Chapter Five #3
Her hair combed out and braided to keep it under control, he once again pushed down the collar of the robe and picked up the vial.
He had seen the extent of the damage when he had bathed her, and he rubbed the mint-smelling balm between his hands before massaging it gently into her bruised flesh, unconsciously wincing as he did so.
Dustin gasped as he touched her sore shoulders, trying to squirm away from him.
“Nay, my lady, I promise you that this will help your pains,” he said firmly, not letting her escape his touch.
“But it hurts so,” she moaned. “And that poison smells fiercely.”
He smiled faintly. “It does indeed, but trust me when I tell you that it will help you.”
She bravely allowed him to rub more of the stuff into her shoulders, flinching when he hit a particularly sensitive spot.
But his hands were expert as they touched her and she gradually relaxed, beginning to trust him somewhat.
And as she grew to trust him, she also realized her curiosity about the man was growing, too.
She could see no harm in asking him a few simple questions.
“Where do you come from?” she asked softly.
“My home is in Derbyshire,” he replied. “The keep where I was born is called Lohrham Forest.”
“Is David your only brother?” she asked, her eyes closing drowsily as his warm hands moved over her skin.
“Aye,” he replied. “And I have a sister, too, although I have not seen her in some time. She is fostering in Bath.”
“How old is she?” Dustin inquired.
“Almost seventeen,” he said. “Her name is Deborah.”
Dustin’s eyes opened. “A biblical name, and very pretty. Is she fair as you and David are?”
“Aye, more so.” He put some more ointment on his hands and began to rub between her shoulder blades. “Yet she is not nearly as fair as you are. You have got the whitest skin I have ever seen.”
She snorted ironically. “And I am sure it is beautiful shades of purple and green by now. I always did bruise easily.”
His lips twitched. “Your back and shoulders are striking shades of blue.”
She sighed heavily, hanging her head and he was able to rub the smelly stuff into her neck. “How did you come to acquire your unusual name?” he asked after a few silent moments.
She sighed, feeling contentment and comfort as he rubbed away.
“My grandmother’s ancestral keep is called Dustinley,” she replied.
“My mother always swore that she would name her firstborn Dustin, for she was confidant her first child would be a boy. When I was born, she would not go back on her word and named me Dustin after all. Father added Mary Catherine.”
“Your father was a level-headed man,” Christopher nodded in agreement.
She twisted her head back to look at him, her wide gray eyes latching onto him like a vise. He was mesmerized by the beauty, the color, the emotion he saw in the depths. “How did my father die?” she asked softly.
He lowered his gaze, concentrating on his task. After a pause, he spoke. “An arrow to the chest.”
“Did he die immediately?” she asked quietly.
Nay, he did not, he lingered while his body rotted in the heat until it finally killed him. But he would not tell her that. “Aye, he did,” he lied.
Under his hands, he felt her sigh. “Well and good,” she said. “I should not have wished him to suffer.”
It took Christopher a few moments to realize that they had shared an entirely civil, entirely pleasant conversation.
The ointment he had applied was well rubbed in, but for some reason he continued massaging her shoulders and back.
Her skin was like silk, and God only knew how long it had been since he had tasted female flesh.
But if he caressed her any longer he knew there would be trouble, so he removed his hands and she primly pulled the collar of the robe tight about her neck.
“This poison feels warm on my skin,” she said.
“Good,” he replied, washing his hands in the basin. “ ’Twill lessen your aches.”
“What is it?” she asked, turning to look at him.
He dried his hands, gazing back at her and noticing the way the firelight played off her hair, turning it the color of downy fluff. “Something I discovered on the quest,” he replied. “The Turks used it for nearly every ailment, but we Christians discovered that it works best on aches and strains.”
She nodded, wondering what exotic oils were warming her flesh. She knew, at least she hoped, that he would not put anything on her that would harm her, but it was the strange smell reminding her of the alien medicament.
“Now,” he put his hands on his hips as he faced her. “You will sleep this night and I do not want to hear from you again until the morning.”
“Aye, my lord,” she nodded, watching him as he acknowledged her with a sharp nod and turned for the door.
“My lord?” she called.
“Aye, what is it?” he turned with his hand on the latch.
She studied his face, noticing for the first time that it was rather pleasing and masculine, just like the rest of him. “Thank you.”
He looked back at her and she felt a peculiar sort of tingle in her arms and chest, wondering if the foreign ointment was beginning to make her sick.
“My pleasure, my lady,” he replied, closing the door behind him.
He was gone and she tried to make herself comfortable under the covers, wrinkling her nose at the strong smell about her.
She would have to wash the stuff off her come the morrow.
Suddenly, something heavy hit the bed and she knew without looking Caesar had decided to come out from his hiding place to join her.
She smiled, petting the cat as he got comfortable next to her.
Dustin thought the smell might keep her up, but as soon as her head hit the pillow, she fell into a deep, exhausted sleep with dreams of a handsome blond husband filling her mind.
*
Even as his wife slept the night away, Christopher was wide awake in massive bed that was now his. He could only stare up at the ceiling, his mind a confused jumble of emotions he could not quite grasp.
She had not mentioned leaving for Nottingham on the morrow, which was good.
He had reconsidered allowing her to leave and hoped that she might change her mind before he had to order her to stay.
After what had happened today, he was reluctant to let her from his sight and the damnable thing was that he didn’t have the slightest idea as to why.
He didn’t want his chattel damaged. Aye, that was the reason.
Should she be hurt or maimed, ’twould be his burden to bear.
Should she be killed, he would feel damn guilty for letting her leave in the first place.
He could not seem to admit to himself that he was curious about her and she was very pleasant to look at, and in the recesses of his mind he knew if she left, Lioncross would be a colorless place.
Besides that, he would have to appoint one of the servant’s chatelaine and from what he had seen of them, they were a stupid lot.
Nay, he needed someone competent to run his house, and his wife seemed to have her wits about her. Well, sometimes.
Her place was here, at Lioncross, running the castle for him, not dreaming her days away in Nottingham. He only hoped she didn’t hit him when he told her that, his lip was still swollen. Besides, if she did that, he might have to put her over his knee.
Something hit the foot of the bed and he jumped, sword in his hand before he drew another breath. Yet his defensive posture was for naught. Caesar was purring madly at the bottom of the bed, kneading at the coverlets as he approached.
He let out a loud hiss of relief and put the sword back down. “Christ, you little maggot,” he grunted. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Caesar’s eyes were half-closed as he bumped up against Christopher’s hip, his big claws snagging the coverlet. Christopher sat up and frowned at the animal. “What are you doing here, anyway? Your mistress will be wondering where you are.”
The cat’s answer was to purr even louder, then yawn a big cat yawn at him. Christopher grinned in spite of himself. “So you want to sleep here, do you? Well, I will not allow it. I do not like cats, especially pushy ones. Go away.”
Caesar turned a couple of circles trying to find just the right spot to lay on, and then promptly deposited himself. Christopher scowled. “Nay, beast, not here,” he said sternly, reaching to pick up the cat.
Quick as a flash, Caesar rolled onto his stomach and latched onto Christopher’s hand, claws digging into him and his big teeth clamping down. Every time Christopher tried to move his hand, Caesar would scratch at his forearm with his huge back claws.
“So you think you have a catch, do you?” Christopher demanded, amused. The cat wasn’t hurting him so long as he remained still. “Release me, devil, or I will take my dagger to you.”
The cat started to purr again, still clutching his hand with a death-grip. Christopher shook his head. “Let me go and you can stay.”
The cat’s hind legs scratched at him again and Christopher scowled. “I promise.”
He would swear until the day he died that Caesar understood him. The cat immediately released him and rolled into a ball, his green cat-eyes closing contentedly and his purring loud and rhythmic. Christopher had to chuckle, sliding back down under the covers, trying not to disrupt his new friend.
“Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he muttered, finally feeling relaxed enough that he might sleep.
Caesar was half-laying on his neck when he awoke.
The sun was just beginning to peer over the eastern horizon and the day looked to be clear.
Christopher reached up and carefully removed the animal, lest he find a claw in his neck, and sat up, scratching his head.
Finally rising, he ordered hot water so that he might quickly bathe himself.