The Conqueror (Hot Knights) (5 page)

Suddenly, he had no desire to kill her. In fact, his desires tended in a much different direction. When he saw the flicker of fear in her eyes, he knew he’d been a fool. Why murder the wench when he had a much more effective—and pleasurable—means of restraining her?

Half smiling to himself, he moved around the tub so he stood behind her. Although near-drowned, she twisted her neck to keep him in view. He reached out and grasped her long braid, holding her still.

He unfastened the thong which tied the end of her braid, then began to unravel it. When he had loosened the plait, he ran his callused fingers through the thick, wet mass, smoothing the tangles. Flecks of dirt caught in his fingers, and he released her hair and leaned down to grasp a handful of soap from the bowl.

Roughly, inexpertly, he soaped her hair, and then went to fetch the last bucket of clean water. He watched her face as he approached. Gone was the look of savage defiance; she looked cowed, fearful.

Trying to hide his exultation, he poured the bucket over her head, carefully this time. When he could see that her hair required a more thorough rinsing, he filled the bucket from the tub and rinsed her again.

He grabbed by the arm and made her stand, then gave her a final dousing.

The bucket clattered to the floor as Jobert stared at his captive. Her long hair, wet though it was, reminded him even more that she was a woman. The tunic clung to her like a second skin, outlining her breasts and the cleft between her thighs. With a swift movement he pulled the garment over her head and dropped it to the floor.

He stared. Her breasts and belly were like fresh cream, her nipples budding roses. And the pale thatch of hair at the juncture of her thighs—sweet heaven, but she made him hard!

Desire thundered through his veins and his mouth went dry. He reached out and pulled her close, then ran his fingers over her smooth shoulders and slim, strong arms. He placed his hands on her narrow maiden’s waist, moving upward over the flare of her ribs, then finally allowed his fingers to close over the full, soft weight of her breasts.

Heat ignited his blood. Silky skin, liquid flesh. He leaned down to kiss her—and saw the naked dread on her features.

He drew back. Never had he had a woman unwilling, and he did not think it would be pleasant to bed a terrified wench. A soft, wet woman’s sheath was what he craved, not ramming his way into dry, unyielding flesh. Although rape might serve his purposes, it would not satisfy his lust.

But he was not thwarted. He knew the secrets of wooing a woman.

Picking her up, he moved toward the bed. On the way he was reminded that she was no dainty flower, but a strong, long-limbed wench. He grunted as he heaved her onto the silk coverlet, then crawled up after her. She froze as he kissed her, and her body felt taut against his. Undeterred, he moved his mouth down to her breasts and began to lave and suck her nipples. He felt her shudder beneath him but guessed it was not a response of acquiescence.

He slid his hand down her belly to her woman’s mound and began to stroke. The hair there was pale and golden, fascinating him. With slow, persistent pressure he forced her thighs apart. She inhaled sharply. He fondled her silky, feminine folds and looked at her face.

Her pink mouth caught his attention. Moving upward, he lowered his head to kiss her again.

Something glittered in the late afternoon sun filtering through the window. Jobert jerked backward. Damn bitch! Even after he tried to pleasure her, she brandished a dagger against him!

He grabbed for the weapon. The dagger caught him in the palm of the hand. He swore, then, on his second attempt, managed to grasp the woman’s wrist and twist it until she dropped the knife.

Blood flowed down his arm and dripped on the blue coverlet. Jobert released his grip on the woman and drew back his throbbing, bloody fist to strike.

Edeva felt her breath catch in her throat. Now, surely, he would kill her.

T
he Norman’s mouth worked. His strange, mossy-colored eyes seemed to pin her to the bed. In the silence, Edeva could hear the faint sound of blood dripping on the coverlet.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the blow that would crack her skull and knock her into oblivion.

It did not come.

The ropes of the bed creaked. When she dared to look, he was standing across the room, sucking on his injured hand.

A painful awareness of the fragility of life filled her mind as she exhaled. Her vow of vengeance seemed foolish now. She had risked her life and for no good purpose.

She was not ready to die. She wanted to live, to bring children into the world, to feel the soft earth under her feet and the sunshine upon her skin. Was it too late?

She watched him tear up one the drying cloths to make a bandage for his hand. He returned to the bed. As he bore down on her, she felt like a defenseless coney being stalked by a gleaming-eyed wolf

With his good hand, he swiped at his wet hair to push it out of his face. Such tawny hair he had. Edeva had never seen the like. None of her countrymen had tresses near as red as blood. His coloring made his chiseled features seem even more savage, his greenish eyes more arresting.

His manner was oddly calm, as if the storm of his fury had passed. Edeva decided that this side of him, the cool calculating commander, terrified her even more than the furious warrior had.

His gaze held hers for long seconds, and then he bent to retrieve the dagger that had fallen to the floor. With easy grace, he crossed the room to pick up the other weapon. He took both daggers and went to the window and tossed them out. After another look at her, he went to the storage chests and began to rifle through them.

A sense of reprieve swept through Edeva, so strong it was almost painful. He was not going to kill her.

She sat up slowly, afraid to draw his attention, but he took no note of her. He was busy searching through the chest. Edeva strained to see if it was the one containing the short sword. If he did not find it, she might try to kill him later. If she could.

He made a satisfied sound and held up a plain linen tunic. Edeva recognized it as one of her father’s cast-off garments, torn at the neck and already much mended. Her mother had obviously kept it for the purpose of using the fabric for rags.

The Norman shrugged into the tunic. Pushing up the too-short sleeves, he looked down at himself. The garment hung to the tops of his thighs, barely covering his groin.

He abandoned the clutter of chests and padded over to pick up his hose. As Edeva gaped, he dunked them into the dirty bathwater and whished them around, then squeezed them out

He carried them to the window near the bed. Taking no note of her, he reached up and hung the faded, dingy hose out the window to dry, securing them on a hook on the shutter.

When he stretched to adjust the shutter, the tunic rode up and revealed his buttocks. The sight made Edeva feel strange. Although she had seen naked men before, the Norman’s lanky, powerful build unsettled her.

She forced herself to look away as he moved from the bed. Then, telling herself that she must not be so weak and foolish, she returned her gaze to her enemy.

He went to the bathing area and retrieved a small, strangely-shaped piece of cloth. Edeva watched, fascinated, as the Norman lifted up the tunic and fastened the cloth over his privates.

The sight caused an odd tingling between Edeva’s legs and she suddenly recalled the image of his swollen, up thrust shaft.

The Norman sat down on a stool and began to strike his mud-caked boots together to clean them. Clumps of dirt scattered across the bare wood floor. Edeva’s interest turned to irritation. Who did he suppose would clean up after him?

When he had removed most of the dirt, the Norman put on the boots and fastened the laces around his ankles, then retrieved his sword belt and girded it around his hips. He made an odd sight, with the too-short, too-small tunic exposing his wrists and thighs and the makeshift bandage on his sword hand. She stared at him, wondering if he could possibly mean to leave the room like that.

He crossed to the door, and after calling out to whoever guarded it on the other side, went out.

* * *

His men filled the benches of the hall, and from the intent looks on their faces and savory smells wafting to his nose, Jobert guessed they were eating well at last.

He crossed the spacious room, relieved that most people would be focused on the food. He felt half-dressed, which he was. With luck, his hose would dry quickly and he could dress properly. In the meantime, the chainse would serve, despite the rip and the shortness. The fine linen felt smooth and soft against his skin, reminding him of women, sweet-smelling, dainty women, plying their needles with nimble white fingers. So very unlike the she-cat upstairs.

He joined Rob, Alan and Hamo at one of the tables. His squire, Will, immediately appeared to fill his cup with ale, and a woman came up with a platter of roasted pork. Another carried a basket of bread. Although they, were now demurely dressed with their hair covered, Jobert recognized the women from the scene in the kitchen lean-to. The memory reminded him of the Saxon upstairs. As did his throbbing hand as he reached for the bread.

Rob glanced his way and immediately noticed the bandage. “Jesu, what happened?”

Jobert grimaced and did not answer.

Alan turned to look. “Did the woman do that to you?”

Jobert speared a piece of meat with his eating knife. “I did not cut myself shaving.”

Both Alan and Rob stared at him. Hamo said, “How came she by a weapon?”‘

“Fool that I am, I left her up there with an arsenal at her fingertips. I wrested two daggers from her. There are undoubtedly more.”

Alan whistled. “These Saxons breed unnatural women.”

“The rest of them seem docile enough,” Hamo said. “’Tis only the unwomanly giantess who fights.”

“Who is she, do you think?” Rob asked, “Surely not the lady of the manor. Look at this place?” He gestured toward the gleaming white-washed walls and rich tapestries, the herb-scented rushes on the floor. “The chatelaine of this holding was obviously a woman of refined and elegant tastes, a lady after the manner of Queen Matilda herself.”

Jobert took another bite of pork. He had puzzled on the matter himself. Where had the warrior-witch come from and what was her connection to the rebels?

“When you’ve finished eating, you should have Odo look at your hand to make certain it doesn’t fester,” Rob said.

“At least she didn’t bite you.” Hamo gave a chortle. “She might have poisoned you like an adder.”

Jobert stopped chewing as he remembered how the bitch had tried to take a chunk out of him when he rescued her from the souterrain. What had he been thinking of, to free such a vicious creature?

“I say you should stake her out in the yard and have everyone have a turn at her,” Hamo said. “’Twould slake the men’s lust and also help subdue her unnatural, heathen temper.”

Jobert frowned; Hamo’s suggestion displeased him.

Alan shook his head. “Not I. I would not want to tumble such a fierce female, even if she be bound. There are other women who better fit my notion of comeliness.”

“Yea, there are prettier women here by far. I especially favor their fair coloring.” Hamo cast a speculative glance toward the woman serving them bread. She looked down shyly, but did not move away. “You may have your hellcat, Jobert. I will make do with one of the tamer, gentler ones.”

For some absurd reason, Jobert disliked their disparagement of the prisoner. “You have not seen her clean,” he said. “She is as comely as any of them, merely larger.” A vision of the Saxon’s bountiful breasts flashed into his mind, instantly arousing him.

“You have been pining too long for your Norman sweetheart if that savage upstairs heats your blood,” Alan said. “God’s face! She attacked you with a knife! What sort of maid knows how to wield a weapon, and dares to do so?”

Jobert tensed. He sorely wished that Alan did not know about Damaris. But mayhap the knight was right. Going so long without a woman had begun to affect his judgment regarding the opposite sex. His rod sprang to life at the mere sight of a naked female, even one intent on murdering him.

“What did you do to her after you took the knife away?” Hamo asked.

Jobert felt a twinge of uneasiness. If a male prisoner had attacked him, he would have killed the man on the spot. But the woman—he had not even thought to refasten her bonds.

“What could I do?” he said. “As Alan pointed out before, I can’t execute a woman.”

“Why not have her flogged as punishment?” Hamo suggested. “You could do it outside the palisade, in full sight of anyone watching from the forest. It might even drive the rebels to show themselves.”

Jobert pushed away the sickening image that rose to his mind. “I will deal with her in my own way.”

* * *

Edeva paused in brushing her hair when she heard the door rattle. What did the Norman intend to do to her this time?

She looked around the room. The short sword still lay in the leather wrapping in the chest. She had considered hiding it somewhere else. But, in the end, she had decided to leave it where it was. It seemed she did not have the courage to kill the Norman.

The door creaked open. Edeva went back to brushing her hair, concentrating on a particularly nasty tangle in the back. Footsteps sounded, and she discerned her tormentor’s distinctive tread.

He stopped near the bed. From beneath her veil of hair, she glimpsed the toes of his battered boots. The Norman might command a formidable army, but he dressed like a beggar.

She repressed her vague stirrings of sympathy. A beast like him deserved no better than rags!

“I have brought you food.” He held out a wooden platter filled with meat, bread and onions.

Delicious odors wafted to Edeva’s nose. Her stomach growled and her mouth watered. It had been a long time since she’d had a proper meal.

She longed to reach out and shove the platter in his face, but some part of her would not allow it. The food would spill, and she could not bear the thought of it lying ruined on the floor.

He edged the platter closer. Edeva gritted her teeth. She was not that spineless!

“Mmmm, it is delicious. See?” He took a bite and loudly smacked his lips.

Her hand curled around the handle of the hairbrush and clenched until her nails dug deep into her palm. She wanted to strike him with the brush, to turn his self-satisfied grin into a grimace of pain.

He held a piece of meat under her nose. Her nostrils quivered. She stared at the scars and calluses on his long fingers, the rough, broken nails. Anything to keep from looking at the succulent temptation he offered.

Her stomach growled audibly.

“I will tame you,” he said. “I will.”

Edeva closed her eyes. Only two days since she had eaten. People had endured much longer than that and not starved. ’Twas merely a matter of will.

Her eyes flashed open and she struck out. Although he maintained his grip on the platter, it turned sideways and spilled half its bounty. Spatters of grease flecked the woven mats on the floor. Pieces of onion and pork scattered far and wide.

For the first time since he had entered the room, she met his gaze. His green eyes were thoughtful, calm.

Why should he not be content? He’d already eaten. Stuffed himself on the bounty of her lands!

She balled her hands into fists and glared at him.

“Ah, my little she-cat, you are a stubborn one,” Jobert said.
And beautiful,
he thought.

Waves of silken gold swirled down past her waist and her skin glowed pink and creamy, making him wonder if he had stumbled into the wrong room by mistake. This creature, with her dewy skin and glossy tresses, could not be the filthy harridan he had rescued from the root cellar.

But he recognized the steely expression in her cornflower blue eyes, the stubborn set of her chin. Never had he met a woman of such will, such obstinacy. Had he really thought she would grow docile at the promise of a meal?

He could probably starve her for days, and she would not relent. There must be some other means of breaking her will. Hamo’s suggestion of flogging flashed briefly into his mind. Jobert rejected it even more quickly than he had the first time. He wanted to make the woman obey him, not utterly ruin her.

What then? What was the means of frightening this aggravating wench into accepting her proper place? She was only a woman, after all. No one would think poorly of her for capitulating. Women were raised to submit, to be complacent and meek.

Another glance at her haughty mien reminded him exactly how “meekly” she had behaved so far.

But woman she was. There could be no mistaking her femininity. Full pink lips meant for kissing. Finely arched brows. Slender neck. The unmistakable softness of her body beneath the loose gown.

She had changed clothes, discarding the shapeless peasant’s tunic for a woman’s garment. It was worn and patched, as his shirt was. He wondered if she had retrieved it from the same collection of rags.

He wondered even more why she had not put on some of the finer clothing. Every woman he had ever known preferred silks and samites to plain wool.

But the simple garment suited her. Obviously, she needed no adornment to make his blood boil.

Jobert took a deep breath and set down the platter on a table near the bed. Let her continue to smell it, to suffer.

He took a wineskin from his belt and took a hefty swallow. She watched him, eyes defiant. She still gripped the wooden hairbrush, and Jobert kept a wary eye on it.

He held the wineskin out to her, letting her smell the rich scent. It was the last of the wine they had brought from Normandy. He had been saving it for the right circumstance. Torturing a prisoner seemed an appropriate use for the Bastard’s best Bordeaux.

Her delicate nostrils flared. She might have a will of iron, but her body would betray her eventually. The flesh always weakened.

Flesh. Jobert’s body responded to the thought, and not as a gaoler’s should. Merely being in the same room with this woman seemed to make him hard. His fingers ached to stroke her alabaster skin, to see if her freshly-washed hair felt as soft as it looked. To sample those petulant lips with his own wine-heated mouth.