‘The water is ready, my lady,’ she announced quietly. ‘Shall I help you with your clothes?’
Cecily rose unsteadily from the chair, a wave of nausea passing through her belly. Had she eaten too much or too little in the great hall? Her memory of the evening seemed obliterated, except for...except for the moment when Lachlan said he would marry her. Her head lolled, as if iron weights had been attached to the nape of her neck. She stared down ruefully at the hem of her filthy skirts.
‘I will take your clothes and have them washed, mistress. With all the fires going in the kitchen, they will be dry by morning. I can fetch a nightgown for you to wear now.’
‘I have a leather satchel with some possessions in,’ Cecily explained. ‘The bag is down in the great hall, with my cloak.’ She removed her circlet and veil and laid them on the end of the bed.
‘I will have them fetched for you,’ Hester said. ‘Now, shall I help you with your gown?’
Between them, they undid the side-lacings of Cecily’s over-gown, Hester lifting the gown over Cecily’s head. The fabric collapsed in a muddy purple heap on the floor, the spiralling silver embroidery twinkling in the candlelight. Hester worked on the tiny buttons securing the sleeves on Cecily’s lilac underdress. When, at last they flapped free, Cecily managed to pull the looser garment over her head without help.
‘Thank you, Hester,’ Cecily said as she stood before the maidservant in her chemise and stockings. She had already removed her wet leather boots and noticed that Hester had placed them beneath the charcoal brazier, in the hope that they would dry out overnight. ‘You can go now, if you like. Or has the King told you to stay?’
Hester dipped her head slightly. ‘The King gave me no orders, my lady, other than to help you, but...’ The smooth skin on her forehead puckered with worry.
‘Say what you want to say, please,’ Cecily encouraged her softly. She wiggled her feet in her damp stockings, watching the steam float out languidly from the edges of the tapestry screen.
‘Forgive me if I seem outspoken, my lady, but I would not like to leave you alone in this chamber while you take a bath. Not with those men outside in the corridor. You cannot secure the door from the inside and they are free to walk in at any time. They have the key...’
Cecily held up her hand. ‘Then stay, Hester. I would like you to.’
The woman beamed. ‘I shall sit by the door, my lady, and guard your privacy.’
* * *
Once behind the screen, Cecily quickly removed her chemise, undergarments and stockings and climbed into the wooden tub. She released her hair, unpinning her bun, and shaking out her plaits into long, curling tresses that brushed against the curve of her hips. As the hot water closed over her shoulders, she gasped at the sweet sensation, at the silky liquid caress that eased the tension in her aching limbs. She shuddered, a deep, rippling vibration that started at the tips of her freezing toes and worked its way up her body. Bringing her knees up, she sank even lower, her loosened hair floating out on the water, like silky seaweed.
Leaning her head back against the wooden brim, she traced the colourful images in the tapestry screen that shielded her from the main part of the chamber. The scene was of a forest, depicting trees and elaborate foliage, with wild mythical beasts roaming along in the foreground. The detail was exquisite, with every image, down to the last tiny acorn at the bottom of the screen executed in the finest needlework. She remembered her sister, her mother, with their heads bent over the tapestry frames at home, then in the solar chamber at Okeforde Castle. In her mind’s eyes, the scene appeared to be one of cosy domesticity, yet she knew she was lying to herself. Every day had been riven through with tension, her mother’s barbed comments and dark looks. How she wished it could have been otherwise. Maybe one day she would see them again. After she had married Lachlan.
After she had married Lachlan.
Closing her eyes, she sank down further into the water. In order to protect her skin from catching any splinters from the wooden sides, the bath was lined with a large piece of linen, and, as she leaned her head back against the brim, her neck was cushioned by the fabric. A deep frown furrowed her brow, a sense of loss and shame. Lachlan had offered to marry her, why, she had no idea, other than a misguided sense of responsibility, because she was a problem to be solved rather than the fact that she was someone he wanted to be with.
Yet she wanted to be with him.
Her eyes popped open. He had looked after her in this last few days, there was no denying that. He had chosen not to reveal her deception to Simon and had offered to escort her to the King so she had not been at the mercy of Lord Simon’s knights. She had grown used to that wonderful feeling of protection, of being cared for. She had forgotten what it was like to be alone.
Cecily shifted in the bath. The water sloshed against the sides, a soft gurgling sound. Exhaustion clogged her brain, making it sluggish, unresponsive. On the brink of sleep, her head rolled to one side and she nudged it upright again. Forcing her eyes open, she scrubbed her arms furiously with the linen flannel and white bar of honeyed soap left by Hester on a circular wooden stool by the tub. After she had rubbed every inch of her body with the flannel, rinsed all the dirt and sweat from her skin, she turned her attention to her hair, sinking down into the deep water to wet her long tresses. Bobbing up once more she lathered the sweet-smelling soap through her hair, then slid down again to rinse it.
‘My lady?’
Hester’s voice made her jump. Her fingers skittered across the rapidly cooling water, causing an eruption of little ripples across the surface. She twisted her head. Hester poked her head around the side of the tapestry screen. One end of her linen head-wrap had come loose; a bright strand of blonde hair curled down in front of her ear.
‘Shall I help you out, my lady? The water must be cold by now.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
With Hester holding on to her arm, Cecily stepped over the high-sided wooden tub and out on to the sheepskin rug that protected her bare feet from the cold wooden floorboards. Her naked skin gleamed in the candlelight, the water sluicing down her toned limbs. Hester wrapped a large linen towel around her and used another towel to dry Cecily’s hair, patting the long tresses gently to soak up most of the water.
‘If you sit on this stool near the brazier, my lady, then I can comb your hair for you.’
Cecily scooped up the towel around her naked skin and settled on to the low wooden stool. She wiggled her bare toes into the soft sheepskin. Lit by a couple of candles set into wall niches, the area behind the tapestry screen was warm and cosy, the charcoal brazier throwing off a delicious heat. She tipped her head back as Hester pulled a comb through her wet locks, her fingers deft and gentle.
‘I can braid it for you, mistress, when it is drier,’ Hester said. There was a sharp rap at the door. ‘That will be your satchel from the great hall, my lady. I sent someone to fetch it for you.’ She disappeared around the screen.
Cecily heard the click of the latch and Hester’s lilting tones, speaking to whoever was in the corridor. The words were muffled, difficult to decipher. Her wet hair was draped over her ears and the spitting coals in the brazier obscured most sound. All Cecily could hear were the high-pitched notes of Hester’s voice against the low rumble of a servant in the corridor. Then she heard the door close once more, and the heavy key clunk round noisily in the lock. She smiled, thinking of the maidservant ordering the guards outside to give her that key.
‘Was it my bag, Hester?’ she called, dabbing a trickle of water away from her cheek with a corner of the towel. Rising from the stool, Cecily flapped the towel open so that she could wrap it around herself more securely. She moved around the screen.
Hester was not there.
Lachlan stood by the door, clutching her leather satchel. The bag looked incongruous in his large, sinewy hands—too small, too feminine to be carried
by such a man. He was a warrior and a fighter, not a carrier of bags. His eyes fell on her slim, scantily clad figure; roamed the luscious curves greedily: the concave belly, smooth with a pearl-like lustre, the enticing curve of her breast. She flipped the towel briskly across her naked flesh, angling her jaw up at him in question.
‘Why are you here?’ Cecily hung back, half-hidden by the screen.
‘I...’ Lachlan trawled his mind to find something, anything appropriate to say, but the words had vanished from his brain. His head was empty, bereft of coherent speech. He sucked in his breath; tried again. ‘I brought...your satchel,’ he croaked out. ‘I thought you might need it.’
Cecily stood poised, a startled deer about to run. Her eyes were huge, great shimmering discs of green dominating her face. The large towel draped over her; she gripped it fiercely to her throat, her knuckles white. And yet it was not enough. Further down, the fragile edges gaped dangerously, affording him tantalising glimpses of her soft, rounded thighs; the neat indent of her knee. The elegant bones of her ankle. Christ, she was perfect.
Heat thumped through him; sweat slicked the back of his neck, his scalp. His senses snapped, thrust him up to a stark, vivid awareness. The air changed, knife-sharp, a quivering tension. He wolfed down her beauty, a starving man, searching the shadows beneath her towel. Pinned to the spot, incapable of stopping himself. What had seemed in the great hall like a simple act of kindness, taking Cecily’s satchel upstairs because he thought she might need something, had now become a hazardous mission. Why had he not just handed the bag over to the maid at the door, instead of sending her and the guards downstairs for their supper? What a stupid mistake.
He should leave, he told himself. Get out, now.
‘Lachlan...’ Cecily hesitated, as if unsure about moving from the relative safety of the screen. Her glorious hair, the colour of a fawn’s pelt, straggled around her in loose curling waves, dropping to her hips. Like the first day when he had met her, down by the river. Her skin was damp, gleaming from her bath, lit by the flickering candles. He traced the curve of her neck, the rapid pulse at her throat.
Lachlan cleared his throat, a wave of heat coursing through his muscular body. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out the bag towards her, unwilling to move from the door.
‘Thank you.’ Cecily’s voice was quiet, muted. His eye fell upon the hollow at her throat, the sparkling residue of water polishing her skin. She stepped forward to take the satchel.
No, no, go back! His belly clenched with desire, a burgeoning heat, slowly building. He retreated with a quick step, his shoulder hitting the door.
Cecily glanced at him, a rosy colour staining her cheeks. ‘Lachlan, I need to talk to you about...what happened down there. In the great hall.’
‘Now is not a good time.’ His eyes fell to the cleft on her chest and, sweet Jesu, the tantalising curve of one breast, peeking out from beneath the towel.
‘But you’ll want to hear this,’ Cecily said eagerly, stepping closer to him. His heels bumped against the locked door.
‘Later,’ he ground out. Shock ran through his body, a swift, zig-zagging jolt that whipped through him like wildfire. Cecily stood inches from him, her beautiful body clad only in the gauzy woven linen, her bare toes, like small pink shells, peeking out from the flowing sweep of fabric, magnificent hair snaking down in glossy rivulets, hair that he wanted to bury his...
‘So what do you think...?’
‘Wh-what...?’ he spluttered, dragging his eyes up to her face. Had she been speaking? ‘Christ, woman, will you please cover yourself!’ Exasperated, he lurched for the towel, intending to drag it across her naked flesh, in a desperate attempt to hide the shadowy delights that lay beneath.
His knuckle grazed her flesh. Her skin held the patina of velvet, smooth and cool. Sweetly seductive.
Cecily gasped beneath his touch, her mouth dropping open in surprise; he could see her small white teeth, neat and even, the silky roll of her tongue. Desire stabbed his heart, tore at his muscles, twisting them slowly, ever tighter. Her eyes shimmered, translucent emeralds fringed by dark lashes. She tipped her head to one side as if bemused by his behaviour.
Did she have no idea of the effect she was having on him? The candle shone out from the bedside, shining through the linen that she had wrapped around her, highlighting the soft curves of her body: the neat indent of her waist, the flaring curve of her hips.
He thought he would go mad. Air whistled from his lungs. He gritted his teeth, pivoting smartly to face the door, his fingers clawing desperately at the key to unlock it. He had taken the key from the guards and locked the chamber from the inside in order to maintain Cecily’s privacy. What a fool he had been.
She touched his arm, stalling him. ‘Why will you not talk to me?’
He heard the plaintive note in her voice, the rejection. The key slipped from his sweating fingers, spinning across the floor boards. ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Lachlan thumped on the door, leaning his forehead against the cool wood. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily. Where was his self-control, the restraint that he prided himself on? Where was it now, when he needed it the most?
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Cecily, her eye travelling across the breadth of his shoulders, his bent head. She gazed at the dried matted blood on his hair, marking the place where he had been hit. ‘Are you ill? Is your head paining you?’
‘Nay, Cecily, I’m not ill.’ Despair tugged at his voice.
‘Then why will you not talk to me?’ She knotted her fingers together in front of her stomach, shivering a little in the cooler air of the chamber; it had been warmer behind the tapestry screen with the brazier burning.
Lachlan turned back, bracing his spine, his legs against the solid oak door. ‘Do you really have no idea?’ His speech was weary, teetering on a precipice.
She shook her head.
‘I’m trying to protect you, Cecily.’
‘Protect me? From what?’
‘Oh, God in Heaven!’ Lachlan growled. ‘From me, Cecily. From me.’
A single drop of water trailed down from her ear to the hollow of her throat. He tracked the glistening orb with his eyes, instinct guiding his finger to stop its downward path. Lust flickered beneath the dark crust of his conscience, a banked-up fire that burst forth with ravening thirst. He moved his finger slowly upwards, savouring the satin lustre of her skin, up, up, until he reached the softest spot, beneath her chin. His fingers lifted away, wrapped around her jaw.
Her breath pulled in, swift and fierce. A keening sigh, heavy with need, with longing. Her head tilted, wanting his touch. Wanting more. She would not say a word. She would not stop him.
His jaw hardened. ‘Forgive me,’ he whispered, ‘for what is about to happen.’
Chapter Thirteen
He grabbed a handful of the lightweight towel, tugging her forward sharply. Her slender frame jammed hard against his frame. Belly to belly, chest to chest. A delicious scent rose from her heated skin—lavender—reminding him of the sun-bathed hills of summer. His mouth lowered, lips seizing hers, claiming them in a heady, plundering kiss. His strong arms locked around her, winching her into him, closer and closer. Lust rolled through him, deep and visceral, an unstoppable tide of desire.
Her legs collapsed as she bent into him, arching her slight, graceful figure, fitting herself against him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Conscious logical thought, the rights and the wrongs of what she was doing, were swept clean from her mind, shocked by the swift, demanding contact of his mouth. Why did she not shove him away, shout and scream for someone to come and help her? Pushed away by her greedy need for him, her self-control had fled. Shame fluttered on the edge of her consciousness. She ignored it.
Arms locked around her waist, Lachlan lifted her slightly, backing towards the bed, his big legs knocking against the base board before they fell together, as one
. The dark sable pelt engulfed their twined figures, pillowing their limbs. His mouth claimed hers once more, tracking along her lips, demanding more.
Her limbs melted into his burly frame, her hand running over the rounded muscle of his shoulder, marvelling at the solid power beneath her fingers, the honed ripple of muscle beneath his linen sleeve. Her hand moved up his corded neck to his hair, plunging into his fiery curls. His scalp was hot against her fingers; he groaned at the gentle, sifting touch.
He wrenched his lips from hers, panting heavily. ‘There is only one way this is going to end, Cecily, unless you stop me now.’ His eyes, midnight pools of flickering desire, sought hers, imploring.
‘I will not.’
‘Do you realise what is going to happen?’ His hands framed the perfect oval of her face. Her skin was pale, like cool marble; her damp, beautiful hair spread out on the bed furs around her. Like a mermaid, he thought. A wild nymph of the sea who had cast a spell over him.
‘Aye, I do,’ Cecily replied quietly.
‘God in Heaven.’ Lachlan blinked, shocked, astounded by her response. Desire barged into him like a physical force, all-consuming: a surging fire, claiming his body as if it were not his own.
Cecily shuddered as his lips claimed hers once more, but it was a shudder of delight, not fear. She did not fear him; she wanted this with all her heart. His hands roamed down her back, down to the flaring curve of her hips; she gasped at the intimacy of his touch as he winched her ever closer to him. The edges of the towel fell away; she lay naked before him. A voice of warning chattered in her brain, like a baby bird, but she dashed away the omens, sent them skittering back to the shadows. She cared not. The worry and regrets would come later, but right now, all she wanted was to lie with him, with this man who had come to mean so much to her over the past few days.
Lachlan tore impatiently at his clothes, flinging them haphazardly to the floor. The candle in the wall sconce jumped and flickered, kissing his muscled skin, the shadowy curve of his big shoulders, the sculptured ridging of his chest. He reached out for Cecily and they rolled together on the bed furs, flesh against flesh.
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