Read Online Rexanne Becnel by My Gallant Enemy - Free Book Online
Authors: My Gallant Enemy
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Unwillingly her eyes slipped over him, from the heavy muscles of his broad shoulders, down his dark-furred chest to the rippling muscles of his trim waist. Her eyes stopped there, refusing to be drawn any further. The bunched fabric of his braies hid his hips and thighs from her view, and yet somehow she knew. His thighs would be like iron, finely wrought from years of horseback riding even as his arms were developed from endless practice at his battle skills. And the narrow line of hair that ran down his belly would end … She swallowed hard.
“Shall my bride find me as appealing as you seem to?”
She raised her eyes to his face with a jerk at his amused taunt and a wash of color flooded her cheeks. “As unappealing, you mean,” she snapped. But she feared he saw past her angry retort, for his eyes were dark and smoldering from some heat from within. She watched in helpless fascination the tick of a muscle in his jaw. The moment seemed to stretch out forever, and even her breathing was suspended as if she waited for something.
Then, as if it were an effort, he turned away from her and toward his bath.
She heard but did not watch as he removed his remaining garments. It was only when she heard him step into the tub, then lower himself into the heated water, that she dared turn around. He was lying back in the hammered tin tub, his head against the rolled edge. His eyes were closed and he was so still she might have thought he slept. Yet somehow she knew he was quite alert. He was a knight, well trained and well seasoned, and she knew from her father’s constant lectures to his own troops that this man had not survived by chance. He might rest, but the least sign of danger would bring him at once to the ready.
She wasn’t sure what she should do. She had the soap and cloths in her hands, yet she could not force herself to approach him. Then, as if he sensed her dilemma, he spoke.
“Unpack my bags now. Put out suitable garments in which a bridegroom may meet his bride.”
There was a tension in his voice that belied his relaxed position, but Lilliane was too relieved to note it overlong. With swift hands she emptied the satchel that had caused this awkward situation in the first place. Besides the sheaf of papers that he’d placed on the bed, there were only what she might expect a man to carry. Two shirts, extra braies, chausses and their bindings, and three handsome tunics.
She chose an iron-gray tunic, woven in a rare silk cloth she’d seen only once before. Silver threads ran through it making it glimmer in the light, and she could not resist running her hand lightly over it.
“’Tis made of Camoca. I had it stitched in Turkey.”
Lilliane shot a sidelong glance at him. “It’s lovely work,” she allowed in a muted tone.
“I’ve trunks of such goods in my wagons.”
It was a statement made with no particular inflection. Yet Lilliane sensed at once that there was much hinted at in his words. His eyes were no longer closed but were fastened upon her. Did he mean to tempt a poor serving girl with a length of fine cloth? She could not be sure, and his expression did not reveal his meaning.
When she made no reply, he raised himself to a sitting position, his arms resting on his bent knees.
“I’ve jewels, spices, perfumes.” He splashed water onto his chest and slowly rubbed his hand on the wet, curling hairs. “Rugs, tapestries. Rare furs.” He continued speaking but Lilliane made no note of his words. She was too intrigued by the absent movement of his hands. Around and around they moved in soothing circles as he washed. Her eyes skimmed lightly over the bronzed torso exposed above the softly steaming bathwater.
Despite the invincible image he’d presented earlier when he’d ridden so arrogantly into the bailey, she could see clearly that he was, after all, only a man. She had noticed then the nasty scar that marked his forehead and gave his left eyebrow its wicked arch. It had in
Unwillingly her eyes slipped over him, from the heavy muscles of his broad shoulders, down his dark-furred chest to the rippling muscles of his trim waist. Her eyes stopped there, refusing to be drawn any further. The bunched fabric of his braies hid his hips and thighs from her view, and yet somehow she knew. His thighs would be like iron, finely wrought from years of horseback riding even as his arms were developed from endless practice at his battle skills. And the narrow line of hair that ran down his belly would end … She swallowed hard.
“Shall my bride find me as appealing as you seem to?”
She raised her eyes to his face with a jerk at his amused taunt and a wash of color flooded her cheeks. “As unappealing, you mean,” she snapped. But she feared he saw past her angry retort, for his eyes were dark and smoldering from some heat from within. She watched in helpless fascination the tick of a muscle in his jaw. The moment seemed to stretch out forever, and even her breathing was suspended as if she waited for something.
Then, as if it were an effort, he turned away from her and toward his bath.
She heard but did not watch as he removed his remaining garments. It was only when she heard him step into the tub, then lower himself into the heated water, that she dared turn around. He was lying back in the hammered tin tub, his head against the rolled edge. His eyes were closed and he was so still she might have thought he slept. Yet somehow she knew he was quite alert. He was a knight, well trained and well seasoned, and she knew from her father’s constant lectures to his own troops that this man had not survived by chance. He might rest, but the least sign of danger would bring him at once to the ready.
She wasn’t sure what she should do. She had the soap and cloths in her hands, yet she could not force herself to approach him. Then, as if he sensed her dilemma, he spoke.
“Unpack my bags now. Put out suitable garments in which a bridegroom may meet his bride.”
There was a tension in his voice that belied his relaxed position, but Lilliane was too relieved to note it overlong. With swift hands she emptied the satchel that had caused this awkward situation in the first place. Besides the sheaf of papers that he’d placed on the bed, there were only what she might expect a man to carry. Two shirts, extra braies, chausses and their bindings, and three handsome tunics.
She chose an iron-gray tunic, woven in a rare silk cloth she’d seen only once before. Silver threads ran through it making it glimmer in the light, and she could not resist running her hand lightly over it.
“’Tis made of Camoca. I had it stitched in Turkey.”
Lilliane shot a sidelong glance at him. “It’s lovely work,” she allowed in a muted tone.
“I’ve trunks of such goods in my wagons.”
It was a statement made with no particular inflection. Yet Lilliane sensed at once that there was much hinted at in his words. His eyes were no longer closed but were fastened upon her. Did he mean to tempt a poor serving girl with a length of fine cloth? She could not be sure, and his expression did not reveal his meaning.
When she made no reply, he raised himself to a sitting position, his arms resting on his bent knees.
“I’ve jewels, spices, perfumes.” He splashed water onto his chest and slowly rubbed his hand on the wet, curling hairs. “Rugs, tapestries. Rare furs.” He continued speaking but Lilliane made no note of his words. She was too intrigued by the absent movement of his hands. Around and around they moved in soothing circles as he washed. Her eyes skimmed lightly over the bronzed torso exposed above the softly steaming bathwater.
Despite the invincible image he’d presented earlier when he’d ridden so arrogantly into the bailey, she could see clearly that he was, after all, only a man. She had noticed then the nasty scar that marked his forehead and gave his left eyebrow its wicked arch. It had in
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