Love at First Sight

by Sandra Lee

At the very least, de Brionne should be whipped for trussing Golde thus. Faith, she was dressed in naught but her undergarments. He jumped from the dais and hurried to her aid as she thrashed about in an attempt to sit. Though her chest heaved and she grunted mightily, the ropes that bound her from head to toe precluded the possibility.

  Upon spying him, she stilled.

  “Here. Let me loose this gag.”

  He grimaced at her soiled state. Her hair was matted and greasy beneath the knot of the gag, her white chainse stained with grayish blotches, and her . . .

  Legs. Long and sleek, they were bared to mid thigh where the chainse had rucked up. He recalled the soft, lush feel of them, underlaid with corded strength, to be sure. Had he not felt the pleasure of their power when lust held the wench in its grip?

  He eyed her bottom. His coillons tightened as he remembered the smooth round flesh there, the way she’d strained for his touch.

  The flatness of her belly, the perfect curve of her breasts, the demanding thrust of her hard nipples.

  “Toad-eating dunghead,” she spat the moment he removed the gag. “If you stare a little harder at my person, mayhap the ropes that bind me will burn away.”

  Gavarnie drew back. Had he heard a’right? Did the wench dare to curse him, even as he helped her?

  He glanced at the gag in his hand. Swiftly he replaced the wad of material over her mouth and tied it behind her head.

  Her smell wafted upward and he wrinkled his nose. “You reek worse than a buzzard’s dinner.”

  A strangled noise issued from her, and it took no little effort to hide his satisfaction. “I see de Brionne had the good sense to secure your flapping mouth.”

  The color drained from her face to collect in her eyes. The green one glittered and shot poison at him; the black turned hard as jet and swore vengeance upon him.

  Indeed, at the moment, she appeared most capable of destroying anyone and everything that crossed her path. No wonder Sir Varin and Arnulf had beat such a hasty retreat.

  He shook himself. De Brionne and his giant underlord were cowardly simpletons. No woman was going to unsettle him thus. Ignoring the hair that bristled at his nape, he bent and scooped up Golde.

  “Sperville,” he called as he headed for the screens passage, “have bathwater sent up. And do not bother heating it. Methinks the lady needs cooling.”

  By the time he reached the stairs, she was struggling. The feel of her warm, squirming body melted his fear. “Have a care, mistress. You are hardly a tiny burden and I would not wish to drop you on your she-goat head.”

  More strangled sounds from behind the gag, though she calmed. In the semidarkness of the stairwell, he smiled. Despite her soiled state, she was the most desirable female he’d e’re laid hands on. Her bare legs felt whisper-soft. The manner in which her hands were tied arched her back so her breasts rubbed against his chest.

  Feline. An intense ache spread through his groin until he feared he might split his braies.

  He caught himself as he reached his chambers. What was he thinking? The wench likely hated him.

  He halted before the tub and all but threw her in. Ignoring her grunt, he turned his back on her thrashing form. Most wenches would be grateful that a lord of the realm displayed such interest in their persons.

  Not Golde.

  He stomped to the drawing point and hauled on the rope.

  Nay. Not only did she disdain him, she had had the gall to lecture him on his lack of self-restraint, as if his temper were responsible for all the ills that had befallen him.

  He snatched at the bucket of water to release it from its hook.

  What did she know of being blind? Of being incapacitated and unable to control her own destiny . . .

  A slow grin spread over his lips as the bucket came loose. Ha! Was she not incapacitated at present? Had she any control over what befell her? ’Twas time and past the little wasp took a sting from her own tail.

  Wiping the smile from his face, he turned and strolled to the tub. He clenched his jaws to keep from chortling at the vicious look she gave him.

  Then he stilled. She’d managed to work herself to a half-sit, using the side of the tub for purchase. And what a chore it must have been. She’d near unclothed herself in the process.

  Against his will, his gaze traveled to her legs. She was bent at the knees where she’d pushed herself up, and her movements had caused the chainse to bunch about her hips. Her underdrawers, too, had ridden upward, baring her thighs. He eyed the juncture where they met.

  She straightened her legs and wiggled about, trying to scrape the material downward.

  He arched a brow and gave her shoulder a pointed look. Turning her head, her gaze followed his and her eyes widened. Where she’d levered herself against the side of the bath, the chainse had slipped halfway to her elbow. The delicate line of her collarbone was exposed, as was the upper swell of one breast.

  Her enraged snarl distracted him and he blinked innocently. “You must learn to control that foul temper, mistress. All this writhing about makes you appear most unwholesome.”

  Her nostrils flared and he took the opportunity to dump the water over her head. Her body went stiff as ebony hair cascaded over her face, covering her eyes and shoulders. A terrible noise, something between a bleating goat and a bull in rut, erupted from behind the gag. Without another glance, he strode back to the drawing point, clamping his teeth together at the guffaw that threatened to choke him.

  Latching the pail on the rope, he spoke over his shoulder lest the sight of her destroy his composure. “I had nothing to do with your current predicament, just as you had nothing to do with my blindness.”

  He lowered the bucket. “Indeed, my only wish is to give you aid, much as you wished to restore my sight when you first arrived here. But I now understand the difficulty of dealing with one whose rage precludes all reason. I confess, you have inspired no little fear in me.”

  He retrieved the pail and returned to the tub. Bending, he pulled dripping strands of hair aside to peer at her face, then clucked his tongue. “There, you see? You have turned a most unbecoming shade of red. And the way your eyes are rolling in your head makes me think some demon inhabits your person.”

  Releasing the curtain of thick hair, he poured the full pail over her head and sauntered back to the drawing point. “I could scarce be persuaded to release you under such circumstances. There is no telling what injury you might do yourself, not to mention my person.”

  The bucket full, he again moved to the tub. “You shall remain bound until you exhibit some modicum of control. Only then will I loose you.”

  He drenched her a third time, noting the gooseflesh that had risen on her legs. His fist clenched around the bucket’s handle as she shuddered.

  Nay. He would feel no sympathy.

  Marching to the drawing point, he refilled the pail. She deserved much more than this small amount of discomfort, which was naught in comparison to the misery she’d wrought upon him.

  Approaching the bath, his steps slowed. The rhythm of Golde’s breathing rapidly increased until great strangled gasps filled his ears.

  He hurried forward. The black hair that draped over her face jerked eerily each time she sucked air. Her legs were tinted purple. In contrast to her upper body, they appeared immovable. Hard and lifeless as marble.

  The pail thumped to the floor as he dropped to his knees. Dear God! Had he drowned her?

  He flung the hair back from her face. Glazed and unblinking, her eyes stared past him with all the disinterest of the dead.

  Like Isabelle’s eyes.

  “Prithee, Golde,” he whispered frantically, “do not do this to me.”

  He snatched at the knot that held the gag. “’Twas but a jest. I meant no harm.”

  If she heard him, she gave no indication.

  He yanked the wad of material from her mouth. “By all that is holy, Golde, you are more dear to me than life.” She did not speak, but only continued wit
h the hoarse choking sounds.

  Nay! he wanted to scream. What had he done?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  GOLDE FLINCHED. The cursed light was growing ferocious. She narrowed her gaze at the shadowed shape that wavered in the midst of the glare. Shades of purple, near black at the heart of the figure, faded to pastel hues at its extremities.

  ’Twas the person who’d murdered Gavarnie’s wife.

  Blue-white shafts of brilliance pierced Golde’s eyes like red-hot needles. Still, she did not look away. If she could capture some small detail, something that would give her a clue to the figure’s identity.

  A whiff of . . . was it lavender?

  Nay, ’twas blood. Sickly sweet.

  She shuddered as all was obliterated by the searing flash. ’Twas as if a hell-borne gale blew through her soul. Her eyelids squeezed shut, despite her command for them to remain open. Hissing her frustration, she gulped air. She’d been so close.

  Then blessed darkness settled about her, dragging at her limbs. As her breathing eased, so did the ache that throbbed behind her eyes.

  Abruptly she realized someone was patting her cheek. And with more force than necessary.

  “Mule-headed hag,” Gavarnie ground. “If you dare to die, I will follow your demon hide to hell and hound you for eternity.”

  She cracked an eye to see him leaning over her, his swarthy features grim. Could the simpleton not see she was exhausted? She opened her other eye to discover she lay in his bed. How had she come to be here?

  For a moment the answer glimmered before her. But she was too tired to pursue it. Besides, the only thing that mattered was Gavarnie’s irritating treatment of her.

  Summoning her strength, she grumbled, “Strike me again and there will not be enough left of you to reach hell.”

  Before she could roll to her side and get comfortable, Gavarnie had yanked her to a sitting position and crushed her to his chest. Her eyes felt as if they might pop from her head, so tight was his hold.

  Just as quickly, he pushed her away to arms’ length. Gripping her shoulders, his black eyes studied her face. “You are well?”

  She tried to shake off his grasp, but what little energy she possessed was quickly spent. “I would be fine if you would cease battering me and allow me to rest.”

  He inclined his head and gave her a steady look. “Know you who I am?”

  She scowled. Whatever ailed the imbecile, that he would ask such? “Of course I . . .”

  Her words trailed away as she recalled the vision. Doubtless, it was the reason for his peculiar behavior. She must have appeared mad.

  Her mouth suddenly felt dry. She must tell him—

  Her thoughts continued to tumble backward before she could speak. Did memory serve correct? Had she been bound and delivered to Skyenvic with less dignity than an old cow about to be butchered?

  Oh, but Sir Varin and Amulf would pay for their scurrilous abuse, the lackwits. As would Gavarnie. That he had dared to leave her trussed like a hare on a spit. Then near drowned her. And all the while, he’d babbled on, comparing her shackled state to his blindness, as if one had aught to do with the other.

  She affected a confused look. “You wish to know who you are?”

  He raised a brow and nodded.

  She gave him a dazzling smile. “You are the Pope.” His brows swooped down and he cast her a penetrating look. “Where are we?”

  “We are in Rome.”

  Dread and pity warred for dominance of his features. Pursing his lips, he leaned forward until his face was no more than a hand’s span from hers. His eyes burned with intensity. “How did you come to be in Rome?”

  She could stand no more of his patronizing tone. Her nostrils flared and her smile soured. “I was transported by two spineless worms, who shall soon rue the day they were born. As will you, mi’lord dunghead, if you do not release me at once.”

  She near laughed at his stunned expression. His features clouded, and it appeared thunder would roll any moment. Then his mouth abruptly crooked in a half smile. “Clever wench. You e’re amaze me with your cunning.”

  She eyed him warily. Why was he being so even-tempered?

  “Never have I met a female with such an aversion to bathing. Is there aught you will not do to avoid soap and water? You had me scared half unto death with that pretentious fit.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Bumptious lover of sheep. Twas no pretense. And do not attempt to disguise your lecherous intent with insults.”

  She scrambled from the bed, pausing long enough to sneer at him. “Think you I did not see the gleam in your eye at my defenseless state? All that blather about wishing to help me, and how I must learn to control my temper.”

  She spun and tromped toward the door, gesturing at the ceiling. “Drool fair spilled from your mouth at the thought of having me at your mercy.”

  “Mistress,” he called, the edges of his voice curled with amusement.

  The odious buzzard. She did not look back. “Save your breath, mi’lord knave. All the wealth of England could not convince me to suffer your company another moment. Nor will you ever know what I have seen.”

  “Golde,” he called again.

  “Do not hope to play on my sympathies with that sweet tone,” she huffed, nearing the door. “Though it might have wings and a gilded snout, a pig is yet a pig, and easily identifiable.”

  “I could not agree more,” he purred as she reached for the door latch. “Despite the odor you emit, one could never mistake you for a fish. Particularly when your charms are so clearly displayed.”

  At his cheerful tone, she jerked her head around. Following his gaze, she peered over her shoulder and down. Her eyes rounded. The bastard! All the while he’d been ogling her rear, which, indeed, the clinging wet chainse did naught to conceal.

  “Both halves of your bottom are easily identifiable,” he commented smugly, “as is the line that separates—”

  “Out,” she snapped before he could finish.

  “Come, mistress.” He sounded like a cat who just happened to be in the vicinity of the dovecote. “You cannot order me about in my own chambers.”

  Turning sideways, she pointed at the door. “Out!”

  He shrugged and sighed heavily. “Very well.”

  Rising from the bed, he shuffled toward the door, his shoulders hunched. Faith, he looked exactly like Ronces, the spoiled brat.

  Except there was nothing boyish about him.

  She retreated toward the wall, her gaze slipping from his face to his broad chest, to his narrow hips and long legs. Though less than a week had passed since she’d last seen him, he appeared to have developed a great deal more brawn.

  A tingling sensation pooled in her groin, stealing the warmth from the rest of her body. She shivered.

  “You are certain you do not need my assistance?” He paused before the door.

  She jerked her gaze to his face and nodded her head emphatically. “Ab—abso—” She cleared her throat. “Absolutely.”

  He raised a brow. “Well, if you change your thinking, do not hesitate to call.”

  With a most reluctant glance, he fair drooped across the threshold, the latch clicking as he closed the door behind him.

  She released her pent breath. Getting rid of him had been easier than she’d expected, though why she should feel so deflated, she knew not. Shivering again, she turned toward the bath. Some hot water and fresh clothing .. .

  Her bare feet halted. Of all the despicable—

  There would be no hot water. And what clean clothing she possessed lay in her chest, which, last she’d seen, was in Nicolette’s chamber.

  She spun about and did her best to pull the door from its hinges. “Lowly son of a serpent,” she shrieked into the corridor. “Hie yourself back here.”

  As if he’d been awaiting her summons, Gavarnie’s head appeared at the top of the stairs. “Is there something you require?”

  “Do not give me that innocent look. You know ver
y well that I require hot water and clothes.”

  His steps purposely laggard, he came up the stairs, then sauntered along the corridor. Drawing to a halt, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame. “I shall be most happy to accommodate your wishes, provided I am well paid.” He held out his palm.

  She slapped it. “Fool. You are mistaken if you think I will not fetch my own clothes for fear of being seen by some lowly liegeman.”

  He stared pointedly at her breasts.

  She glanced down to see her nipples poking against her wet chainse. Again, warmth spread through her groin and she fought to keep from wincing. Gathering the soaked material in her frozen fingers, she held it away from her body and made to sweep past him.

  He grasped her upper arm and gave her an overaffected leer. “’Twould be most remiss of me to ignore your icy discomfort.”

  “I am not cold.”

  “Then can I presume your nipples have hardened in response to my touch?” He pulled her close and wrapped his arms about her. “Come, my redolent blossom. Let us get you cleaned up.”

  He lifted her off her feet and hauled her back inside the bedchamber, kicking the door closed behind him.

  Despite his buffoonery, warm wisps of unwelcome desire curled through her body. Squirming for release did naught but increase the horrid yearning. Commanding her body to stillness, she strove for an imperious tone. “Leave go, lout.”

  “In a moment, fragrant flower.” He grunted and staggered, as if he were performing some great feat of strength in carrying her weight.

  Her eyes widened when she realized he was headed toward the tub. “If you dare return me to that icy—”

  The backs of her knees hit the padded rim of the bath. Before she could blink, he’d tilted her backward until she was forced to bend her legs. Then over the side she went. She gasped as she landed with a great plop in ankle-deep water that felt colder now than it had before.

  “You were saying?” He straightened, making a show of rubbing his back as if she’d broken it.

  “Misbegotten son of a cur.”

  He smiled benevolently. “No need to express your appreciation. Let me help you remove that filthy garment.”