Knights of de Ware 01 - My Champion

by Glynnis Campbell

  Linet ground her teeth and swore for the hundredth time that she’d turn Margaret out of the house—no matter that the old woman had been in her father’s employ for over twenty years. She stomped down the stairs in her velvet slippers and linen underdress, tossing her unbound hair over her shoulder. She’d already half undressed for bed by the time Margaret won the battle. She saw no reason to ruin a perfectly good surcoat with the splashes of a careless bather. So she hadn’t bothered to dress again.

  It was an outrage, this bathing of strangers, she thought as she stormed down the steps—an archaic, stupid practice that her father had never once required of her. And now she was going to be performing the dubious honor for a commoner.

  She hit the bottom step and froze. The tub was already brimming with steamy water. A large linen towel was slung over the beggar’s shoulder, and he was whistling. While she watched, he unstoppered the bottle of sweet woodruff, sniffed at it, and then dumped its entire contents into the tub.

  She gasped. Woodruff petals weren’t cheap. She rushed forward and grabbed the bottle from him. Dear God, she thought, this wasn’t going to work. She still loved him, aye, and still desired to be his wife, but this deception in her own household was proving too much of a strain for her.

  “Tomorrow,” she told him in a harried voice, “I’m afraid we must find you other lodging.”

  “Must we?” He seemed amused.

  “You deceived my servants. When they discover you’re not Sir Duncan de Ware—“

  “And how will they discover that?”

  She pressed her fingers to her throbbing temples. “You can’t go on pretending to be a nobleman when—”

  “My performance is flawed?” He frowned in concern.

  She groaned. “Your performance is… is…”

  “Not up to the standard of nobility?” he asked bleakly.

  “Nay,” she replied, confused. “I mean, aye, but—”

  “But your servants may suspect,” he ventured.

  “Nay, it’s not that at all,” she answered, scowling. “They’re convinced. They’re thoroughly convinced.”

  “Ah. I think I see,” he said brightly. “Are you afraid that you may give me away, not having the experience I have as a player?”

  Linet looked at him as if he’d fallen from the moon. How could anyone so misunderstand her?

  “Don’t worry. I’ll help you,” he declared enthusiastically. “I’ve seen dozens of baths given to nobles. I shall be happy to instruct you.”

  Linet couldn’t for the life of her figure out how the beggar goaded her into it, but not a quarter of an hour later, his clothing was draped over the screen, and she was wringing out a linen cloth, sponging his back for him as if he were the king himself.

  After she ran out of curses to whisper under her breath, she ladled water up over his shoulders at his behest, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to ignore both his lordly air and what lay beneath the surface of the water.

  As he leaned forward so she could wash his back, it was difficult not to notice the muscled contours of his body. When his arms flexed, they seemed as thick and strong as oak limbs. She remembered how those arms felt in her grasp, how her hand couldn’t even reach halfway around the bulging muscle there.

  Suddenly her knees felt weak, and her heart began to thump erratically. She took a deep breath to clear her mind and lathered the soap into Duncan’s thick hair. She scrubbed vigorously, hoping to dispel her wayward thoughts, muttering all the while about what a spoiled child he was.

  The beggar sighed elegantly. “I may reconsider your marriage proposal, Linet. I could grow accustomed to having a bath such as this every night.”

  Whether it was his insufferable arrogance or the way her body was playing traitor to her, Linet didn’t know. But she’d had enough. Before she could even think about what she was doing, she reached for one of the buckets of cold water and poured it over Duncan’s lathered head.

  He inhaled sharply. Linet dropped the bucket with a loud crash and backed away in disbelief at what she’d done. The beggar shivered once and shook his head like a wolf coming from the stream. Then he turned and fixed her with eyes that took on a lupine gleam.

  “Margaret,” Linet mouthed silently, then prepared to scream the word.

  His gaze was unwavering. “Do you really want Margaret to know what you just did to Sir Duncan de Ware?”

  “It was…an accident.”

  He smirked slowly at her. “Aye, well, one never knows what accidents may occur in the bath, does one?”

  With that, he rose up out of the tub in all his naked glory, and for one moment, the only sound in the room was the ominous dripping of water as it rolled slowly off his body and back into the bath.

  CHAPTER 20

  The beggar took one step from the tub. Linet cowered back, bumping the screen. He towered over her, his body strong and dark and blatantly male. He took a second step just in time to grab her upper arm, preventing her from toppling the screen completely over.

  She squirmed in his grasp, unable to do much more than spit quiet curses at him and pry at his fingers with her other hand. His head lowered to hers, and she leaned away from the wicked glint in his eyes. With his free hand, he scooped up the linen rag from the tub, dipped it into a cold bucket, and brought it near. Her eyes widened as she saw what he meant to do.

  He let it drip in a tiny, icy stream down the neckline of her kirtle. She squealed. Then he squeezed his fist, and water gushed onto her bosom, spilling down over her breasts. She jolted with the shock of both the chill and what he’d dared.

  He clucked his tongue. “Another accident,” he murmured, laying the rag across a chair and lowering his gaze languorously to the front of her gown.

  She fought to breathe. Her kirtle was soaked now. The damp linen clung to her breasts like a second skin. She could feel their peaks stiffening in protest of the cold water. The cad released her arm then, stepping back as if to admire the view.

  Linet wasn’t about to surrender the battle. She snatched another bucket from the floor, and before the beggar had time to duck, she flung its contents directly into his smirking face. The smirk vanished.

  “You little vixen,” he sputtered.

  The bucket hit the floor with a loud thunk, and Linet clapped her hands over her mouth, certain Margaret would come bustling down any minute. He tossed his dripping hair back from his face, spattering her in the process.

  “So it’s to be war, is it?” he growled.

  For reply, she snatched up the wet rag from the chair and smacked it across his chest, where it stuck for a moment, then plopped to the floor. He made a grab for her, but she ducked away with a giggle, scuttling around to the opposite side of the tub.

  Duncan chuckled. He hadn’t had so much fun since he and Holden had loosed frogs in Lady Alyce’s solar as boys. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. In wet linen, Linet looked like some bare-breasted Siren emerging from the water with mischief on her mind, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the chase.

  He advanced with cool stealth. She made a slight retreat, but her narrowed eyes told him she was confident that with the tub between them he couldn’t reach her. He stared at her a long while. Then he curved his lips into a secret smile.

  God, he adored her. This was the woman he wanted for wife. The thought warmed him to the core. He watched the excited rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, the quick pulse beating in a vein at her neck. There was no doubt in his mind. This was the woman he wanted by his side for the rest of his days—the woman who dared fling insults in a sea reiver’s face, the woman who could be taught to milk a cow, the woman who conformed to his body like chain mail, who challenged him over a bathtub as if it were a battlefield.

  She watched him with wary amusement, ready to spring should he dart around one end of the tub or the other. He did neither. With a sly grin, he bent forward, dipped his hands into the water, and proceeded to bombard her with great splashes until she shrieked
at him to cease.

  Surely she’d surrender now, he thought. She was drenched from head to toe. Her kirtle and hair were studded with dried flowers from the bath. She looked as pitiful and helpless as a soaking wet kitten.

  But the clever vixen used his false assumption to her advantage. With a scheming sparkle in her eyes and a low, devious chuckle, she grabbed up whatever rags she could find and began dipping them in the bath, rapidly firing them at him with alacrity and skill.

  Laughing, he ducked out of the way a few times, deflected one rag with his arm, and then received one full in the face.

  Linet crowed in victory.

  Growling like a wolf pup, Duncan rounded the corner of the tub and almost laid hands on his attacker. But the flagstones were slippery with spilled water. His feet went out from under him. With a dull thud, he landed hard on his hindquarters.

  Linet gave a great whoop as she watched her foe fall, dodging out of his way. Unfortunately, her triumph was short-lived. The stones were just as wet where she was, and her drenched slippers betrayed her. One hand caught at the screen as she slid and slammed painfully onto her backside. The sections of the screen listed dangerously for an interminable moment, and then crashed to the stones with a powerful bang in a cloud of plaster dust and ashes. Rubbing her bruised bottom, Linet coughed in the settling dust.

  “Now look what you’ve done!” she half-whispered, half-giggled in panic as she surveyed the damage. She glanced nervously at her chamber door. Surely Margaret would come stomping out any moment. The old woman slept so lightly, she swore Margaret could hear a spider spinning a web in the next room.

  He grinned. “What I’ve done?” He winced as he lifted his hips from the flagstone floor. “I seem to recall that it was you who struck the first blow.”

  “Well, if you hadn’t been so damned condescending in the first place, ordering me about and—”

  He laughed. “Condescending?” He came to his feet and wrapped a large wet linen square around his waist. “Well, isn’t that what you expect from a nobleman? I thought I played my part rather well.”

  “Rather too well,” she said, trying to maintain her decorum as she struggled to her feet. “Don’t imagine you can enjoy the privileges of nobility simply because you’ve slipped the bloodlines on like some costume.”

  “Why not?” he challenged her. “Why shouldn’t I enjoy the same comforts as my fellow men?”

  “Because you’re…you’re not…”

  “Worthy?”

  Linet bit her lip and searched the wet flagstones.

  “Then why do you want to marry me?” he whispered.

  “I told you.”

  He shook his head. “You could find another man, a nobleman, one who would overlook your past indiscretion.”

  Linet pursed her lips. “Perhaps I will.”

  “Nay, you won’t,” he told her in a voice as smooth as honeyed wine.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because there’s a bond between us.”

  Linet froze. Those had been her very thoughts, as much as she wanted to shut them out. But she could hardly admit it to herself, let alone the beggar. How could she possibly explain that no matter what his birthright, no matter how little coin or hope of coin he had, no matter how coarse his manners were, in her heart she knew he was as good a man as her father had ever been? How could she reconcile the fact that she’d fallen in love with a commoner? Yet how could she even imagine sharing the sacrament of lovemaking with anyone else?

  Duncan could feel the current between them even now as she stood shivering before him—beautiful, vulnerable, angelic. She reminded him of a lost, wretched orphan he’d once brought in from the rain. The little girl, he’d set by the fire in the great hall so she could warm her feet. He had other ideas about warming Linet.

  The pale linen of her kirtle left nothing to his imagination, from the rosy hue of her nipples to the narrow column of her waist. The wet fabric clung and caught between her legs, and his heart quickened as he remembered the softness there.

  Linet felt his eyes upon her as if they touched her. The damp cloth covering him couldn’t hide the evidence of his budding desire. Suddenly she felt unguarded. She wrapped one arm protectively about her waist and trained her eyes on the tub. The water there still sloshed back and forth in a lulling, sensual motion.

  “You want me,” he murmured. “We both know that.”

  Her breath caught at his frankness, but she couldn’t deny the truth.

  “But I won’t marry a woman,” he continued, “who thinks I’m beneath her.”

  “I don’t…” she began, and then she realized that was exactly what she thought. She wanted to marry him, but she still considered him beneath her. She still believed it was a sacrifice she was making.

  His eyes raked worshipfully down her body. She nervously licked her lower lip.

  “You’re not helping matters,” she said haltingly. “No true gentleman would look at a woman…the way you do.”

  One side of his mouth curved up. “How would a gentleman look at a woman?”

  She swallowed. “With respect. With honor.”

  “But, my lady, I do respect you,” he assured her, humbly bowing his head, “and I intend to honor your wishes.”

  That was what she was afraid of. Lord, he looked so dangerously compelling with his wet hair slicked back off his forehead and his mesmerizing blue eyes trained on her like a wolf’s on its prey.

  He came closer, and she fought off the insane urge to flee. What was wrong with her? She acted as if she were about to be devoured. She was in her own home, damn it, she who had bullied dyemakers and battled reivers.

  “What words would a gentleman use?” he asked quietly. “Would he tell you your lips are as ripe and sweet and inviting as cherries?”

  Linet felt the blood rise in her cheeks.

  “Would a gentleman tell you,” he murmured, “that your skin looks as delicious as warm cream? That your breasts—”

  “Nay!” Linet cried out to stop him. “Gentlemen don’t say such…brazen things.”

  He gave her an amused frown. “You’ve never been to Court, have you, my lady?”

  She straightened defensively. “Not yet.”

  “I have,” he told her, moving ever so slowly closer to her, “and do you know, the noblemen are no better than commoners?”

  Linet felt the warmth of his aura press in on her, even though he was still a good yard away. “You’ve never been to Court,” she accused hoarsely.

  “Players perform for royalty all the time,” was his evasive reply.

  He was so close she could sense the dampness of his body.

  “The men at Court,” he told her, “are just as driven by their animal instincts as the men aboard the Corona Negra. They’re just as lusty, just as blunt, just as bold.”

  He was close enough for her to see the azure and indigo flecks in his eyes.

  “The women at Court,” he breathed, “are every bit as passionate as the women in the marketplace. Once they’ve shed their gowns, their flesh is much the same, willing and soft, their legs trembling, their breasts sweet—”

  “Stop!” Linet hissed. Lord, her body was responding to his words as if they were caresses. She really should cuff him for such vulgar speech.

  “Sheathe your claws, kitten,” he whispered, reading her thoughts. “It isn’t me you fear, but yourself.”

  Linet stared at the hollow of his throat, unable to meet his eyes. It wasn’t the first time he’d told her that. Slowly she unclenched her fists. Was it true? Was she only afraid of the way her body responded to him, of the way her control abandoned her when he was near?

  He brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles. She closed her eyes languidly. He traced her lips with a finger. She parted them, her breath quick and shallow. He circled the shell of her ear with his thumb, stroking the sensitive place beneath it.

  “You want me now, don’t you?” he murmured. “Whether I’m a noble
or a peasant.”

  It was useless to argue with him while his breath was sweet and warm upon her face. She moaned softly.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me I’m as worthy as any noble. Tell me I deserve you.” There was strain in his eyes, as if everything depended on her answer to his question.

  She swallowed hard and finally saw him as he was. A man. A man with dreams like any other man. A man with a heart that could swell with love or break in despair. A man with eyes the color of a summer sky, eyes full of wisdom and delight and all the devotion a woman could ever desire in a lifetime. A man with a soul assigned neither by king nor country, but by God alone, who measured souls by their goodness and not their birthright. Who was she, then, to judge him?

  Breathless with discovery, she gazed at him forthrightly, past his tormented eyes and into the heart of his being, and spoke the words he longed to hear. “It doesn’t matter who you are. You’re as worthy as any noble. You’re deserving of my love. And I’m yours, if you’ll have me.” Then she astonished them both by flinging her arms about his neck and kissing him for all she was worth.

  A wave of desire caught Duncan unawares and nearly collapsed him in its wake. Joy bloomed in his chest at her confession, and rational thought deserted him. Her lips were like fire branding him, and the way she clung to him, her body molding erotically to his, sucked the breath from his lungs.

  Gone were his restrained intentions. Gone was his iron control. All he wanted was her. Now.

  She cleaved to him like a wild, desperate animal. She tangled her fingers in his wet hair, devouring him with her lips and teeth and tongue. Her hands roved across the muscles of his shoulders and chest, and she pressed wantonly against him with her hips.

  Lord, he didn’t even know what he was doing with his hands. They’d wrapped around her back, holding on for dear life. He’d have laughed at his own sudden ineptitude if it weren’t for the fact that Linet’s hand had dropped to his waist and was scrabbling at the linen towel.