husband's guests in their baths." He loosened his braies.
Melisande rolled her eyes upward to scan the wooden roof. "Oh."
The Norman's mouth turned downward at its corners in a futile attempt to keep from laughing, then his low-pitched chuckle rumbled out like distant thunder.
His laughter drew her back to him like iron to a lodestone. She shouldn't have been looking, but her gaze riveted to his lean, hard body, to a broad back with massive shoulders above solid, thickset legs and hard, round buttocks. Beneath golden skin, corded muscles flexed and changed their shape with his movements. Melisande forced her gaze back to the planks above her, concentrating on those slits where the light showed through.
"Ah, yes, I see, Edyt. The roof has holes. We must see to that." The timbre of his voice danced like a lively air from a wood flute.
The water splashed loudly behind her. She studied the plank roof as if she had never seen it before.
The Norman let out a loud, contented sigh as he slid down into the steaming water to the wooden stool, all the way up to his neck. He leaned back, rested his head against the tub's rim, and closed his eyes.
She was watching again.
And the silence was intolerable. "Is it the custom of the people in the south to bathe often?"
"It is my custom. But it is all too uncommon, I fear. Ah, there is little that feels as good as a tub of hot water. This bath house. This is a fine idea. Edyt, tell me about Fyren."
She didn't want to talk about Fyren. But it seemed better than the embarrassing alternative. "What do you wish to know?"
"What killed him."
"He killed himself, so they say."
"I do not believe it. He had no reason."
He was too clever. And she had not thought out her strategy well enough. Her mind raced for an answer, but she blurted out the first thought that came. "The priest cursed him, but he did not believe in God. I cannot say it was the curse. But it is said he took a poison every day, so that none could poison him."
"And he finally took too much?"
"Mayhap."
"He was an intelligent man."
"He was a madman."
The Norman eyed her as if she had just done something inexplicable. Then he leaned back, again closed his eyes, and his breathing became slow and easy. Melisande picked up the discarded garments littering the stone floor, folded them all neatly and set them on the low wooden bench. With the very tips of her fingers, she picked up the purple cloak, and even as she folded it, held it as far from her as she could.
"Edyt."
"Aye, lord."
"The soap, Edyt."
"Oh. Aye."
She laid the cloak aside and carried the soap pot back to the tub where the Norman lord soaked himself. Great streams of water ran down from his black hair, and in rivulets down his face. He must have dunked his head while she was not looking.
"The hair, Edyt."
"Hair?"
"Aye, the hair. Would you not wash my hair, or must I beg?"
The little room was dark, save for the small hearth fire, and Melisande said a small prayer of thanks for that. Still, standing behind his back, she could see every blessed part of his body beneath the water, from the bobbing black curls on his chest, all the way down to his toenails, and everything in between. Everything. Some parts of a man's body must be lighter than others, she thought, as they also bobbed. . .
She busied her hands with the lather of the oozing soap, which she worked into the stark black strands. His hair became soft, silky, between her fingers. He hummed quietly, a low rumble coming up from his chest, like that great monster cat, Rufus, when he purred.
For just that one moment, she would let herself savor that pleasure, the pleasure of pleasing. She allowed her fingers to stray downward, crossing over the black points of hair at the nape of his neck, to skim over the firm rounds of muscle that filled out broad shoulders and strong arms. His resonant hum deepened, and a contented smile spread across his freshly shaven face, inviting her touch. . .
The soap would do
Melisande rolled her eyes upward to scan the wooden roof. "Oh."
The Norman's mouth turned downward at its corners in a futile attempt to keep from laughing, then his low-pitched chuckle rumbled out like distant thunder.
His laughter drew her back to him like iron to a lodestone. She shouldn't have been looking, but her gaze riveted to his lean, hard body, to a broad back with massive shoulders above solid, thickset legs and hard, round buttocks. Beneath golden skin, corded muscles flexed and changed their shape with his movements. Melisande forced her gaze back to the planks above her, concentrating on those slits where the light showed through.
"Ah, yes, I see, Edyt. The roof has holes. We must see to that." The timbre of his voice danced like a lively air from a wood flute.
The water splashed loudly behind her. She studied the plank roof as if she had never seen it before.
The Norman let out a loud, contented sigh as he slid down into the steaming water to the wooden stool, all the way up to his neck. He leaned back, rested his head against the tub's rim, and closed his eyes.
She was watching again.
And the silence was intolerable. "Is it the custom of the people in the south to bathe often?"
"It is my custom. But it is all too uncommon, I fear. Ah, there is little that feels as good as a tub of hot water. This bath house. This is a fine idea. Edyt, tell me about Fyren."
She didn't want to talk about Fyren. But it seemed better than the embarrassing alternative. "What do you wish to know?"
"What killed him."
"He killed himself, so they say."
"I do not believe it. He had no reason."
He was too clever. And she had not thought out her strategy well enough. Her mind raced for an answer, but she blurted out the first thought that came. "The priest cursed him, but he did not believe in God. I cannot say it was the curse. But it is said he took a poison every day, so that none could poison him."
"And he finally took too much?"
"Mayhap."
"He was an intelligent man."
"He was a madman."
The Norman eyed her as if she had just done something inexplicable. Then he leaned back, again closed his eyes, and his breathing became slow and easy. Melisande picked up the discarded garments littering the stone floor, folded them all neatly and set them on the low wooden bench. With the very tips of her fingers, she picked up the purple cloak, and even as she folded it, held it as far from her as she could.
"Edyt."
"Aye, lord."
"The soap, Edyt."
"Oh. Aye."
She laid the cloak aside and carried the soap pot back to the tub where the Norman lord soaked himself. Great streams of water ran down from his black hair, and in rivulets down his face. He must have dunked his head while she was not looking.
"The hair, Edyt."
"Hair?"
"Aye, the hair. Would you not wash my hair, or must I beg?"
The little room was dark, save for the small hearth fire, and Melisande said a small prayer of thanks for that. Still, standing behind his back, she could see every blessed part of his body beneath the water, from the bobbing black curls on his chest, all the way down to his toenails, and everything in between. Everything. Some parts of a man's body must be lighter than others, she thought, as they also bobbed. . .
She busied her hands with the lather of the oozing soap, which she worked into the stark black strands. His hair became soft, silky, between her fingers. He hummed quietly, a low rumble coming up from his chest, like that great monster cat, Rufus, when he purred.
For just that one moment, she would let herself savor that pleasure, the pleasure of pleasing. She allowed her fingers to stray downward, crossing over the black points of hair at the nape of his neck, to skim over the firm rounds of muscle that filled out broad shoulders and strong arms. His resonant hum deepened, and a contented smile spread across his freshly shaven face, inviting her touch. . .
The soap would do
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