Sin and Surrender (7 page)

She did so, but said over her shoulder, “This is not finished, Paul. We will be together many weeks. You should talk to me.”

“And speak of things that have nothing to do with our mission? I’m surprised at you, Juliana.”

He stripped down to his braies, the thin, short undergarment about his hips. It felt very arousing to disrobe behind a woman he didn’t plan to sleep with the same night. He was more and more convinced she wasn’t an innocent, and that was another sin to lay at the League’s door.

Yet, he could not regret her knowledge, the choices she’d made as an adult.

She stood near the table, where fresh linens had been
piled. He walked up behind her and reached past her shoulder, just brushing her with his arm. She didn’t flinch, only glanced up at his face.

“I need a towel,” he said softly.

“You are taking your time,” she answered. “I am wet, too.”

He paused, closing his eyes, savoring her words as if they meant something altogether different.

Though it pained him, he remained behind her back to dress. “I’ll stand outside the door while you—”

“Nay, Paul.”

She turned around while he was still shirtless, but to his regret, she kept her gaze on his face.

“We’ve left London. You must stay with me at all times.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “All the time, Juliana?” He glanced pointedly at the closed chamber pot in the corner.

At last he’d coaxed a reaction out of her, as her face flamed red.

“Oh.”

He went to the wall adjoining several of the Bladesmen. He rapped three times, paused, then did it once more.

“What are you doing?”

“I chatted with Joseph today, and he expressed his
concern about you. I suggested a system to give you privacy, and to give you peace about your assignment as well.”

There was a knock on the door, and then Joseph leaned his head in. “You called, Sir Paul?”

“I’ll be out in a moment.”

After the door had shut, Juliana was watching him, a smile tugging the corners of her lips.

“Very thoughtful of you,” she said. “I believe you are trying to win your way into my good graces.”

Into your bed,
he thought, then chastised himself. But he could torment himself by playing the lady’s maid, if he couldn’t seduce her. He caught her by the shoulders and turned her away from him. Gathering the thick mass of her hair in his hands, he draped it over her shoulder, out of his way.

“What—”

“Your laces are damp. Surely they will not be easy to untie.”

She didn’t even stiffen, simply stood there while he tugged at her garments, slowly pulling the laces apart, revealing the softness of her smock. It, too, was damp and clung to her. Every inch downward, her torso narrowed, and her spine curved inward, leading him slowly but surely toward the swell of her buttocks.

He reached the last of the laces, and he couldn’t move,
though he told himself to. His hands spread out until he rested them on her waist. He could hear her breathing, even above his own heartbeat, which thundered in his chest, in his ears. His thumbs stroked her spine as he lowered his head. He could smell the damp sweetness of her skin at her bare neck. When he was but an inch from pressing a kiss to her flesh, forgetting himself, she suddenly stepped away from him.

“My thanks, Paul,” she said, her voice showing no sign that he’d affected her at all. “I believe Joseph is waiting for you.”

He was relieved to escape before doing something he’d regret.

When Paul had gone, Juliana’s entire body sagged, shuddering, as she closed her eyes. Her skin still seemed to tingle, to hum, where he’d touched her.

What was wrong with her? Many men had touched her, adjusting her position with the bow, demonstrating grappling techniques. She’d rolled around on the ground with men, for God’s sake. Yet … all Paul had to do was span her waist with his large hands, making her feel so delicate, so feminine, and she’d turned into mush.

She liked these feelings too much—and she despised herself for them. Having always thought of herself as a strong person, mere days with Paul were showing her otherwise.

She was forced to gather herself together when some
one knocked on the door, but didn’t identify themselves in the League manner. She slid her dagger out of her boot, and positioned herself against the wall, calling, “Aye, who goes there?”

A woman’s voice said, “Servants, milady, with the bath yer lordship ordered.”

They hadn’t used titles, but Paul’s very demeanor made all think him of the nobility. And now he was proving himself a thoughtful gentleman—for show or in reality? She didn’t know or care.

“Enter.”

She remained near to the door, the dagger hidden in her skirts, her unlaced back against the wall. Carrying two steaming buckets, a woman entered first, and two valets came behind, with a padded, wooden bathing tub between them. Juliana relaxed her tense stance and tried not to stare greedily at the tub. They made two more trips with water and clean linens, and then she was alone, stripping her garments off and sinking into the unbearably hot water.

It was delicious, stinging and cleansing all at once. She groaned aloud, closing her eyes, wishing she could submerge herself all the way, but the tub was too small for that. And she couldn’t afford to take her time, either, for Paul would return soon enough.

She silently blessed him while she scrubbed the day’s travel from her body. After lathering the soft soap into
her hair, she stood up and poured the last bucket of fresh water over her head, letting it sluice away all the soap. Regretfully, she stepped out of the tub and dried herself with the linens, donning a fresh night rail and the dressing gown. Soon her dirty garments were laundered and hung on chairs before the fire. It wasn’t a thorough cleaning, but it was better than washing them in a stream, as she might be doing soon enough. She even went through Paul’s bags and washed his laundry, too.

When he returned, she smiled at him as he closed the door.

“Your thoughtfulness was appreciated,” she said, from her place before the fire, where she combed through her hair to dry it.

“Selfishness, you mean.” He set down the steaming bucket he’d carried in, then gave a shiver as he began to disrobe.

“But the water is filthy. I even used it for laundry.”

“It will still do for a quick wash.”

“But you’re wealthy and arrogant. Simply send for more.”

“I cannot do that. The wench’s back looked bowed enough.”

His thoughtfulness for a servant warmed her. And then she thought of him undressing and bathing right in front of her. She came to her feet, trying not to betray
her concern by moving too quickly. “I’ll dress and leave you to—”

“No need. Close your eyes if you wish.”

Knowing she’d betray her nervousness and ignorance to him if she fled, she calmly sat back down, faced the fire, and resumed combing. She could hear his clothes hitting the floor, then the splash of water. He didn’t sigh with pleasure as she had, but the water was barely warm by this point. At least he’d brought a fresh bucket to rinse with.

She tried to clear her mind, to calm herself and focus on nothing, but then she realized her fingers were trembling. What was she so worried about? He would hardly attack her.

“You did not need to wash my things as well,” he said from just behind her.

She started to turn, saw too much bare flesh as he toweled himself, and then turned back to the fire. “‘Twas not an imposition.”

“So you’re my servant in every way?”

“I imagine you wish so,” she said dryly.

“You know men too well.”

Not too well, nay, but she would not admit to that. And she didn’t know
him
well, because she’d thought he might apologize for putting his hands on her with such familiarity, but he made no mention of it. And he
wasn’t the sort to let embarrassment render him mute.

Perhaps he wasn’t sorry at all. Or perhaps it had been nothing to him, a tease, a way to fight boredom. The only thing she really knew of him was the kind of man she’d built him up to be in her youth. And that man had vanished. He was no saint, no great teacher, but a man without gratitude for what had been given him.

When she knew he was decently clothed, and her hair was dry, she plaited it, then went to bed, setting her weapons carefully on the floor nearby.

“Cover yourself against the chill,” he said. “I shall be there soon.”

Again keeping her dressing gown on, she lay down. He hadn’t donned a shirt, she realized with a start—she’d been so busy trying not to look at him. Keeping her eyes closed proved too difficult, so at last, with great reluctance, she opened them enough so that she could look between her lashes. He was laying out his weapons, wiping them one by one. His blond hair was drying in random waves, as if he’d only run his fingers through and nothing more.

She still couldn’t believe she’d told him of her father’s sentence of treason. Since her arrival with the League, and their assurances that her past didn’t matter to them, she hadn’t spoken of her parents. She’d banished them from her mind, for the memories only brought sadness and confusion and guilt.

But she’d told Paul. Why?

Perhaps because she’d wanted to shock him, to show him that he should stop talking about the outside world as if she had a place to go there. Or had she wanted to remind him of the goodness of the League?

But he hadn’t returned her honesty, had stopped himself from talking about his past. He’d claimed the League had wanted more than to simply protect three little boys, but wouldn’t explain further. It was a mystery that intrigued her too much.

Perhaps he was the wise one, holding back, trying to keep his distance from her. This was an assignment, after all.

But then he’d touched her. She quivered as if she could still feel the way his thumbs had caressed the base of her spine. But she knew men, knew that copulating with women was something they did with ease, without attachment or emotion. And she was convenient to him.

She should keep her distance, as he did. If only his secrets didn’t call to her …

At last he reached for a shirt, and she opened her eyes wide so she could drink in the sight of his body moving, the play of muscles in his back, the way the firelight flickered across his skin. She caught sight of several scars, evidence of a hard-fought life.

So much for keeping an emotional distance, she thought with a sigh, then realized she’d been too loud.

He glanced at her. “Forgive me for keeping you awake.”

“Nay, you are not.” She used the first excuse she could think of. “I am simply still chilled, and hoping that tomorrow’s dawn shows the sun.”

“Perhaps I should warm the bed.”

She stiffened, then once again calmed herself. He couldn’t know how he affected her. The fire lit him from behind as he approached her. She went to sit up, but he put a hand on her shoulder.

“No need.”

He knelt on the edge of the bed, sinking her against him, then crawled right over the top of her. She inhaled without too obvious a gasp, holding still as she felt the heat of him, the brush of his loose shirt across her hands, the insides of his thighs against her hips. And then he was on his own side, and she forced herself to breathe.

“A good night to you, my duckling.”

Taking an unsteady breath, she said, “Can you at least come up with a better term of endearment?”

“I like it. A man wouldn’t call his concubine his love.”

“As I did to you.”

“Ah, but you only showed your devotion to me.”

She didn’t like his satisfaction, as if her words had been real. “You mean my supposed devotion to your
money. Without that, you certainly do not have enough to attract a woman such as me.”

“In truth?” His voice was deep and husky, suddenly intrigued.

She realized she’d practically challenged him.

“Paul, you know what I mean,” she said, her voice firm and cool. “My character, the worldly concubine.”

There was a moment of silence between them, where she lay still on her back and barely kept from retreating to the edge of the bed. She was beginning to be afraid of her attraction to him. After spending these last few years learning the peace and satisfaction of controlling herself and her emotions, she didn’t want to throw it all away lusting after a man who would be gone from her life in but weeks.

Yet her skin twitched as she waited for him to touch her, to—

He suddenly chuckled. “My worldly concubine, you need to sleep and think of better ways to flatter your man.”

She closed her eyes, her breath leaving her lungs in a long, slow exhale of relief.

And disappointment.

A thump against the wall woke Paul later that same night. A Bladesman stood guard in the corridor, and no
one had come inside the bedchamber, but … something was wrong. He took a moment to listen, ears straining, eyes seeking in the gloom of the nearly dark chamber. He sat up, only to find that Juliana was already crouched beside the bed, reaching for her dagger.

Trying to protect him already? he wondered.

She glanced over her shoulder at him, gestured with her head, and crept toward the door, her dressing gown billowing about her swiftly moving feet. He followed, but before he could take the lead nearest the door latch, she placed herself there.

Stepping swiftly, he reached for the latch. She batted his hand away, her gaze narrowed fiercely at him. Staying in the character of a weak prince, letting someone else protect him, was far harder than he’d imagined it would be. Although he felt his teeth grinding together, he put his back against the wall on the other side of the door and watched her.

Another thump sounded from the corridor, this time closer. Their gazes met, even as she carefully raised the door latch and eased the door open. She was cautious and correct in her technique, eyes sweeping as the opening door revealed more and more of the corridor. But he felt tense waiting for something to happen—to happen to her.

And then she threw the door wide and darted into the corridor. Paul followed. He caught a glimpse of a
man struggling in old Roger’s arms, only a moment before Juliana used the hilt of her dagger to render him unconscious.