Chapter 7 #2
Renaud’s body tensed like hard steel when he looked at the faces of his men. They were enthralled with the English servant girl, whose skin glowed in the firelight, and whose eyes danced with the song. A wave of jealousy flowed over him.
When the song ended and another began, Renaud set his face in firm resolve and turned to Geoff. “Ask the seneschal to send up my bath and some wine. When the singing ends, have Sarah sent to my room. I would have a word with her.”
“Aye, Ren. I will see it done.”
Geoff turned to carry out the orders, and Renaud said over his shoulder, “See that none of the men touch her.”
* * *
Serena paused at the bottom of the stairs leading to the chambers above…
to his chamber. It was late and she had never gone to his chamber at night.
But refusing his command would only arouse suspicion.
A servant was bound to obey. Her heart raced and she wiped her damp palms on her tunic. What did his summons mean?
She had been dismayed when they’d asked her to sing, aware it would put her in front of the Norman men and remind the people their lady was still among them.
Soon one of them would make the mistake of calling her by her real name.
It had almost happened with the children.
Though singing with Rhodri presented risks, in the end she was glad she had done it for it reminded her of happier times when she and Rhodri had sung for her father and Steinar, when such evenings were common at Talisand.
Her father had loved the music of the Welsh bard and had encouraged the people to embrace the songs Rhodri brought to their hall.
The songs and languages of many cultures had found a place at Talisand.
Even the Norman food and language had been of interest to the old thegn since the time when King Edward had invited Normans to England.
Her family had never seen them as enemies, not until the Bastard Duke decided to assert his claim to the throne.
Serena had not seen the Red Wolf in the hall while she and Rhodri sang; she hoped he had missed the performance. She did not wish to be the object of the gray eyes that increasingly followed her every movement, desire reflected in their depths.
Within her, hate warred with reluctant respect.
Resistance warred with desire. Though he was one of the dreaded Normans, he was a fair master and a defender of women.
She was drawn to him, albeit against her will, whenever he was near.
Now summoned to his chamber, her heart leaped within her chest. What did he intend?
Resigned, she slowly ascended the stairs.
Her knock sounded softly on the wooden door, the door that had once led to her father’s chamber.
“Come.” At his deep voice, she nearly jumped.
Carefully, she opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind her.
She scanned the room looking for the tall knight with the chestnut hair.
At first she did not see him but a movement drew her gaze to the large bathing tub on the floor.
He was sitting in the water with his back to her, his knees drawn up to his chest. The dark rust of his hair captured the light from the candles causing it to glisten with streaks of amber.
“Please forgive me, my lord. I did not realize you were bathing.” She turned to leave.
“I would speak with you, Sarah,” he said without turning. “You can wash my back while we talk.”
Serena’s heart sped. While it was not unusual for the lord to ask a servant girl to assist with his bathing, her father had never allowed her to undertake such a task with any of their guests.
She did not want to be close to the man, especially knowing he was naked, but a servant could not refuse her lord such a request.
“Yea, my lord.”
Taking up the cloth and soap, she knelt behind him, dipped them both in the water and, working in the soap, began to scrub his back.
The muscles of his broad shoulders rippled as she dipped the soapy cloth in the water and ran it over his bronzed skin.
His was a knight’s body, one that had wielded a weapon against her people.
Despite all that, she wanted to touch him, to smooth her hand over his muscles and the jagged scar on his shoulder.
It troubled her that the body of her enemy could arouse her senses so.
Her hands continued to work the soap into his skin, scrubbing with force lest she be lulled into touching him with gentle strokes.
She tried to erase the thoughts that swirled through her mind.
She supposed many women would want such a man.
Aethel had wanted him. While his men told ribald jests at the evening meal, some had spoken of the many women who sought the Red Wolf’s bed.
It was easy to see why Aethel had desired him.
The scene she had witnessed that night in his chamber when she had found them together was still vivid in her mind.
Her hand slowed when his right hand gripped the side of the tub.
A jagged scar slashed across the skin of his wrist. Was it the mark of the beast he had killed?
The Red Wolf let his head drop forward and he uttered a soft moan, causing her to lift the cloth from his back.
“You have a beautiful voice, Sarah,” he said in a lethargic voice. “Did the Welshman teach you the songs?”
She forced a thank you from her lips, and resumed scrubbing his back. “Yea, Rhodri taught me his music.”
He reached back, took her hand that held the cloth and drew it to his chest. “Sarah, I would have you also scrub my chest.” He was deliberately forcing her to confront his maleness, to put her hands on the dark hair that covered his chest. She kept her eyes above the water even as her breathing became more strained.
She had to fight her own attraction for him in order to keep her distance.
He took the cloth from her and finished scrubbing his legs and what lay beneath the water. She was grateful she would not have to touch that part of his body.
“What is the Welshman to you, Sarah?”
The question surprised her. Why would he care?
Reaching for the pail of rinse water, she considered how to answer.
She did not look at his naked form but her fingertips touched his warm flesh as she poured the water over his hair and his back.
The heat of his body made her keenly aware they were alone in his chamber and he was unclothed.
She had never touched a man like this, never felt her heart race at the nearness of so powerful a warrior.
She managed to say, “He is a friend and my teacher of the bow as he is to many at Talisand.”
“Nothing more?”
“Nay, my lord.” Her voice was calm but his words caused her anger to rise. What business of his was her relationship to the Welsh bard? But a servant would not ask so she said naught.
“That is good.”
Still behind him, Serena reached for the drying cloth, bringing her head near to his.
He turned to look at her. His eyes, only a hand’s width away, flashed liquid silver, and in them she glimpsed raw desire.
Like a mouse caught in the fixed glare of a snake, she was unable to move. The drying cloth slipped from her hand.
His gaze fell to her lips. “Sarah…”
He reached out his hand and pulled her towards him as his mouth closed the short distance to hers.
His lips touched her own ever so lightly.
His tongue followed the curve of her bottom lip, causing her skin to tingle.
Had he tried to force her she might have fought, she might have fled, but his slow seduction lulled her into remaining still.
His hand moved to her nape where his fingers curved around the tingling skin and held her tenderly.
She responded, willingly offering her mouth to him and closed her eyes.
A feeling of pleasure she had never experienced swept over her as his lips softly teased and his tongue slipped between her parted lips to freely explore her mouth.
His slow deliberate movements tantalized as they promised pleasure, a pleasure for the first time she very much wanted.
She entwined her tongue with his and moaned.
When he pulled her tightly against his chest, the touch of his wet skin and the edge of the tub pressed against her breasts awakened her to what was happening. She wrenched back, frightened at how close she had come to giving him what he sought and angry with herself for allowing such intimacy.
“My lord!” Still on her knees, she scurried backward and hastily rose.
“Sarah…” His voice was deep and coaxing. “Come back.”
“Nay!”
She raced to the door, flung it open and fled, letting it slam behind her.
He called her name but she did not respond.
Flattening herself against the wall next to the door to what had once been her chamber, her heart pounded in her chest. Pressing her palms against the wall, she willed her heart to slow.
Her mind reeled, alarmed at what had transpired. No man had ever kissed her like the Norman had—no man had ever made her want him.
How could the Norman knight affect her so?
She reached one hand to her lips; the soft flesh still throbbed from his kiss.
Hearing voices below, she stepped away from the wall to peer into the entry where a few men lingered.
One of them looked up at her. Maugris. The old man’s gaze held hers and a slow smile spread across his face.
She fell back against the wall, her heart still racing as she sought to hide in the shadows.
Did the old man know what had transpired?