Love at First Sight (31 page)

Summoning her strength, she grumbled, “Strike me again and there will not be enough left of you to reach hell.”

Before she could roll to her side and get comfortable, Gavarnie had yanked her to a sitting position and crushed her to his chest. Her eyes felt as if they might pop from her head, so tight was his hold.

Just as quickly, he pushed her away to arms’ length. Gripping her shoulders, his black eyes studied her face. “You are well?”

She tried to shake off his grasp, but what little energy she possessed was quickly spent. “I would be fine if you would cease battering me and allow me to rest.”

He inclined his head and gave her a steady look. “Know you who I am?”

She scowled. Whatever ailed the imbecile, that he would ask such? “Of course I . . .”

Her words trailed away as she recalled the vision. Doubtless, it was the reason for his peculiar behavior. She must have appeared mad.

Her mouth suddenly felt dry. She must tell him—

Her thoughts continued to tumble backward before she could speak. Did memory serve correct? Had she been bound and delivered to Skyenvic with less dignity than an old cow about to be butchered?

Oh, but Sir Varin and Amulf would pay for their scurrilous abuse, the lackwits. As would Gavarnie. That he had dared to leave her trussed like a hare on a spit. Then near drowned her. And all the while, he’d babbled on, comparing her shackled state to his blindness, as if one had aught to do with the other.

She affected a confused look. “You wish to know who you are?”

He raised a brow and nodded.

She gave him a dazzling smile. “You are the Pope.” His brows swooped down and he cast her a penetrating look. “Where are we?”

“We are in Rome.”

Dread and pity warred for dominance of his features. Pursing his lips, he leaned forward until his face was no more than a hand’s span from hers. His eyes burned with intensity. “How did you come to be in Rome?”

She could stand no more of his patronizing tone. Her nostrils flared and her smile soured. “I was transported by two spineless worms, who shall soon rue the day they were born. As will you, mi’lord dunghead, if you do not release me at once.”

She near laughed at his stunned expression. His features clouded, and it appeared thunder would roll any moment. Then his mouth abruptly crooked in a half smile. “Clever wench. You e’re amaze me with your cunning.”

She eyed him warily. Why was he being so even-tempered?

“Never have I met a female with such an aversion to bathing. Is there aught you will not do to avoid soap and water? You had me scared half unto death with that pretentious fit.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Bumptious lover of sheep. Twas no pretense. And do not attempt to disguise your lecherous intent with insults.”

She scrambled from the bed, pausing long enough to sneer at him. “Think you I did not see the gleam in your eye at my defenseless state? All that blather about wishing to help me, and how I must learn to control my temper.”

She spun and tromped toward the door, gesturing at the ceiling. “Drool fair spilled from your mouth at the thought of having me at your mercy.”

“Mistress,” he called, the edges of his voice curled with amusement.

The odious buzzard. She did not look back. “Save your breath, mi’lord knave. All the wealth of England could not convince me to suffer your company another moment. Nor will you ever know what I have seen.”

“Golde,” he called again.

“Do not hope to play on my sympathies with that sweet tone,” she huffed, nearing the door. “Though it might have wings and a gilded snout, a pig is yet a pig, and easily identifiable.”

“I could not agree more,” he purred as she reached for the door latch. “Despite the odor you emit, one could never mistake you for a fish. Particularly when your charms are so clearly displayed.”

At his cheerful tone, she jerked her head around. Following his gaze, she peered over her shoulder and down. Her eyes rounded. The bastard! All the while he’d been ogling her rear, which, indeed, the clinging wet chainse did naught to conceal.

“Both halves of your bottom are easily identifiable,” he commented smugly, “as is the line that separates—”

“Out,” she snapped before he could finish.

“Come, mistress.” He sounded like a cat who just happened to be in the vicinity of the dovecote. “You cannot order me about in my own chambers.”

Turning sideways, she pointed at the door. “Out!”

He shrugged and sighed heavily. “Very well.”

Rising from the bed, he shuffled toward the door, his shoulders hunched. Faith, he looked exactly like Ronces, the spoiled brat.

Except there was nothing boyish about him.

She retreated toward the wall, her gaze slipping from his face to his broad chest, to his narrow hips and long legs. Though less than a week had passed since she’d last seen him, he appeared to have developed a great deal more brawn.

A tingling sensation pooled in her groin, stealing the warmth from the rest of her body. She shivered.

“You are certain you do not need my assistance?” He paused before the door.

She jerked her gaze to his face and nodded her head emphatically. “Ab—abso—” She cleared her throat. “Absolutely.”

He raised a brow. “Well, if you change your thinking, do not hesitate to call.”

With a most reluctant glance, he fair drooped across the threshold, the latch clicking as he closed the door behind him.

She released her pent breath. Getting rid of him had been easier than she’d expected, though why she should feel so deflated, she knew not. Shivering again, she turned toward the bath. Some hot water and fresh clothing .. .

Her bare feet halted. Of all the despicable—

There would be no hot water. And what clean clothing she possessed lay in her chest, which, last she’d seen, was in Nicolette’s chamber.

She spun about and did her best to pull the door from its hinges. “Lowly son of a serpent,” she shrieked into the corridor. “Hie yourself back here.”

As if he’d been awaiting her summons, Gavarnie’s head appeared at the top of the stairs. “Is there something you require?”

“Do not give me that innocent look. You know very well that I require hot water and clothes.”

His steps purposely laggard, he came up the stairs, then sauntered along the corridor. Drawing to a halt, he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the door frame. “I shall be most happy to accommodate your wishes, provided I am well paid.” He held out his palm.

She slapped it. “Fool. You are mistaken if you think I will not fetch my own clothes for fear of being seen by some lowly liegeman.”

He stared pointedly at her breasts.

She glanced down to see her nipples poking against her wet chainse. Again, warmth spread through her groin and she fought to keep from wincing. Gathering the soaked material in her frozen fingers, she held it away from her body and made to sweep past him.

He grasped her upper arm and gave her an overaffected leer. “’Twould be most remiss of me to ignore your icy discomfort.”

“I am not cold.”

“Then can I presume your nipples have hardened in response to my touch?” He pulled her close and wrapped his arms about her. “Come, my redolent blossom. Let us get you cleaned up.”

He lifted her
off
her feet and hauled her back inside the bedchamber, kicking the door closed behind him.

Despite his buffoonery, warm wisps of unwelcome desire curled through her body. Squirming for release did naught but increase the horrid yearning. Commanding her body to stillness, she strove for an imperious tone. “Leave go, lout.”

“In a moment, fragrant flower.” He grunted and staggered, as if he were performing some great feat of strength in carrying her weight.

Her eyes widened when she realized he was headed toward the tub. “If you dare return me to that icy—”

The backs of her knees hit the padded rim of the bath. Before she could blink, he’d tilted her backward until she was forced to bend her legs. Then over the side she went. She gasped as she landed with a great plop in ankle-deep water that felt colder now than it had before.

“You were saying?” He straightened, making a show of rubbing his back as if she’d broken it.

“Misbegotten son of a cur.”

He smiled benevolently. “No need to express your appreciation. Let me help you remove that filthy garment.”

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.”