Three Nights With the Princess Page 12

  “Another night?” she choked, straightening in her saddle and harnessing the heat of her burning pride to fire her wits. “Not a particularly shrewd mercenary, are you? If this is the sort of price you generally require, it is little wonder you haven’t a decent tunic to your name.” She lifted her chin, pleased by his start of surprise. “Still . . . I suppose barbarians don’t have a lot to work with.” She elevated her nose so that she could look down it at him.

  “Perhaps you need a bit of help in coming to an advantageous arrangement. You were correct in thinking my family wealthy, Rouen. They are indeed. And they will pay well to have me returned. I can see you receive a hundred silver groats when we reach my home. Pure silver . . . fine, new coins, straight from Venice itself.”

  “A most reasonable offer, oui ?” Gasquar broke in, urging him to accept.

  “A hundred silver groats?” Saxxe echoed, surprised and thinking fast. A hundred Venetian groats . . . more silver than he could count . . . more silver than he could expect to earn in ten years of fighting . . . if he lived that long in his perilous trade. Then why did he feel this unsettling reluctance to accept?

  His eyes traced the flushed curve of her cheek, slid down the seductive hollow of her throat, and fastened on the gentle swell of her breast. The air he inhaled felt strangely hot and thick. He wanted . . . he wanted . . . A meadow, an orchard, and a stream, he repeated desperately. And promise of another night with her, he told himself, would give him a claim upon her person that might be worth a good bit more than one bag of silver.

  “A mere hundred to take you home? To suffer the lash of your tongue and the scratch of your claws for God knows how long?” He winced and crossed his arms over his chest, relishing her expression as he turned her earlier words back upon her. “Who is to say I’d even get you there? For all I know, you could be drowned in a river, or thrown by your horse and trampled, or eaten by wolves along the way. And there I would be . . . cheated out of my just reward.” He stroked his beard and leaned back in his saddle, watching her sputter. “Nay, my price is firm. Another night of pleasure, demoiselle . . . or you may find your own way home.”

  She glanced at Lillith and knew too well the cause of the horror in her face. Saxxe Rouen had the upper hand here, and they both knew it. She had no guide, no sustenance, no protection . . . and no choice.

  “Curse you, Rouen.” She drew an irritable breath, determined to have at least some say in the terms of her surrender. “I’ll give you your miserable night, but on one condition. That you collect it only after you have earned it . . . after I am safely home.”

  He hesitated a moment, turning it over in his mind. She expected him to object or to demand his reward in advance. But, to her genuine surprise, he nodded and handed back her reins.

  “Let us be on our way, demoiselle. We have a long day’s journey ahead. And I have a debt to collect at the end of it.”

  Chapter Seven

  An unseasonably strong sun bore down upon them as they rode, stinging Thera’s and Lillith’s unprotected skin and steaming them inside their woolen surcoats. When Gasquar pointed to the billowy white clouds building ahead, in the west, Thera’s only reaction was a fervent prayer that she might soon be spared the discomfort of the sun on her hot, reddened skin. And from the way Lillith winced and moved her lips each time her mount set a hoof down hard, she guessed that Lillith was detailing her misery to the Almighty, as well.

  By the time they stopped by a stream for food and rest, Thera’s eyes burned, her head ached from squinting, and her thighs and buttocks were burning from the constant friction of the saddle. She remained on her mount for a moment, staring at the cool water pouring over the rocks with a longing so fierce that it approached what she imagined must be lust. What she wouldn’t give for a bath . . . in a lovely warm pool of water . . . scented with rose petals . . .

  Dismounting without assistance, she wobbled to the stream with her horse, then sank to her knees at the edge and made a veritable sponge of herself. When she sat back, moments later, wiping her wet face with her voluminous outer sleeve, she found Lillith beside her, examining her with a worried expression.

  “Are you all right, Princess?” Lillith felt Thera’s hot cheek and tucked a stray lock of hair back into her braid. “Your poor skin. Oh, I knew we should have worn wimples for traveling.”

  “You know how I loathe wimples. I always feel I’m in a cage,” Thera said, fanning herself with the edge of her surcoat, then jiggling the high neck of her tunic to admit some air to her suffering skin. “And I already feel like I’ve been spitted and roasted to a turn.” The movement of her gown released a mingling of earthy scents and she made a face. “And well seasoned.”

  She looked toward the western hills and her kingdom, and thought longingly of the aging body servant she had refused to bring on the arduous journey to Nantes. Her eyes drifted closed as she imagined herself in her own cool, spacious chambers . . . being bathed and scented with fragrant oils. “What I wouldn’t give for one of Esme’s special baths.”

  Lillith looked away and mumbled, “You’re in debt quite enough already.”

  “What?” Thera’s eyes snapped open.

  “I s-said . . . you can bet Esme will have one ready . . . when we return.” Lillith pulled her chin in and her face reddened more beneath her sunburn. “If we return,” she added dismally.

  “We’ll return, all right,” Thera said, setting her hands in the small of her back and arching over them. Slashing a dagger of a look at Gasquar and Saxxe, on the opposite bank, she let out a harsh breath. “Saxxe Rouen will see we get home, if only to collect his wretched reward.”

  “About his reward,” Lillith ventured, relieved that Thera had raised the subject weighing heavily on her mind. “How will you explain to Cedric and the Elders that you must take him to your bed? Surely they will learn of—” She halted as Thera’s expression became a glower.

  “You never cease to amaze me, Lillith. Can you honestly believe I would take that crude, violent churl into Mercia’s royal palace—into my very bed?”

  “Well . . . you did agree.” Lillith’s eyes widened. “And there is tonight . . .”

  “I do not intend to spend another single moment trapped against his loathsome, overheated body, ever,” Thera whispered vehemently. “Not tonight, not any night. I found a way to escape it last night . . . I’ll find a way to get out of it tonight, too.” But instead of being comforted by those words, Lillith seemed genuinely disturbed.

  “But, Princess, you gave your word. And the royal word is sacred. Once given—”

  “I did not give it, it was dragged out of me . . . coldly and callously coerced from me. I’ll not be bound by such an ill-begotten bargain,” Thera declared, annoyed by Lillith’s shock. “Don’t you look at me like that, Lillith Montaigne. I shall see him well paid in silver, and he will have to be content with that.”

  Lillith dropped her gaze to avoid Thera’s, and the disappointment that rounded her shoulders weighed on Thera’s already burdened conscience. She didn’t like the idea of bending her word any more than Lillith did, but she liked the notion of surrendering to Saxxe Rouen even less. Imagine giving herself up to a crude, half-naked soldier for hire—little more than a barbarian! It would be a disgrace to the throne and an insult to the men of Mercia.

  “Trouble upon trouble,” Lillith said, breaking into Thera’s thoughts with a hushed whisper of portent. When she looked up, she seemed oddly pale beneath her sunburned skin. “It’s the prophecy. ‘With trouble and contention ripe . . .’ It has begun, Princess. And if you break your word, the troubles will only grow worse and—”

  “Stop that!” Thera demanded. “Not another word, do you hear? I’ll not have you flailing me with that wretched prophecy! I’ve quite enough to cope with as it is!” She pushed to her feet and made her way to the bushes, some distance away.

  Saxxe heard her raised voice and wheeled with his hand on the hilt of his blade . . . in time to see her stalking of
f toward the underbrush with her face aflame and her lady companion staring after her with a chastened look. He hadn’t caught her words, but something about the way Lillith quickly turned to look at him raised prickles of alarm along his neck. He stretched taut, to his full height, and followed Thera into the bushes with his gaze. Alone and afoot she couldn’t go far, he knew, but he struck off after her anyway.

  Thera’s skin, her pride, and her conscience were all ablaze, and the resulting heat combined with the merciless sun to bake her inside her clothes. She made a quick stop in the bushes, then went to the stream to wash, trying not to dwell on Lillith’s claim that these troubles were a result of her solitary throne.

  It was ridiculous, of course, to think that her coupling with a man would have the power to temper winter gales, ensure plentiful rain, set blossoms into fruit, and produce a bountiful crop of spring lambs. It was just tales and superstition . . . the thinking of the Old Ones. Male and female in conjunction. Pagan, really. A relic of the old life-ways.

  But all the learning and logic of the intervening Christian centuries had not dimmed those stubborn beliefs in the ancient prophecies . . . any more than they had eliminated the desire for the old custom of the rites of May or the tradition of the seven nights for a marriage. And, infuriatingly, it was her wisest and most educated nobles, her Council of Elders, who seemed to hold the deepest convictions about the old prophecies. Now even her countess was haranguing her about them. Their present difficulties were the start of the fulfillment of the prophecies, she said. Why couldn’t they see it was all mare’s nests and pigeon’s milk . . . pure nonsense!

  But even as Thera shook her head and purged those thoughts, she was left with a vaguely unsettled feeling that she couldn’t entirely banish.

  She emerged from the shrubby growth onto a grassy bank and stood looking at the clear water bubbling through the rocky channel. Every ache in her overheated body intensified at the sight. On impulse, she kicked off her shoes and gathered the folds of her voluminous surcoat and tunic about her knees, then waded barefoot into the flowing water.

  “Ahhh.” Ripples of pleasure raced up her legs as she searched for footholds on the rocky bottom and edged deeper into the stream. “It’s wonderful,” she groaned, wading back and forth to let the swirling water soothe her. The cool comfort of it lured her in deeper and deeper, until she was up to her knees, holding her skirts up in a droopy bundle around her thighs. Soon she was kicking and splashing about with abandon, fairly dancing in the water.

  For a few brief moments it was almost like the old days in Mercia . . . when she had time for gamboling in streams, and picking wildflowers with her mother and the court ladies, and lying on her back in the gardens studying the clouds. A bead of sweat slid down her neck and between her shoulder blades, causing her to wriggle her shoulders. If only she could strip off her stifling clothes and plunge her whole sticky body into—

  “Go ahead,” came a voice from the bank behind her. She whirled and found Saxxe Rouen standing with his arms folded over his chest, watching her. Even from a distance she could see that his eyes glowed oddly and that his stance radiated a sultry, alarming heat. “Take them off, demoiselle, and dive in.”

  She froze, stunned that he had read her mind, then she fumbled with her skirts, lowering them to cover her knees. “I-I was hot . . . and saw the water . . . and . . .”

  “Hot?” A slow grin spread over his mouth. He bent down and hooked her soft-soled leather shoes on two fingers. “There’s a simple remedy.” He pulled his eyes from her slippers and raked them down her form. “Take off some of those clothes.”

  The intensity of his stare made her feel that he was doing that very thing . . . in his mind. She felt a worrisome contraction in her stomach as she realized she was well out of Lillith’s sight, possibly even out of hearing distance. The privacy she had relished only moments before now represented a potential threat.

  “Remove my garments and go half naked . . . like you?” she said with a sniff of distaste. “Nay . . . I prefer civilized raiment.” Picking her way along the rocky bottom, toward the bank, she glanced irritably at her shoes dangling from his fingers and wondered how much of a struggle would be required to get them back. “You call yourself a soldier, but you dress like a brute barbarian—like one of those vile Mongol warriors from the east,” she charged. “You shouldn’t be at all surprised when you are treated like one.” To her surprise his big shoulders quaked with a gentle laugh.

  “Indeed . . . that is the point, demoiselle.” He leaned back on one booted leg, watching closely as she climbed onto the grassy bank. His eyes lingered on her lower legs even after she had dropped her tunic and surcoat to cover them, then he jerked his head up, to spear her gaze with his.

  “The Mongols and half-bred Mongol-Slavs are known to be savage fighters. If I look like them, my opponents will believe me a force to be reckoned with, and that gives me an edge against them. A soldier for hire needs every advantage he can claim.”

  She watched him straighten, and it seemed to her that he grew, filling her senses. In the strong sunlight his dark, shoulder-length hair had faint threads of crimson running through it, and his shoulders glowed like warm, polished oak.

  Her breath shortened as she realized he was scarcely more than a foot away. Then she heard her slippers drop to the ground beside him.

  “Everything I wear has a purpose, demoiselle.” His voice came soft and deep, stroking her very nerves. “These leather guards around my wrists”—he lifted one massive hand before her eyes, turning it so she could see the wide leather band studded with metal—“they strengthen my hands so that I may wield a blade longer in battle.” He made a fist and demonstrated the way the sinews of his arm and hand worked inside the leather.

  She tried to swallow and couldn’t.

  “And these cross braces . . .” He dragged that same hand down one of the wide leather straps that crossed his chest diagonally, then seized her wrist and brushed her fingers along the reverse of that path. “They are lighter and more comfortable than mail . . . and just as good a protection. On crusade, in the desert heat, some knights died of festering burns from the sun searing their mail armor. This metal boss”—he shifted his grip on her hand to press her fingertips over the intricate pattern on the metal disk that held the leather braces together—“protects my heart.”

  The powerful thudding from inside his chest sent warm vibrations up her arm.

  “This belt”—he slid her hand down to his waist and along the heavy leather band around his middle—“supports my back so that I can swing a blade harder and lift great weights . . . and carry young demoiselles to safety.”

  His wry grin became a full, irresistible smile that made her knees go weak.

  “And my breeches are made of deerskin, which glides over the flesh and is easier to bear on long rides than woven cloth would be. Feel.” He directed her unresisting fingers downward, along his hipbone. Her fingers burned at the feel of his hard, sinewy flank and she tugged on them, only to have him hold her hand tight against his body.

  Her heart was beating wildly, erratically.

  “My boots are laced tight to keep them from trapping my foot in mud or filling with icy water. And I wear long hair and a beard, and skins and furs in cold weather, because they make me look bigger and more savage to my enemies.” He paused and searched her upturned face, then ran a possessive finger along her jawline. “So, you see . . . I wear nothing I do not need, demoiselle. I suggest you do the same.”

  “The same?” she whispered, her throat tight. He laughed softly.

  “This outer gown . . . you will be cooler without it.”

  Before she could react, he was unfastening the hooks at the bosom of her heavy surcoat, sliding his hands under the shoulders of the sleeveless garment and peeling it down her arms. She gasped, feeling the first ripples of alarm. It was as if he stripped her inner defenses from her along with her overgown.

  “And these sleeves . . .” He ra
n his hands down her arms in a blatant caress, then lifted her hands between them. “If you open them, your arms will be cooler.” He began to unlace the long, tapered sleeves of her tunic, from wrist to elbow. Each time his fingers pulled the laces, she suffered the remembrance of his doing the same thing to her hair.

  The feel of him holding her, performing the personal service of a body servant, stunned her. His touch was not at all like old Esme’s efficient ministrations, or Lillith’s careful handling, or even her mother’s occasional pats and strokes. There was no reverence in his hands . . . only a surprising gentleness and a dexterity that spoke of experience with such delicate tasks. Rearranging and removing garments; he had obviously rendered such intimate service before, to other women. The realization slowly surfaced among the sensations inundating her: he was treating her like a woman, not a princess.

  A woman. This warm, liquid feeling developing in her middle and spreading downward through her abdomen and legs . . . was this what women felt when men stood close and touched them? Was this fertile, absorbing awareness of every line and contour of her body the result of being touched and treated like a woman? Every incidental brush of his fingers as he rolled her sleeves up her arms sent tingles of pleasure skittering along the underside of her skin.

  “There,” he murmured. “Is that not cooler?” He smiled into her eyes and began to draw circles over her lips with a languorous, knowing finger. Her blood seemed to rush to meet his touch. She parted and wetted her lips with her eyes fastened on his.

  Taking her by the shoulders, he pulled her closer and lowered his mouth. She found herself plunged into a warm, foaming sea of perception. Wherever their bodies touched; her skin burned with a strange, liquid heat that seeped slowly through her limbs and into her loins . . . like honey set aflame . . .

  “My lady?” came a voice, far off but approaching. “Where are you? You cannot wander off like this, you kn—Ohhh!”