Love at First Sight

by Sandra Lee

  She crossed her arms over her chest and scooted as far from him as the opposite side of the tub would allow. “Touch me, and before God, I will break every bone in your hand.”

  “Here, here,” he chided. Leaning over, he grabbed her chainse at the waist.

  He jerked it up with such force, she toppled forward as the material was snatched from beneath her. The moment she moved her arms to catch herself, he clutched the neckline and hauled it over her head.

  “There. Mayhap now you can be properly cleansed.”

  “Son of Belial,” she hissed, again crossing her arms over her chest. “You will pay with your life for the indignities you have perpetrated.”

  He clucked his tongue and shook his head, eyeing her underdrawers. “Those will have to come off as well.” He dropped her chainse on the floor and made a grab for the undergarment.

  “Nay!” she screeched, swatting at his hands.

  “Do not be difficult, mistress,” he admonished, ignoring her flying fingers to pull on the drawstring. “I seek naught but that which is best for you.”

  His knuckles brushed her belly, sending jagged bolts of lust straight to her woman’s core. She redoubled her efforts to forestall him, to no avail. Thrash and slap as she might, it seemed he possessed ten hands.

  “Have done!” she cried at last. “I am most capable of bathing myself.”

  He raised his head to stare at her, his black eyes full of deviltry. “Did I not know better, I would think you were averse to my touch.”

  “You have the right of that, mi’lord toady-fingers. I would sooner bathe with eels than suffer your slimy ministrations.”

  At last, she congratulated herself. Judging from the swift glint that sparked in his eyes, she’d succeeded in pricking his temper. Mayhap now he would leave her in peace.

  He sneered. “If you detest me so, why does your gaze e’re linger on my person?”

  Heat crawled up her face. The bastard. Aye, she’d looked, more times than she could count. Not that she would admit such. She cloaked her embarrassment with an indignant reply. “Your pardon for my looking upon you. I did not know ’twas forbidden.”

  She scooted around, pointedly giving him her back. “I suppose ’twould better suit your pompous sensibilities were I to prostrate myself at your feet when speaking to you.”

  “Now, there is a thought, though you would doubtless take the opportunity to tie my boot buckles together.”

  “And well do you deserve such. Always skulking about, accusing innocent folk of the foulest deeds.”

  “What was I to believe? Under my roof less than three days, and you throw yourself upon me with ravenous abandon. Mayhap you could explain why a virgin would behave thus. To my thinking, such sacrifice can be based on naught but deceit.”

  “So now you would discuss deceit?” she hissed. “What of the fortnight you spent trying to burrow your way into my heart? Who insisted on carrying me from tub to bed, and bed to tub, that no man would see my bare body?”

  She snorted. “Blind, my ear. All the while, you filled your eyes to brimming.”

  “Your pardon, Mistress Celt Soothsayer, but ’twas you who arrived upon my doorstep intent on parting me from my coin.”

  She gasped and glowered over her shoulder at him.

  “Do not deny it. Sperville has told me much about your person.”

  “And well you Normans deserve to be parted from your coin, the bulk of which you have stolen from English peasants.”

  “Hmph. So much for your second sight. My ancestry lies with the Moors, not the Normans, a fact you would know if you truly possessed any gift for prophecy.”

  She heard the water swish behind her, then Gavarnie ran a lump of soap over her head and began scrubbing her hair. “I can scarce credit what I am about to offer,” he grumbled, “but since ’tis obviously money you covet above all else, then name your price for your maidenhead.”

  “Mon—name—price!”

  “Do not pretend outrage,” he snapped, pushing on her head when she would have risen. “You have beaten me. Faith, I can think of little else. Give me your demands and let us have done.”

  His fingers stilled on her scalp when she made no reply. “Well,” he prodded.

  Her voice trembled with rage. “I am not in the habit of speaking to dead men. And rest assured, though you may yet draw breath, you are as good as buried.”

  “Pff.” He yanked her backward and scooped water over her head, splashing soap in her eyes and mouth. “I would offer you marriage, but you would doubtless mock me for it.”

  She came up spitting and swiping at her eyes. The idiot! Was he proposing?

  “Which is as well,” he continued, with no consideration for her stinging eyes or the foul taste in her mouth, “for though I was able to last many years with my first wife before killing her, God knows I would likely murder you within a fortnight.”

  She fought the compassion that swelled in her chest. How was it the man could pull her heartstrings so?

  Because, she answered herself, he feared she would not have him. He felt himself unworthy of her. The oaf. ’Twas no wonder she loved him.

  She scowled. “You did not murder your wife, and I will not tell you so again.”

  He shifted her hair over her shoulders and ran the soap over her back. “From whence comes this conviction of my innocence, wench? And do not say you have seen it in some magical vision.”

  “Ha. Who was complaining most recently about hearing voices? I distinctly heard you comment on it to Spindleshanks, despite my incapacitated state. And how do you think you recovered your sight?”

  “Mayhap ’twas my fear for your life that restored my sight.”

  “’Twas fear for my life all right. My greatgrandmother’s fear. She planned to teach me a lesson, and your blindness was not about to hinder her. Had I been killed during the ambush, I would have learned nothing. Thus, she decided to heal your eyes, that you could save me.”

  “Your pardon if I have a hard time grasping all this. Even you will admit, it sounds fanciful.”

  She blew an exasperated sigh. “Very well, then. If you yet believe you murdered your wife, look at the people about you. Never have I met a person who so frequently deserves gutting as does Spindleshanks. Yet you have not killed him. And what of your children. At the very least they should be flogged daily, but you have never lifted a finger against them. Indeed, though ’twas certainly within your rights, you could not rid yourself of Nicolette.”

  His hands slowed to trail over her shoulders, warm and slow. Gooseflesh sprang up in their soapy wake, though she felt less cold by the moment.

  “Must you e’re be contrary?” be murmured. “One would think you are most eager to wed a murderer.”

  His hands slipped along her ribs and it seemed she could feel his gaze scorching her back. She shifted uncomfortably at the heaviness that settled between her legs. “You are not—”

  “Hush,” he whispered, his breath near enough to stir the fine hair at her nape. Then his lips nibbled her neck. “Save yourself. Tell me to go.”

  She near wept with frustration. Why did he leave the decision to her? As if she could deny him aught with her tongue firmly plastered to her teeth to prevent herself from begging him to stay.

  His hands swept around to her breasts, gently kneading. “Have you any idea what torment you have caused me?” His voice was a low tomcat growl.

  She placed her hands atop his and felt her own hard nipples as he rolled them between his fingers. The soap made everything slippery and so very achy. Her breathing quickened and she leaned her head back against his shoulder. Never had she witnessed such a delicious sight as his hands on her.

  “The many hours I have spent imagining this,” he breathed in her ear.

  He tugged gently on her hand, drawing it down over her belly, then lower. Blood, hot and pulsing, filled her woman’s flesh. He slid his fingers over her collop and she pressed her hand hard atop his. ’Twas unbearably alluring
to watch him stroke her, and know that he, too, was watching.

  She groaned and spread her legs, anxious for him to feed the raging hunger that slavered for his touch. His finger dipped inside her and she heard his breath catch.

  Abruptly he hauled her from the tub and cradled her

  in his arms. Exhibiting none of his previous difficulty with her weight, he fair sailed to the bed.

  He landed on the mattress, dragging her atop him. Pulling her face to his, he ran his tongue over her lips, as if he would drink her. His hands moved to cup her bottom and he pressed her against his groin.

  Blazing tendrils of fire licked at her core. “Please,” she panted into his mouth. “I can stand little more.”

  “Then mayhap you should remove my clothing.”

  She moaned and straddled his lap so he could sit. Grasping his tunic, she fair tore it over his head. But before she could get his undertunic, he bent his head to suck her nipples.

  Quivering, she pushed his head away and yanked the undertunic off.

  He grabbed her hands and pressed them to her breasts, then watched as she stroked herself. ’Twas heaven and hell to see the scorching look that darkened his features. She arched her back, begging him silently to suck her nipples again. It took little urging, and when he grazed his teeth across them, she shuddered.

  Instantly his hands were on her bottom, kneading and separating the flesh so she was further exposed to his rigid shaft where it filled his braies.

  She could wait no longer. Shoving at his shoulders, she forced him down, then snatched on the drawstring at his waist. She slid backward on his thighs and did no more than pull the material below his groin. For a moment, she eyed his engorged state. Then she moved back up and rubbed herself against him.

  Faith, his shaft felt like an exotic silk from a faraway land. Sleek and slippery, and hard as an iron post. She raked herself over it, trembling with each stroke.

  “Have a care,” he cautioned, his tone raw. “You are yet a maid.”

  He attempted to grab her writhing hips. “You are like to feel—”

  She gasped. Too late. She had impaled herself. “Ohhh.”

  She curled her fingers into the hair on his chest, grimacing. “Ohhh.”

  “Easy, sweeting.” He covered her hands and squeezed them. “’Twill pass. Be still.”

  “Ohhh.” She closed her eyes, certain she would never recover from the pain. Even if she did, the crutch of her thighs had surely been split to her waist, which would make walking impossible.

  The thought made her open her eyes and look down. Her face must have reflected her horror, for Gavarnie was instantly soothing her.

  “’Tis naught but a little blood, Golde.”

  “A little—I am bleeding to death.”

  “Hush, witchwife. You know more about the nature of women than most. Virgins bleed. You will live to enjoy fulfillment.”

  “Nay.” She shook her head. “You are bigger than any man I have e’re seen. I’d wager there are few bulls that compare.” Her voice shook. “If I die, promise you will not spread the manner of my demise.”

  She looked up, begging with her eyes, then frowned. Was that a smile that flitted across the oafs lips? She snatched her hands from beneath his. “Pig! You find some amusement here?”

  Before she could raise herself from him, he clutched her waist and pulled her chest down against his.

  “A bull,” he chuckled. “Have a care with whom you share such information, else I will have women coming from far and wide to sample my charms.”

  “Worm-eating mucker. Let me up.”

  “Umm,” he purred. “’Tis most appealing when you wiggle about thus. I believe the worst of your discomfort is past.”

  It was, but she would never admit it. instead, she opened her mouth to berate him. But before she could issue a word, his lips clamped over hers.

  By all that was holy, she would not succumb.

  But, oh, how sweetly he kissed. And how gentle his touch. Within moments, his mouth had drained her of anger. And the void it left behind was quickly filled with aching desire. Try though she might, she could not keep still.

  His tongue stroked the inside of her mouth, hot and hungry. With great deliberation, he began to move, the length of him riding hard and slow against her collop. With each thrust, her woman’s flesh coiled tighter. She rubbed her breasts over the coarse hair on his chest, moaning her need at the intense friction.

  His pace increased slowly and the coiling sensation between her legs grew tighter. She ran her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, marveling at the strength in his taut muscles. For a moment he reached to entwine his fingers with hers, then his hands slid beyond her reach as he clutched her bottom.

  He pressed her hips down as he thrust upward, his breath blowing hard against her lips. She tried to follow his withdrawal, but he would not let her. Holding her hips, he raised her from him until only the tip of his arousal remained inside her.

  She whimpered and nipped his lips, making her disappointment clear. His arms shook, and he thrust again, pushing her hard against him, only to withdraw.

  Groaning, she bore down on his next plunge. The coiled sensation grew acute and she writhed on his hardness. If he dared withdraw again—

  Abruptly the coil snapped, and she was flooded with pleasure so pure, her body quaked.

  At her cry, his muscles went rigid. His chest rumbled, the sound vibrating through her as if she were a bowstring from which an arrow had just been released.

  For long moments afterward, he did not move, and she was content to lie where she was, sprawled atop him. Indeed, she would have passed the night in the same position had a knock not sounded at the door.

  “Mi’lord,” Sperville called.

  “Take yourself off, man,” Gavarnie ordered. “I am not here.”

  “Yes, your grace. But there is a lord, a Sir Hugh, who demands an audience with mistress.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  GOLDE CLAMBERED for cover, accidentally jamming her knee in Gavarnie’s groin. His legs snapped together, and she winced at his gasp.

  “A little caution would not be remiss, wench,” he grumbled as she rolled onto her back beside him. “Who is this Sir Hugh?”

  She rucked the sheets to her chin. “A lord of the moors.”

  He rose on his elbow, glaring suspiciously. “How is it you know him?”

  “I met him yestereve at Atherbrook.”

  “What is it he wants of you?”

  Golde pursed her lips. What indeed? Was the lord yet determined to visit vengeance upon her?

  Nay, she reassured herself. Sir Varin must have told him where to find her. He would not have done so if the man were a danger.

  “Well,” Gavarnie prodded. “Is he another of your culls?”

  She shot him a withering look. “If you would fetch me some clothing, I will go and see what he wants.”

  Abruptly Gavarnie became a churning fit of motion. Kicking at the covers, he flung them heavenward. “Whore’s gleet.” He thrashed and scooted toward the edge of the mattress, yanking up his braies. “Not bedded but moments, and already men seek you out.”

  Heat swept Golde’s face, though it had little to do with his words. At the moment, her embarrassment far outweighed her anger at his remark. She could scarce credit her wanton behavior.

  She eyed his leathery back, the lighter flesh of his buttocks. Bad enough that she’d been unable to deny him. Worse that she’d sat astride him like some domineering she-goat. But worst of all, she’d not even allowed him to remove his braies and boots before she’d taken . . .

  She looked away as his feet hit the floor. Aye, she’d taken him, not the other way ’round, as was natural. There wasn’t a hole on earth deep enough for her to crawl in.

  He paused at the door. “You will stay where you are, witch. I will determine whether or not this lord has need of your presence.”

  Her lips parted at his peremptory tone. Had she heard a’right
? “Your pardon?”

  He exited the room without a backward glance, banging the door behind him.

  She blinked, then narrowed her eyes and gritted her teeth. The gall! Did he think ’twas his right to take charge of her affairs just because she’d lain with him?

  Throwing the covers aside, she leapt from the bed to grab her chainse where it lay in a wet heap beside the tub. She would fetch her clothes from Nicolette’s chamber and be downstairs before he could break wind.

  The overbearing thickwit. She sucked in her breath as she jerked the cold material over her head. He was not swift enough to race with snails.

  She stomped to the door and threw it open. A pox on any who crossed her path. She slammed down the corridor, making no attempt at silence. Let Gavarnie hear. By the rood, let him come rebuke her for not staying put as he’d commanded. She would give him an earful.

  She halted abruptly upon crossing the threshold of Nicolette’s room. Sitting upon the bed, cradling a doll, the girl looked up at her.

  Golde forced a tight smile. “Your pardon, mistress. I have come to see if—ah, yes, there is my chest.” She kicked the door closed and swept forward.

  “Why awe you all wet?” Nicolette asked.

  Golde snatched fresh clothes from the trunk and draped them over the lid. “I took a bath.”

  “In youw undewcloves?”

  “ ’Twas the best way I could think to wash this filthy chainse,” she responded evenly.

  “Why did you not take dwy cloves to youw bath?”

  “I forgot.” She clenched her teeth against the cold and stripped the chainse over her head.

  Nicolette gasped. “You awe huwt!”

  Golde looked to see the girl cover her mouth, then followed the child’s gaze. Blessed Mother of God, she’d forgotten the blood that stained her thighs. A rush of heat ravaged her face. Dragging a hand through her hair, she stifled the urge to pull it out by the roots. What was she to say?

  Your dear father just tumbled me?

  She raised a brow as an idea struck her. “’Tis my monthly course.”

  Nicolette eyed her as if she knew better.