me Bogo,” he said.
“I can’t. The abbot is hearing his confession. There was no way he could get away from him.”
Nicholas choked back a laugh. “I don’t know who I pity more, Bogo or the good abbot.”
“I don’t think Father Paulus is deserving of much compassion after what he did to you,” Julianna said.
“Go away, my lady. I’ll wait for Bogo.” He turned his face away from her, dismissing her.
“The shirt is ruined,” she said in a calm voice, ignoring him. “I don’t dare try to pull it off yet—it will make the wounds bleed again. Lie very still and I’ll put damp cloths on your back to loosen it.”
“Go away…”
“Be quiet,” she said, and for once he was too weary to argue. The first touch of damp cloth to his back was agony, and he arched up, cursing beneath his breath. And then he sank back into the mattress, closing his mind to the pain, to the soft hands on his back, the scent of cinnamon, the soft sound of her breathing.
He must have dozed, an impossible thing, since he never slept in the presence of a woman. But Julianna of Moncrieff was no ordinary woman, and his back made him less than himself. Her hands had left him, the wet cloths were removed, and he turned his head to look up at her. She stood over him, dressed in her dull clothes, a wicked-looking dagger in her slender hand.
“Are you planning to unman me, my lady?” he murmured in a pain-dulled voice. “Or simply to stab me to the heart?”
“If I were to cut off any part of you, I imagine I’d go for your tongue,” she said tardy.
“Now that would, be a terrible mistake, love. You’ve yet to sample the delights of my tongue, only its annoyances. I could bring you quite astonishing pleasure with my gifted tongue, all without saying a word.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I expect I’d rather not know. Doubtless it’s something bawdy.”
“You bring bawdy thoughts to mind, my lady.”
He was bemused by the expression on her face. Clearly the lady didn’t believe herself deliriously worthy of his lustful designs. He wondered why. “I’m going to cut your shirt off,” she said, ignoring him. “If you don’t have another one, I’ll have Lady Isabeau see that it’s replaced.”
“I have enough clothing that I can spare one,” he said. “You could keep it as a love token.”
“You should watch yourself when I’m holding a knife over your back,” she muttered.
“I trust you, my lady.” Though he wouldn’t have put it past her to be rough in her dispatching of his shirt, she wielded the knife with slow, gentle delicacy, the sharp blade slicing through the damp cloth. She pulled it away from his skin, pushing it off his shoulders, and her shocked intake of breath told him Father Paulus had done a thorough job of meting out punishment.
The cool night air was both painful and soothing on his torn flesh. “Are you going to pray over me?” he murmured, “or did you bring bandages?”
“I think you’re past praying for,” she said in a voice that trembled slightly. “I’m going to put a salve on your back. It will hurt,” she warned him.
“Everything does,” he replied, gritting his teeth as he waited for the touch of her hands.
It was worse than he expected—not the pain, but the pleasure. She touched him lightly, spreading the unguent into his wounded flesh with a touch so delicate that it was a feather-soft caress. She leaned over him, intent on her work, and he could feel her thick braid brush against his arm. Feel her breath warming his back. Feel his cock harden in the dark cushion of the mattress. He closed his eyes and smiled in sinful pleasure, imagining just how he’d return the favor when his time came.
She was humming underneath her breath, a quiet little song that he assumed was some sort of plainsong to keep the dangerous fool at bay. He suspected she wasn’t even aware of her voice, and he wanted to roll over on his abraded back and pull her
“I can’t. The abbot is hearing his confession. There was no way he could get away from him.”
Nicholas choked back a laugh. “I don’t know who I pity more, Bogo or the good abbot.”
“I don’t think Father Paulus is deserving of much compassion after what he did to you,” Julianna said.
“Go away, my lady. I’ll wait for Bogo.” He turned his face away from her, dismissing her.
“The shirt is ruined,” she said in a calm voice, ignoring him. “I don’t dare try to pull it off yet—it will make the wounds bleed again. Lie very still and I’ll put damp cloths on your back to loosen it.”
“Go away…”
“Be quiet,” she said, and for once he was too weary to argue. The first touch of damp cloth to his back was agony, and he arched up, cursing beneath his breath. And then he sank back into the mattress, closing his mind to the pain, to the soft hands on his back, the scent of cinnamon, the soft sound of her breathing.
He must have dozed, an impossible thing, since he never slept in the presence of a woman. But Julianna of Moncrieff was no ordinary woman, and his back made him less than himself. Her hands had left him, the wet cloths were removed, and he turned his head to look up at her. She stood over him, dressed in her dull clothes, a wicked-looking dagger in her slender hand.
“Are you planning to unman me, my lady?” he murmured in a pain-dulled voice. “Or simply to stab me to the heart?”
“If I were to cut off any part of you, I imagine I’d go for your tongue,” she said tardy.
“Now that would, be a terrible mistake, love. You’ve yet to sample the delights of my tongue, only its annoyances. I could bring you quite astonishing pleasure with my gifted tongue, all without saying a word.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I expect I’d rather not know. Doubtless it’s something bawdy.”
“You bring bawdy thoughts to mind, my lady.”
He was bemused by the expression on her face. Clearly the lady didn’t believe herself deliriously worthy of his lustful designs. He wondered why. “I’m going to cut your shirt off,” she said, ignoring him. “If you don’t have another one, I’ll have Lady Isabeau see that it’s replaced.”
“I have enough clothing that I can spare one,” he said. “You could keep it as a love token.”
“You should watch yourself when I’m holding a knife over your back,” she muttered.
“I trust you, my lady.” Though he wouldn’t have put it past her to be rough in her dispatching of his shirt, she wielded the knife with slow, gentle delicacy, the sharp blade slicing through the damp cloth. She pulled it away from his skin, pushing it off his shoulders, and her shocked intake of breath told him Father Paulus had done a thorough job of meting out punishment.
The cool night air was both painful and soothing on his torn flesh. “Are you going to pray over me?” he murmured, “or did you bring bandages?”
“I think you’re past praying for,” she said in a voice that trembled slightly. “I’m going to put a salve on your back. It will hurt,” she warned him.
“Everything does,” he replied, gritting his teeth as he waited for the touch of her hands.
It was worse than he expected—not the pain, but the pleasure. She touched him lightly, spreading the unguent into his wounded flesh with a touch so delicate that it was a feather-soft caress. She leaned over him, intent on her work, and he could feel her thick braid brush against his arm. Feel her breath warming his back. Feel his cock harden in the dark cushion of the mattress. He closed his eyes and smiled in sinful pleasure, imagining just how he’d return the favor when his time came.
She was humming underneath her breath, a quiet little song that he assumed was some sort of plainsong to keep the dangerous fool at bay. He suspected she wasn’t even aware of her voice, and he wanted to roll over on his abraded back and pull her
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