gleamed the fire's flame. "Ah. My dagger." He studied her
face as he pulled off his other hose and tossed it aside.
With slow purpose
he pushed to his feet and stood in front of her, his linen braies loose about
his hips. "Aye. I'd like you to take my dagger in your hand. But you'll
not remove it from me. I'm too attached, you see."
"But, 'twill
rust."
"Nay. My
weapon will not rust."
He dropped his
braies to the floor.
C hapter F ive
" W hat think you of my
dagger?"
Eleanor gasped
and swallowed at the same time, then choked. Her face burned, her feet as cold
as wintry stone. Stunned, she sat and stared at his stiff manhood.
"Men are
different, after all." She didn't know she had uttered the words aloud,
but Lord Kyle laughed, so she must have.
"Have you
never seen a man's body before, lass?" He shook his head at his own
question. "From the look upon your face, I can tell you've not. I never
thought to see such an incredulous expression. You look aghast, as Eve must
have appeared after she bit the apple, then looked upon Adam."
Eleanor could
only clasp her trembling fingers and stare. She wanted to look away, but her
curious eyes betrayed her.
Lord Kyle laughed
again as he removed his braiel, the tabbed belt that had held his braies and
chausses. He leaned down to brush the bottom of one foot and stepped into the
tub, then he brushed at his other foot.
Eleanor watched
the rippled liquid creep up his flanks to his chest and the thighs of his bent
legs as he sank into the water. She would have never believed such a
description of male anatomy if anyone had told her, which no one had. 'Twas
not a subject discussed among the nuns at the convent.
He held the lye
bar in front of her eyes and spoiled her view. "You will need this,
lass."
Flustered, she
grabbed the soap. After dousing a dipper of water over his head, she rubbed
the bar on his golden strands and washed with haste so as to finish the task
and be away.
She heard him
laugh. "Take care, woman. You'll scrape away my hair."
"Good."
His laughter
mocked her annoyance.
She gritted her
teeth and forced her fingers to not grasp his hair and yank. "Pray tell,
Sire, what do they call you on the battlefield? The Merry Knight?"
He only laughed
harder.
Eleanor dumped
another dipper-full over his head and he jerked with a strangled cough.
Smiling, she soaped the cloth and scrubbed his back as hard as she could. If
she rubbed him raw, then he would never again ask her to . . .
The water on his
broad shoulders flashed fiery reflections. Her pace slowed. The hills and
valleys of his muscles stretched beneath her fingers. She ran the linen with
more care over each contour of his back and shoulders, then down the valley of
his spine. Rivulets of water glowed bright with entwined red and gold as they
twisted and snaked over his sinewy expanse. A jagged ridge of whitish skin ran
in a diagonal across his shoulder blade. With the tip of her forefinger she
traced the scar and felt the lump beneath her touch.
"How did
this happen, my lord?"
He hissed an
intake of air. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the side of the tub.
"Did I hurt
you, Sire?"
He sat for a
moment as if to steady his ragged breaths. "Nay. A broadsword hoped to
cleave me in two. 'Tis but superficial." His voice sounded forced,
throaty.
He fell silent
and Eleanor sensed he fought for control, but she couldn't imagine why, unless
he hadn't told the truth about the discomfort. She determined to be more
gentle.
With the cloth
re-soaped she stroked the fabric across his curved shoulder and down one
steel-like arm, then wondered how his skin would feel to her bare hand. She
had to know, so she splayed her fingers on his muscled bulge above his elbow,
then slid her hand down the wetness to his wrist. Crisp hairs glimmered as
they ruffled beneath her touch. The inside of his arm felt hard and slick with
soap and water,
face as he pulled off his other hose and tossed it aside.
With slow purpose
he pushed to his feet and stood in front of her, his linen braies loose about
his hips. "Aye. I'd like you to take my dagger in your hand. But you'll
not remove it from me. I'm too attached, you see."
"But, 'twill
rust."
"Nay. My
weapon will not rust."
He dropped his
braies to the floor.
C hapter F ive
" W hat think you of my
dagger?"
Eleanor gasped
and swallowed at the same time, then choked. Her face burned, her feet as cold
as wintry stone. Stunned, she sat and stared at his stiff manhood.
"Men are
different, after all." She didn't know she had uttered the words aloud,
but Lord Kyle laughed, so she must have.
"Have you
never seen a man's body before, lass?" He shook his head at his own
question. "From the look upon your face, I can tell you've not. I never
thought to see such an incredulous expression. You look aghast, as Eve must
have appeared after she bit the apple, then looked upon Adam."
Eleanor could
only clasp her trembling fingers and stare. She wanted to look away, but her
curious eyes betrayed her.
Lord Kyle laughed
again as he removed his braiel, the tabbed belt that had held his braies and
chausses. He leaned down to brush the bottom of one foot and stepped into the
tub, then he brushed at his other foot.
Eleanor watched
the rippled liquid creep up his flanks to his chest and the thighs of his bent
legs as he sank into the water. She would have never believed such a
description of male anatomy if anyone had told her, which no one had. 'Twas
not a subject discussed among the nuns at the convent.
He held the lye
bar in front of her eyes and spoiled her view. "You will need this,
lass."
Flustered, she
grabbed the soap. After dousing a dipper of water over his head, she rubbed
the bar on his golden strands and washed with haste so as to finish the task
and be away.
She heard him
laugh. "Take care, woman. You'll scrape away my hair."
"Good."
His laughter
mocked her annoyance.
She gritted her
teeth and forced her fingers to not grasp his hair and yank. "Pray tell,
Sire, what do they call you on the battlefield? The Merry Knight?"
He only laughed
harder.
Eleanor dumped
another dipper-full over his head and he jerked with a strangled cough.
Smiling, she soaped the cloth and scrubbed his back as hard as she could. If
she rubbed him raw, then he would never again ask her to . . .
The water on his
broad shoulders flashed fiery reflections. Her pace slowed. The hills and
valleys of his muscles stretched beneath her fingers. She ran the linen with
more care over each contour of his back and shoulders, then down the valley of
his spine. Rivulets of water glowed bright with entwined red and gold as they
twisted and snaked over his sinewy expanse. A jagged ridge of whitish skin ran
in a diagonal across his shoulder blade. With the tip of her forefinger she
traced the scar and felt the lump beneath her touch.
"How did
this happen, my lord?"
He hissed an
intake of air. His knuckles whitened where he gripped the side of the tub.
"Did I hurt
you, Sire?"
He sat for a
moment as if to steady his ragged breaths. "Nay. A broadsword hoped to
cleave me in two. 'Tis but superficial." His voice sounded forced,
throaty.
He fell silent
and Eleanor sensed he fought for control, but she couldn't imagine why, unless
he hadn't told the truth about the discomfort. She determined to be more
gentle.
With the cloth
re-soaped she stroked the fabric across his curved shoulder and down one
steel-like arm, then wondered how his skin would feel to her bare hand. She
had to know, so she splayed her fingers on his muscled bulge above his elbow,
then slid her hand down the wetness to his wrist. Crisp hairs glimmered as
they ruffled beneath her touch. The inside of his arm felt hard and slick with
soap and water,
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