Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Harwyn and I spent the next morning making the salve.
The oil that the flowers had been soaking in had turned a rich, warm yellow overnight.
Its delicate, healing aroma soothed my senses, and I picked up the bowl, swirling the oil round.
Harwyn set a large pot of water over the fire, and I placed the bowl into it, stirring the contents as the water bubbled into a low simmer until, a length, the yellow had turned a vibrant orange.
Taking the bowl off the heat, my hand slipped, and I cried in frustration as some of the precious oil splashed out.
“Lady, your hand!”
Some of the hot oil had spilled onto the back of my hand.
Harwyn ran over with a dish of cold water and plunged my hand in.
She sat me at the table, insisting I do no more that morning.
I obeyed her with reluctance, but was soon grateful for her care, for my hand started to feel very sore.
Under my direction, she finished the process, straining the oil through a cloth into a clean bowl and stirring in the beeswax before pouring it into jars to cool.
The color had now dulled to a soft ochre.
I nodded my approval. We now had enough salve to last several months.
Harwyn took my hand out of the water. The skin was an angry red and a blister was already forming.
Once the salve cooled, I would be the first patient to use it.
I sent for Sawford during the afternoon but by sunset he’d still not come, so I sent for him again.
While tearing strips of cloth for bandages, I startled as a voice spoke from behind.
“What is it you want, madam?”
I was used to the sneering tone, but his ability to move about so soundlessly still unnerved me. I had not even heard him enter.
I motioned to him to sit.
“Your dressing needs changing,” I said. “and I must inspect the wound.”
“I have no time to waste on frivolities.”
Tempering my anger, I kept my voice cool.
“You’ll be lucky to avoid further infection, and you are a fool if you choose to ignore the risk. Unless, of course, you consider having only one arm to be an advantage over men in possession of two.”
I placed the jar of salve on the table and his eyes narrowed.
“Hold out your arm, Monsieur.”
He obeyed, watching me with what looked like a flicker of amusement in his eyes. Then his expression hardened as he lowered his gaze to my bandaged hand. He grasped it then released me the instant I winced.
“It appears I am not the only fool,” he said.
“A simple accident,” I replied, not disguising the scorn in my voice. “Not all ladies are engaged in frivolities, despite what those around us may think.”
“Lord Mortlock would not share your sentiments. He does not wish to see flaws in his wife.”
“Are you referring to the burn on my hand or to my character, Monsieur Sawford?”
He curled his lip, but said nothing. I unwound the bandage on his arm, cleaned the wound and, as delicately as I could, spread the salve with my fingertips.
“Tell me if it pains you,” I said.
He remained silent while I applied a fresh bandage.
I secured it with a knot near his wrist, then he took my hand, curling his fingers round mine.
The shock of the contact made me look up.
His eyes were fixed on my face, and I caught a glimpse of something in their hidden depths, an understanding between him and I which separated us from the rest of the world. Then he released me and looked away.
After dismissing him, I turned my back and resumed tidying the room. I did not hear him leave.
Before I visited my husband that night, I removed the bandage from my hand, remembering Sawford’s words about a flawed wife.
Though the burn gave me pain, its appearance concerned me more.
The skin was an angry red, and the burn had puckered into blisters.
But with luck, in the dim light of the solar my husband wouldn’t notice it.
Standing before him once more, I removed my nightgown, suppressing a cry at the stab of pain as the fabric brushed over my hand. Sawford took my wrists and held them behind my back.
My husband did not tell Sawford to release me. Instead, he nodded his approval, leering at the way the position pushed my breasts forward.
After my husband had finished, Sawford held my nightshift up to place over my head.
I stepped closer to him and caught the tangy aroma of the salve mingled with his masculine scent.
He nodded toward my arms and deftly slipped the garment on, taking care not to touch the burn as I lifted my arms. Then he took my hand and led me out of the solar.
On entering my chamber, I tried to ignore him while I replaced the bandage on my hand, but his presence dominated the room. I could almost taste the raw male power in the air.
Then he spoke. His voice, though soft, expressed strength and conveyed the inevitability of what was to come. He was not a man to be denied.
“Lift up your arms, so I may remove your gown.”
I backed away and shook my head, my heart hammering in my chest.
“I’ll not ask again, and you would not wish to explain a torn nightgown to Lord Mortlock.”
I sighed in resignation and lifted my arms, letting him undress me. He took my shoulders and, as on countless nights before, he pushed me toward the bed, until I fell back onto the straw mattress.
Slowly, he removed his shirt, revealing the planed muscles on his chest. His physique was not that of a servant.
The calluses on his hands, the hard muscles, and the scars on his body were the marks of a warrior, relating far more of his history than any words could.
He removed his chausses and hose and stood before me, utterly naked for the first time.
His manhood stood thick and erect, almost brushing his stomach.
Fear coursed through my veins. Until now Sawford had taken me swiftly, bringing himself to pleasure quickly, then withdrawing. But the expression in his eyes told me that tonight would be different.
He approached the bed and lay beside me, the bed ropes creaking under his weight.
His skin was hot to the touch, and it seared my body as he moved over me, trapping my legs with one of his own.
I closed my eyes and started counting, breathing in and out, but his hand caressed my face, and my eyes flew open.
“Ah no, lover,” he breathed. “You are not to hide yourself from me tonight.”
Was there nothing this man did not know? I tried to turn my head, but he held it firm, silencing my protest with his mouth. He moved his lips possessively over mine, knowing that I would surrender. He brushed his hand down my neck, circling his fingers round my throat.
Those long, skilled fingers traced a path to my breasts, sweeping in smooth circles until his palm rested lightly, cupping one breast in a soft caress. He rubbed the tip with his thumb and my skin tightened in response.
He drew his hand back, and I made a small involuntary sound at the sense of loss.
He smiled, and bent his head to brush his lips against my throat.
I tipped my head back to expose my throat to him.
The heat from his lips sent trails of warmth across my whole body, pooling in my stomach before spreading downward.
When his lips found my breast, I let out a cry at the sensation.
He covered me with his hot mouth and suckled gently, teasing my now-sensitive nipple with his tongue.
He increased the pressure, nipping me with his teeth.
I arched my back at the sweet agony of it, burying my hands in his hair to keep him close.
He pulled away, and I whimpered in protest. I curled my fingers in his thick mane, trying to draw him to me, but he chuckled at my wantonness.
“Tonight, I will only take you if you beg me.”
I shook my head. “I will never—”
“Ah but you will,” he said softly, leaning over to take my mouth again.
Tears formed in my eyes as I yielded to my body’s need for his touch.
They spilled onto my cheeks as he continued to administer his sweet, torturous caresses.
He must have done this to countless others just as dispassionately.
Was I merely the latest in a long line of conquests?
I did not care to know. He dipped his hand between my thighs and caressed me intimately where he knew my body wept for him and I bit my lip to suppress a moan.
Once again, that unfathomable ache formed inside my center. I knew not what it was, only that it always hung suspended, not quite within my reach, taunting me, driving me almost mad. He thrust his tongue into my mouth again, drawing my own tongue into his own.
Instinctively I lifted my hips against his hand, surrendering to the craving that surged within me.
Then he slipped a finger inside me and my body shattered.
Air rushed into my lungs, and I cried out at the wonder of it.
Pleasure rippled through my body, as if it had come truly alive for the first time.
He muffled my cries with his mouth, and I heard a low rumble in his throat as I clung to him, shaking, while the deep pulsing sensation in my body subsided, leaving me breathless and weak.
He nudged my thighs apart with his knee, and I clung to him, waiting.
Yet this time I was not afraid. I wanted to give myself to him.
He moved on top of me and the tip of him nudged hard and unyielding against my sensitive flesh.
I waited for him to take me, but he moved only slightly, teasing me until I thought I could bear it no longer.
An instinctive urge compelled me to touch him.
I reached down and curled my hand around him, my fingers caressing his skin.
The soft silken exterior masked the unyielding steel within.
I squeezed him gently, and he jerked in my hand.
A deep growl bubbled up from within his body, and he closed his eyes, issuing a hoarse groan, so quiet I thought I imagined it.
“Lisetta…”