“Well, I’m going to use it now.”
“’Tisn’t fair!”
He didn’t feel like arguing the absurdity of a tiny lass expropriating his huge bed while he lay cramped on a small pallet by the fire.
“The only way you’re sleeping in that bed,” he whispered wickedly, “is if you’re sharing it with me.”
With a gasp of disgust, she tucked in her arms and legs so he could carry her through the doorway.
But when they reached the hearth, she eyed the pallet, muttering, “I’ll wager it’s hard as a rock and full of burrs.”
His patience at an end, he abruptly dropped her onto the mattress, eliciting from her a squeak of shock. Then he shrugged. “Seems soft enough.” While she sputtered in outrage, he gave her a smirk and a gentlemanly salute. “Good night.”
The pallet was more comfortable than Desirée expected. Indeed, aside from his own goose-down mattress, it was more comfortable than anything she’d slept on her entire life. She fell soundly asleep in moments, and when she woke the next morn, she was startled to realize she’d slept through Nicholas’s departure.
She wondered where he’d gone. Probably off to a neighboring village to torture some unfortunate soul. She hoped he’d remember to purchase the things on her list before he returned. Since she didn’t intend to burn her own supper again, she’d need a few spices to make the fare palatable.
But when she sat up and glanced at the table, she saw he’d left the parchment there. And when she rose with a frown to retrieve it, she discovered he’d scrawled a list of his own on the back side.
“Feed cat. Dust away cobwebs. Launder and dry clothing and linens. Sweep floor. Scrub walls. Cook supper. Home late.”
Ire simmered in her veins. How dare the brute issue commands as if she were his lowly maidservant!
She pursed her lips. Damn it all, she was his maidservant.
“Piss!”
She crumpled the parchment in her fist and dropped it onto the floor. Snowflake trotted over to sniff at it, then looked up expectantly, as if alerting her to the “feed cat” on the list.
“Aye. Aye. I will.”
She ignored his nagging meows long enough to wash her face and weave her hair into a braid, then sliced off a bit of bacon for the cat and slathered butter on a bit of bread to break her own fast.
And then she sat, drumming her idle fingers on the tabletop. Nicholas Grimshaw might have blackmailed her into becoming his servant, but that didn’t mean she had to be an obedient servant. She smiled grimly. She wasn’t about to let His Majesty’s list dictate her life.
In Desirée’s usual line of work, every hour of daylight presented an opportunity to wheedle coin out of some fool’s purse. Her food and lodging depended upon not wasting a single moment. But now, free of Hubert’s demands, with a roof over her head, a pallet by the fire, and food in the cupboard, all urgency was gone. It was a curious feeling to experience leisure for once in her life, and she had every intention of enjoying it to the hilt.
The first hour was pleasant. She watched the cat eat, gazed into the flickering fire, peered through the shutters at the cold world outside. She yawned with her mouth wide, stretched her arms over her head, ran a fingertip back and forth over a bump in the worn wood of the table. When she tired of sitting, she ambled about the room, examining in detail the stones of the hearth, the wood grain of the cutting block, the cracks in the plaster wall.
But by her fifth circuit, she was beginning to be bothered by the dense spiderweb woven between the keg of ale and the wall. It was interfering with her sense of peace. Snatching up a linen rag, she swiped away the tangled mess. With a nod of approval, she sauntered toward the hearth. Another web draped two stones a few feet from the ceiling. She wiped that away, as well. Indeed, she realized that in her circling of the room, she’d memorized the location of several spiderwebs. It was the work of a few moments to sweep them all away.
Then she could sit back down at the bench and enjoy her leisure.
That lasted another few moments. Until she realized how grimy the walls were. Those near the fire were the worst, blackened by soot. But there were other stains on the plaster, splashes of oil or ale or God knew what else. She supposed she could scrub them away, since there seemed to be nothing else of interest to do in the cottage.
Soon she found herself scouring the plaster and sweeping the floors, and when she picked up the crumpled list to move it out of the broom’s path, she gave it a casual glance to see what other things she might do to occupy her time.
Leisure, she quickly discovered, was more desirable in theory than in practice. For a woman accustomed to the rapid pace of picking pockets, outwitting fools, and dodging authorities, sitting alone in a cottage with a cat was deadly dull. As much as doing chores went against her intent to antagonize her captor, she supposed she owed him something for the night’s lodging.
Besides, she thought, arching a sly brow, just because she was doing his will didn’t mean she couldn’t take the opportunity to add her own personal touches to the chores.
It never occurred to Nicholas as he trudged home from his day in the Canterbury gaol that his new maidservant might not obey his commands. After all, no one dared gainsay Nicholas Grimshaw. Indeed, when he swung open the door to his cottage, pausing to stomp his muddy boots on the step, he saw what he expected to see. The walls were scrubbed clean, the floors were swept, and damp laundry was draped over ropes and poles placed strategically near the crackling fire.
What he didn’t anticipate was the horrible stench. The steam rising off of the shirts and braies and stockings perfumed the air with the cloying scent of roses. As he stepped through the door, the heavy perfume irritated his nose and he let out a great sneeze, startling Azrael into a hasty retreat to the bedchamber.
“What the devil?”
“Good evening, Nicky.”
He winced. She was stirring something over the fire for supper, but all he could smell were overwhelming floral fumes. She glanced up at his arrival, using her forearm to sweep the stray tendrils from her brow. She would have looked like the perfect portrait of a hard-working servant, but there was a glint of mischief in her pretty green eyes that gave her away.
“God’s blood. What have you done?” he demanded, shrugging the cloak from his shoulders.
“What do you mean?”
“Why does my cottage smell like a brothel?” He left the door open, hoping to disperse the noxious odor, but it didn’t prevent him from sneezing again.
“Bless you!” She wrinkled her brow in false concern. “Faith, are you getting a murrain?”
“What is that infernal stench?”
“’Tis only the laundry.” She left the hearth to cross to the table. “You commanded me to do it.” She put a distinct edge on the word “command,” then picked up the parchment he’d left, which had somehow become crumpled. “Aye, here ‘tis,” she read. “Launder and dry clothing and linens.”
“What did you launder them in—goat piss?”
“Rosewater.”
“Rose...” He ran a weary hand over his face. Surely the maid knew better. A shire-reeve couldn’t wear clothes reeking of roses. He grumbled under his breath.
“But if you like,” she added with coy innocence, “I could use goat piss next time.”
He ground his teeth. God’s eyes. He hadn’t even known he owned rosewater. Of course, he probably didn’t anymore. No doubt she’d used the entire bottle to perfume his clothing.
“Next time use the lye and fuller’s earth in the cupboard,” he bit out.
She shrugged and went to fetch a pair of clay flagons.
He set aside his heavy satchel of tools and unbelted his surcoat. His garments were soaked. He’d stood watch over the stocks for an hour today in the pouring rain. Out of habit, he pulled the sodden surcoat over his head and draped it over the bench, following it with his long linen shirt.
Desirée glanced up. Her face blanched, and she lost her grip on t
he flagons. They fell to the floor, shattering on the stones.
Bloody hell. He’d forgotten. He was accustomed to living alone, where a man could walk about half-naked with no one to offend but the cat.
He swept up his surcoat again, bunching it before him. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I—“
“Nay,” she said awkwardly, fixing her gaze elsewhere. “’Tis my fault.“
“I should have—“
“’Tis your house after all, and—“
“I’ll just...” With forced offhandedness, he tossed the surcoat aside again.
He moved toward her, with the intent of sidling past her to snag the first dry shirt he found. But the lass didn’t move out of his way. Indeed, she seemed rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed upon him, as if she’d never seen a man’s chest before.
Desirée could feel the color creeping into her cheeks, and there wasn’t a blessed thing she could do about it. Nor could she seem to tear her gaze away.
It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a man’s bare chest. She’d lived in close quarters with Hubert, and the old man hadn’t possessed an ounce of modesty. But then, Hubert hadn’t possessed an ounce of muscle, either. Now, looking upon Nicholas Grimshaw, she realized it was as if the two men were completely different animals.
Nicholas’s shoulders were broad, his chest massive, and his exposed arms bulged with muscle. His narrow abdomen was sculpted into smooth bands beneath his ribs. A sparse dusting of black hair connected his flat nipples and dipped to his recessed navel and below.
“If you’ll kindly...” he murmured.
Only then did she realize she was staring. Not that it stopped her from continuing to stare. But she managed to step aside to let him pass.
His back, too, as he reached for a clean garment, was a thing of beauty. Powerful muscles rippled outward from his spine and over his ribs as he lifted first one shirt, then another.
“Oh!” she suddenly realized. “They’re not dry. I’ve just hung them up.”
He turned back, and she gulped hard as his arm flexed with the motion. Sweet saints! Was that the massive shoulder atop which she’d ridden to the town square a week ago?
For an awkward moment, he looked as uncomfortable as she felt. He glanced at the hanging laundry. “That’s all of them, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
He made a frown of distaste. “I could put the wet shirt back on.”
“Nay! Nay.” She couldn’t ask him to do that. On the other hand, if she was forced to stare at his naked torso...
As if reading her mind, he crossed one arm over his chest to grip the opposite shoulder in a gesture that was curiously self-conscious. “I didn’t mean to...distract you.”
She met his gaze then and saw the smug glimmer forming in his eyes. The lout! He knew very well what effect he was having on her, and he was thoroughly enjoying her discomfiture.
She couldn’t have that.
“Don’t blush on my account,” she said nonchalantly, crouching to pick up the shards of pottery, a perfect excuse to avert her gaze and recover her wits. “You’ve nothing I haven’t seen before.”
That was an outright lie. She’d never seen a body so flawlessly sculpted. Apparently, administering floggings and dragging dishonest bakers through the street worked up a considerable set of muscles.
“Ah,” he said, though she could tell by his knowing grin that he didn’t believe her. “Well, if that’s so...” He took her at her word, and the way he casually strode through the room after that, dodging the maze of laundry to make his way to the keg of ale, she got the impression that, living alone, he prowled his house shirtless all the time.
Somehow she managed to keep her composure while she finished cooking the herring pottage, but it wasn’t easy. Nicholas kept...doing things. Like tossing his head back to finish his ale. And bending down to pet the cat. And bringing in a load of wood to add to the fire. Every movement he made displayed his sinewy perfection.
By the time Desirée brought supper to the table, her skin felt afire, and it wasn’t from working beside the hearth.
While he settled onto the bench, she picked up his cloak and draped it over the stones by the fire to dry. Then, taking a seat across from him at the table, she trained her gaze upon her trencher, using all her willpower to resist looking at his far too kindly endowed torso.
When the silence became too uncomfortable, Desirée mumbled, “How’s the pottage?”
“Tastes a bit...floral.”
Desirée hadn’t put rosewater in the stew, though that would have been a clever idea. But the odor permeating the cottage had definitely infused the pottage.
“Smoke,” he added.
“Smoke?”
“Smoke.” He rose partway off the bench.
She sniffed at her pottage. It didn’t smell particularly smoky to her. Then she noticed he was glaring at something over her head.
She turned to look. Something was smoldering on the hearth. By the time she got to her feet, he’d made his way around the table. The instant she realized it was one of his garments, she shot forward.
Flames flared up as she reached the hearth, and she thrust her hand forward, intending to snatch the garment from the fire.
“Nay!” he roared, batting her hand out of the way with a bruising blow.
Seizing the poker, he retrieved the cloth, dropped it on the stones, and stomped out the flames with his boot. When he lifted the singed cloth with a frown, she realized it was the charred edge of his black cloak.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
He sighed. “’Tisn’t completely ruined, I suppose.”
His tone irritated Desirée. Or maybe it was the scent of roses making her head throb. It wasn’t her fault if she’d been distracted and dropped the cloak too near the fire. She rubbed pointedly at her aching forearm.
“Did I hurt you?” He wrapped large fingers around her tender wrist.
She shrugged and pulled away. “I suppose I’ll grow accustomed to it. After all, most masters beat their servants.”
He gave her a withering glare. “I wasn’t beating you, wench. I was keeping you from burning yourself.”
“I wasn’t going to burn myself.”
He gave her a look that said he knew better.
“I wasn’t,” she insisted. But the truth was she’d been so distracted that she hadn’t even given it a second thought. Hell, what was wrong with her? She was no better than one of her targets, blinded by a comely face into bad judgment.
Embarrassed and vexed with herself, she wheeled about and stormed back to the table.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” he murmured, passing by her to return to his bench.
She glanced up at him in disbelief. An apology for inflicting pain from a man who tortured prisoners for a living?
She blew on a hot spoonful of pottage, changing the conversation to a safer subject. “Did you happen to purchase the items I requested today?”
“Some of them.”
She was surprised. She’d assumed, since he hadn’t even bothered to take the list, that he didn’t intend to fulfill any of her wishes. She waited for him to elaborate.
He shrugged. “Cinnamon. Cloves. Wine, but it’s French, not Spanish. An apron.”
They were the least expensive things on the list, but she was impressed that he’d bought anything at all. “And when will you be buying the balance of the list?”
He took a bite of pottage, swallowed, then told her, “Next week, when the king grants me my barony.”
That took her aback. She stopped midbite.
Then he arched a sardonic brow at her. The knave was jesting.
“Of course, I could always take the purchases out of your wages,” he offered.
Her frown deepened. If he did that, she’d be debt-bound to him forever and she’d never leave Canterbury.
He gave her a chiding smile. “I’m sure you’ll manage fine without beeswax candles and saffron.” He finished off his ale, then le
aned forward to murmur, “And after what you’ve done to my laundry today, I’m not about to supply you with lavender.”
He waggled his empty flagon. Flashing him an insincere grin, she snatched the cup and rose to refill it. Curse the varlet! Her strategy to drain his purse and irk him into releasing her wasn’t working as effectively as she’d hoped. She’d have to increase her efforts tomorrow.
She filled his flagon and made her way back to the table, narrowly dodging Snowflake, who darted in front of her on his flight to his master’s feet.
But as she leaned forward to set the cup before Nicholas, she made the mistake of glancing into his eyes. His gaze had drifted to her bosom, and the smoky glaze that rippled through his eyes and the slight flare of his nostrils betrayed his thoughts all too clearly.
Her breath caught, and the tiny sound startled him into lifting his gaze to hers. He quickly tempered the desire in his eyes, but not before she spied the heady, smoldering hunger there. Indeed, so caught off guard was she by its intensity, she completely missed the table when she set down his drink. The cup caught the edge, splashing ale all over his magnificent chest, then spilling into his lap, drenching him.
CHAPTER 9
Nicholas had never had his ardor cooled quite so literally. He gasped as the cold ale seeped into his braies, effectively dousing the fevered beast that had been roused beneath. On reflex, he half rose from the bench, but Desirée was already trying to repair the damage.
“Shite!” she hissed. “What the devil—”
“Never mind. ’Twas an accident.” Aye, an accident, just like Nicholas being momentarily distracted by her breasts—her creamy, rounded, perfect breasts—had been an accident.
But when she grabbed her linen napkin and began dabbing away at the spill, oblivious to where she was touching him, it was one accident too many.
His heart leaped into his throat, and he snatched her wrist, gently but firmly, to make her cease. “I’ll...I’ll do that.”
Her eyes and her mouth grew round as she realized what she was doing. If his body hadn’t begun eagerly responding to the uninvited but welcome attention, he would have found the situation comical.
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