Untamed (4 page)

He is using tenderness on me as surely as he used it on the peregrine. But Glendruid eyes see more clearly than even a falcon!

Meg wrenched free of Dominic's grasp so quickly that the peregrine spread her wings and called in sharp distress.

“Be still,” Dominic said. “You frighten my falcon.”

Though soft, the icy command in his voice was as unmistakable as the jangling bells on the falcon's jesses.

“Soothe her,” Dominic said.

“Soothe her yourself,” Meg retorted softly. “She is your captive. I, sir, am
not
.”

S
TANDING JUST INSIDE THE DOORWAY
of the bath on the keep's fourth floor, Simon watched his older brother warily. Dominic had been in uncertain temper since he had been to the mews that morning. Discovering that his future wife wasn't going to break bread with him until the wedding feast tomorrow had done nothing to improve Dominic's mood.

“The women's hall,” Dominic said in disgust.

Black cape flung back, fists on his hips, Dominic looked around the bare stone room. The draft from the gutter that emptied into the moat was severe. The wall hangings and wooden screens that might have tempered the chill were absent. The bathing tub was more suited to a woman's size than to a man's.

The water, at least, was hot. It breathed a warm mist into the chill room.

“Why in the name of all the Angels of Judgment would a man put the only bath—such as it is—in the women's quarters?” Dominic demanded.

“John has never been beyond Cumbriland,” Simon said calmly. “He never had a chance to learn—and enjoy—Saracen ways. He probably thinks bathing will endanger his manhood.”

“God's eyes, was the man good for no more than sowing crops of bastards over the countryside while his wife still lived?”

Wisely, Simon said nothing.

“The bailey wall is more wood than stone,” Dominic snarled, “the armory is a rust closet, the fields are barely plowed, the cisterns are like sieves, the pasture is eaten down to rock, the fish ponds are more weed than water, the dovecotes are a shambles, and there isn't even a rabbit warren to put meat on the table in winter!”

“The gardens are excellent,” Simon pointed out.

Dominic grunted.

“And the mews are clean,” Simon continued.

Mentioning the mews was a mistake. Dominic's expression flattened into savage lines.

“God rot a lazy lord,” he snarled. “To be given so much and to use it so badly!”

Simon glanced aside at Dominic's squire, who was looking very unhappy. Simon didn't blame the boy. Few men had seen Dominic in a temper. None had enjoyed the experience.

“Is everything at hand for your lord's bath?” Simon asked.

The squire nodded quickly.

“Then see to your lord's supper. A mug of ale, perhaps. Several, actually. Cold meat. Cheese. Has the kitchen managed a decent pudding yet?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“Find out.”

“And while you're about it,” Dominic cut in, “find where my betrothed is hiding!”

The boy left the room with unseemly speed, forgetting to pull the drapery into place behind him.

“He has fought Turks with less fear,” Simon said as he straightened the drapery so that it cut off all drafts from the doorway. “You frighten the child.”

The sound Dominic made was more growl than answer.

“Is your peregrine ill?” Simon asked.

“No.”

“Were the mews badly kept?”

“No.”

“Should I find a handmaiden to attend your bath?”

“God's blood, no!” Dominic said. “I need no whey-faced wenches sniveling over my scars.”

When Simon spoke again, his voice was as flinty as his older brother's.

“Then perhaps you would like some practice with sword and shield?” Simon suggested softly. “I will be delighted to do the honors.”

Dominic spun toward his brother and gave him a measuring glance.

For a few taut moments, Simon thought he would get the fight he had suggested.

Abruptly Dominic let out an explosive breath.

“You sound irritated, Simon.”

“Just following your lead.”

“Um. I see.” Beneath Dominic's beard, the corner of his mouth kicked up slightly. “Will you attend my bath, brother? I trust no one else at my back in this keep.”

“I was going to suggest that very thing. I like it not that your betrothed evades you and your host is ‘too ill' to greet you in a proper manner.”

“Aye,” Dominic said grimly. Dominic unfastened the big Norse pin holding his cape in place and tossed the fur-trimmed cloth over the trestle table standing near the door.

The cape settled over the small chest Simon had brought into the room and set the candle flames to shivering in their holders. Also on the table was a pot of soft soap.

Simon lifted the lid and sniffed.

“Spice. And a bit of rose, I believe.” He looked at Dominic, blandly, trying not to show his amusement.

“God save me,” Dominic said without heat. “I'll smell like a sultan's harem.”

Simon's black eyes danced. He snickered behind his blond beard, but was careful not to laugh out loud.

With quick motions, Dominic laid aside the rest of his clothes, completing the burial of the small chest. In the wavering light, the long scar that cut diagonally across his muscular arm and torso had the nacreous shine of a pearl.

Dominic stepped into the bath and sat, threatening to send water overflowing out onto the floor. He made a sound of pleasure as the hot water lapped to his chin, easing the ache that came from his old injury when he was particularly tired.

“Soap?” Simon asked blandly.

Dominic held out his hand. A glob of soap plopped onto his palm. A fragrance that was almost familiar drifted up to his nostrils. Frowning, trying to remember where he had smelled that scent before, Dominic began working the soap into his hair and beard.

“Now,” he said through the lather, “explain this nonsense about the lord of Blackthorne Keep being cursed.”

“His wife was a witch.”

“The same could be said of many wives.”

Simon laughed curtly. “Aye, but Lady Anna was Glendruid.”

Dominic's hands paused in their scrubbing of beard and hair. “Glendruid…Have I heard that name?”

“They're a Celtic clan,” Simon explained. “A kind of matriarchy, from what I can discover.”

“Hell's teeth, what foolishness,” Dominic muttered.

With that, he lowered himself completely beneath the water, rinsing out the fragrant lather. Moments later he emerged with a force that sent water flying. Cursing, Simon jumped aside.

“Go on,” Dominic said.

Shaking water from his tunic with one hand, Simon used the other to slap soap onto Dominic's palm with enough force to draw a hard look.

“A man who takes a Glendruid wife will have fields that prosper,” Simon said, “lush pastures, ewes that give twins, industrious and obedient vassals, brimming fish ponds, and—”

“A staff like a war stallion and eternal life,” Dominic interrupted, impatient with the superstitious nonsense.

“Oh, has Sven talked to you already?”

Dominic gave his younger brother a glittering gray glance.

Simon grinned widely and his black eyes danced with amusement.

“Where is this benighted Glendruid place?” Dominic asked dryly. “To the south where the Celts run amok?”

“Some say so.” Simon shrugged. “Others say to the north. A few say east.”

“Or west? The sea, perhaps?”

“They are people, not fish,” retorted Simon.

“Ah, that is a relief. It would be arduous indeed to bed the daughter of a flounder. A man wouldn't know how to grip the creature. Or precisely
where
.”

Laughing, Simon held out a large drying cloth to his brother. As Dominic stood, water ran off his big body in cascades, splashing and gathering until it reached the gutter and dropped unheard into the moat far below.

“This Glendruid nonsense will end within the year,” Dominic said, “when my son is born.”

Simon smiled slightly. He knew well his brother's determination to found a dynasty. Simon had the same determination himself.

“Until your heir is born,” Simon said, “take care what you say in public about the Glendruid tale. It is a superstition dearly held by the local people.”

“In public I will believe. But the bedchamber is a private place. I will have my heirs.”

“'Tis a good thing the sultan's harem nursed you back to health,” Simon said. “Your wife won't have cause to complain of her treatment when it is time to make heirs. The harem girls were admirably trained.”

For an instant, Dominic thought of getting Meg in his bedchamber, of fanning her hair like soft fire across the pillows before he opened her thighs and sheathed himself in another kind of soft fire. His blood ignited like dry grass at the image.

“The trick is to get a girl into the bedchamber,” Dominic said irritably, trying to cool the heat in his blood.

“I doubt there is a female in this keep who wouldn't be delighted to take your staff in hand.”

“There's one,” Dominic said dryly.

“The elusive Margaret.”

Lady Margaret hadn't been the woman Dominic had been thinking of at that moment, but he said nothing. Instead, he began drying himself vigorously.

“The lady will come to heel soon enough,” Simon said after a moment. “She is noble born. She may not like her duty, but she will do it. As for the rest, there are always the wenches around the keep. Or the gifted Marie.”

“A pretty whore, but a whore nonetheless. I
brought her and her like for my knights, not for myself. I don't want trouble with my vassals over their daughters.”

“I know. I'm the only one who believes it, however.”

Dominic grunted and continued rubbing himself dry rather forcefully. The thought of one of his knights catching the maid from the mews alone made cold rage uncoil in Dominic's gut.

“I had better warm my knights once again,” he said flatly. “They will neither harry nor harrow unwilling girls. Particularly none with hair the color of fire, skin like fine cream, and eyes to equal a sultan's most prized emeralds.”

Simon lifted his eyebrows in silent surprise. “I thought you didn't care for ‘whey-faced wenches.'”

“There is a difference between cream and whey,” Dominic retorted.

“You sound quite taken with the wench. That is unlike you.”

Dominic shrugged. “She is an unusual maid. Cleaner by far than the average country lass, graceful of limb, and with delicate hands.”

“You always preferred the ripe and willing type, a rose full-blown and eager for the bee's sweet sting.”

“Aye.”

“Is she willing?”

The smile Dominic gave his brother made Simon laugh.

“She will be,” Dominic said. “She was taken with me, though she was nervous of it. Ah, what a joy she will be to seduce. She was made for spring, the season of desire. There will be no winter for the man who sleeps within her warm sheath. She will—”

Abruptly Dominic stopped speaking and turned toward the sound of hurrying footsteps.

“Lord Dominic,” called the squire from beyond the drapery.

“What is it?” Dominic asked impatiently. “Have you found her?”

“Lady Margaret's handmaiden wishes to speak with you. Most urgent it is, lord.”

“God's blood,” muttered Dominic.

He wrapped the drying cloth around his hips, grabbed his cape, and whirled it around his shoulders to ward off the chilly drafts.

“Why is it the only women you can find are the ones you don't wish to see at all?” he grumbled.

Simon opened his mouth to speak, but Dominic wasn't finished.

“Whey-faced whelp of a temple whore…” he said beneath his breath. “God's eyes, but she is a tiresome female.”

“Is that a yea or a nay to Eadith's request for an audience?” Simon asked.

“Send the good widow in,” Dominic said in a normal tone.

Eadith must have been listening closely. The drapery shifted and she walked in. When she realized how little Dominic was wearing, her eyes widened into a stare.

“Speak,” he said irritably. “Where is your mistress?”

“Lady Margaret begs your understanding. She is indisposed,” Eadith said hurriedly.

Yet despite her unease, Simon noted that the widow's pale blue eyes fairly ate every bit of the lord who stood unconcerned before her, fresh from his bath.

Dominic glanced at the handmaiden's pale features, flaxen hair, and thin lips, and wished himself once more back among the Saracen women. Their darkly golden skin had been as seductive as the
sideways glances from lustrous black eyes. Next to them, the women of the northern marches seemed as pale and uninteresting as cotter's cheese.

Except for one green-eyed girl, and she had fled him as quickly as her shapely legs could take her. The memory of it still angered Dominic.

God's blood! Since when does a gentle caress send a wench running?

“Indisposed, is it?” Dominic said silkily. “Nothing serious, I trust.”

“Her father is ill. Surely that is serious?”

“I am her future husband.” Dominic's teeth showed in a thin curve of white against his black beard. “Surely that is serious?”

The cold white gleam of his teeth made Eadith shift her feet uneasily. The motion sent ripples through the worn woolen folds of her tunic.

“Of course, lord.”

“Take my greetings to Lady Margaret, and my most urgent wish to meet my future wife,” Dominic said distinctly. “Simon, the gift.”

His brother hesitated.

Dominic raised his left eyebrow in a silent warning.

Simon nodded curtly, scooped aside Dominic's discarded clothes, and opened the small chest. He picked out a piece of jewelry that rested on top of the gleaming heap, Dominic's choice as a gift for his reluctant bride.

“Take that to her,” Dominic said. “A small token of my regard for my betrothed.”

At Dominic's careless gesture, Simon stepped forward and dropped a brooch into Eadith's hand. She gasped audibly as she felt the weight of the gold and saw the fine green gem that was larger than her thumbnail.

“Why, 'tis the exact color of Lady Margaret's eyes!”

Instantly Dominic thought of the maid in the mews. His eyes narrowed in sudden speculation. Meg had been too proud and quick-spoken for a cotter's child. He would have realized it sooner had he not been blinded by the sensuous curves of her lips and breasts.