t,” she added, her voice muffled as she gathered the armful of material close to her chest. “Lord Robert wouldn’t have recognized the truth if it came up and bit him on the backside.”
Folding his arms, Nicholas leaned back against the door frame, scowling when he saw the look of interest on Catrin’s face. But the sight of her in such delightful disarray swiftly distracted him. Although she’d tugged the linen high around her neck, hiding the glorious skin he’d caressed such a short time earlier, her hair flowed in a tousled ebony cascade over her shoulder, framing her beauty. And her lips were rosy and full, reminding him of how soft they’d been beneath his.
“State your business and begone,” he growled without looking at the old woman. Instead he kept his gaze fixed on Catrin, enjoying the flush sweeping up her throat and over her face.
“Aye, you’re like your father,” the crone said, chuckling. She poked him in the gut with her elbow, drawing his attention from Catrin. “An eye for the ladies, and impatient with it.”
That description fit his father, at least after his mother’s death. “You knew my father well?” he asked, trying for a tone of casual interest.
“So you really don’t remember me. Ah, well, you were a very angry little boy. Besides, too much happened when you came here for you to take any notice of me.” She heaved a gusty sigh. “I was your father’s nurse,” she said with pride. “Anna’s my name. I took care of Lord Robert from the moment the midwife swaddled him until he took up with that slut.”
“You try my patience, woman,” he snarled, thinking longingly of tossing her out of the room.
“Enough, milord. Peace,” she sai
d. She backed away, hands raised in supplication. “Old habits die hard.”
“What the hell do you want from me?” he asked. He pushed off from the door frame and moved to stand by the fire. “I don’t care to talk about the past. And I’m sure you could better occupy yourself elsewhere.”
“Is this how you treat your elders, boy? I came here to care for your lady.” She held her bundle in front of her like a shield. “I brought my balms and potions. Tildy said she carries some nasty wounds on her.”
Scowling, Nicholas watched as Anna placed the parcel on the bed and spread open the fabric to reveal a variety of smaller bundles and packets. Squinting mightily, her faded eyes nearly lost within her wrinkled face, she turned to scrutinize Catrin as thoroughly as she’d examined him, though he’d wager she found Catrin more to her liking.
Her sunken mouth twisted into a smile of sorts as she shuffled over to Catrin’s chair. “You’re a pretty one,” she said. “By your leave, milady.” She brushed Catrin’s hair aside and pushed the linen towel down to expose the wounds.
Humming absently, Anna unwrapped the bandages, her hands far gentler than when she’d touched him. “Bring the candles closer,” she ordered, her attention on Catrin’s back.
Nicholas positioned the candles beside Catrin, as Anna directed. She inspected the wounds thoroughly, frowning as she traced her fingertip along several faint, reddish streaks. She prodded gently at the stitches. “Who set these?”
“I did,” Nicholas said, nearly shuddering in remembrance. It wasn’t an experience he’d care to repeat—ever. “There were three arrows. I cut them out. One was embedded to the barbs. But I didn’t have much to work with, and the wounds mortified.”
Catrin winced when Anna continued to probe the area. Her face had paled considerably by the time Anna stopped and touched her soothingly on the shoulder.
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