Read Online Desire's Sirocco by Charlotte Boyett-Compo - Free Book Online Page B

arm, flexing the ache in his bruised shoulder and frowned deeply. The good whiff of his own body odor coming from beneath his arm was enough to bowl over a giant. He was a mass of dull pain from his shins to the twinge of soreness in his ribs to the throbbing agony between his eyes. All he could think of was the hot bath that awaited him and the cool drink of elixir he knew would be waiting at the water’s edge.
    He was alone in the bathing chamber and for that was grateful for every grunting hurt. The thought of carrying on a conversation at that moment sent shivers of protest through his brain.
    The water was a haven beckoning him in a muted glow from the myriad candles ranged about the room. A mist floated atop the heated pool, wafting over the rim to slither along the stone floor. Overhead, a vast variety of aromatic hanging plants trailed from the roof to within six feet of the water’s surface, lending a calming feel to the humid conditions of the chamber. Somewhere beyond the soaring granite walls off to the left, the strains of a musician strumming a stringed instrument added to the soothing atmosphere.
    So tired he could barely lift his hands to the buckle of his breeches, Dagan closed his eyes and undressed, shucking each item of clothing as though a serpent shedding his skin. When he was down to only his breechclout, he stood there panting with exhaustion, his hands on his hips, his head lowered to his chest.
    “A taxing day with the troops?”
    Dagan slowly lifted his head and looked up at the Brother who had entered the room so quietly he had not heard him.
    The Brother smiled. “You wish to be alone?”
    “Aye,” Dagan managed to reply and the one word cost him a grave effort.
    Bowing respectfully, the Brother slipped as silently from the room as he had entered.
    Drawing in a long breath, Dagan let it out slowly, and then stepped out of his breechclout. He padded over to the water and without giving himself time to think, dove into the hot bath, cleaving the air like a champion diver, his form perfect as he split the softly undulating waves.
    After several slow transits of the pool underwater, the warrior surfaced, flinging his long hair in a watery arc over his head, then shaking his head from side to side like an angry terrier. He shuddered then stretched out on his back, traversing the pool several more times as he gazed up at the draping plants, his strokes working the ache out of his battered shoulders.
    It was always a chore when the Master inspected the troops. The man had to prove he was as good—if not better—than his best warrior. His demand for perfection from his troop as well as from himself left no soldier untested, no weapon unused from the arsenal.
    Wincing at the pain that rippled through his ribcage, Dagan flipped over in the water and lay like a dead man atop the heaving waves, his eyes open and staring at the intricate mosaics that adorned the bathing pool’s floor. Though the heat hurt, it also cleaned the grime from his eyes and when he put his feet down and sat upon the edge of the pool, he felt invigorated for the first time in hours. Taking up a bar of coarse soap lying in a china dish, he began to lather away the grime that coated his flesh.
    After thoroughly washing his face and hair, his soapy hands ran through the wiry pelt covering his chest, lathering the suds until he was coated from neck to belly. He moved the soap over each arm, lifted each leg in turn, then reached as far up his back and along his shoulders as he could. The last thing he bathed—the last thing he had any desire to touch—was the flaccid muscle between his thighs and he was quick to wash himself there, his mind firmly on the last tumble from his horse during the jousting.
    When he was finished cleansing himself, he ducked down beneath the surface and when he came up, put up his hands to wipe the moisture from his face. He dragged his fingers through his hair and wished he could crawl between clean,