Crusader's Lady. Lynna Banning
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nipples, his bare forearms resting on the tub edge. A peculiar feeling lodged deep in her belly.
‘One moment, lord,’ she murmured. She could not sully his wondrous body with soap such as this. She set the wooden bowl down. Yanking open the leather pouch she carried under her tunic, she poured in half a palmful of aromatic rosemary leaves, then plunged her hand in the mess and squashed the herbs into it. When it smelled fresh and pungent instead of rancid, she scooped up a glob with two fingers and dribbled it onto his bare skin.
‘Ah, smells good,’ he said.
‘So will you within the hour,’ she said without thinking.
‘So I do stink, do I?’ He laughed softly. ‘Small wonder. One Christian legion could flatten an entire army of Saracens just from the stench of our bodies.’
He did not stink. He smelled of sweat and leather, and his breath, when he blew it out, smelled of wine. But he did not stink.
He smelled like a man.
Marc did not open his eyes when the soap drizzled onto his chest. It smelled different, spicy and pleasant. He smiled to himself and began to let his body take its ease. He had managed to get King Richard safely to Cyprus. Also, after months of drinking sour ale, he was tasting good wine. And the soothing attentions of Soray, scrubbing gently at a month’s caked filth, were calming.
He opened his lids. ‘War is a dirty business. A warrior fights not only the enemy, but heat, desert sand, exhaustion, thirst, even hunger, while kings and princes negotiate behind each other’s backs and make secret bargains. Grasping power-seekers, the lot of them.’
‘Saladin is reported to be honest,’ the boy ventured. ‘And chivalrous.’
Marc huffed. ‘Saladin wants to hold Jerusalem at any cost. He is like a patient desert ant—truce or no, he will find a way, through force or chicanery. Or both.’
His servant uttered not one word. The rough cloth traveled back and forth across his chest, and when he leaned forward, it slid up and down his back from neck to tailbone. The lad might be unfamiliar with the ways of knights and armies, but he understood something about bathing. Marc turned one ear toward his bent knee to allow the boy to scrub his scalp and again he closed his eyes.
He was more tired than he had thought. So tired his brain was muddling things together, the scented soap, the sweet, warm air flowing in through the open casement, the feel of a hand other than his own giving attention to his body. It was soothing. Almost caressing.
He sat upright with a groan.
‘What is wrong, lord?’
‘Nothing,’ he grated. ‘Everything. I have been months without a woman.’
The washcloth halted and Soray sat back suddenly.
‘A woman?’
‘Aye. You are too young to know of such things.’
A look passed over his servant’s white face. ‘I have heard that other warriors, Christians, take Saracen women.’
‘Aye. They say such women are soft-skinned and perfumed. And skilled in dancing. And other things.’
‘And are they?’ came a small voice.
‘I would not know, lad. I have never taken one.’
‘Never?’
Marc ignored the question. Now he felt the sharp prick of desire, and it brought another groan from his throat. ‘Come, boy. Hurry it up so the water will still be warm for you.’
The boy’s breath sucked in and again the gliding cloth halted on his shoulder. ‘For me!’
‘You said you bathed, did you not? Or is it just hands and face you wash?’
Marc drew the washing linen out of the boy’s hand and scrubbed his belly and his privates, then his legs and feet. Soray hunched beside the tub, his eyes on the floor.
Marc dunked his head into the tub and came up shaking off the water like a hound. He stood up, turned toward the boy and lifted his arms. Soray stared at the rivulets of water dripping from his hair onto his chest, but the lad did not move.
‘Well, towel me off,’ he barked.
The servant bit his lower lip and began mopping at Marc’s wet skin, careful to touch no lower than Marc’s waist. God, the lad was an innocent.
An irrational feeling of protectiveness washed over him. He must guard the lad from predators until he was old enough to…
Absently he took the linen towel from Soray’s hand and dried his torso, a scar making him think suddenly of his older brother.
‘Henry, my brother…’
Unaware he had spoken aloud, he blinked when Soray softly inquired, ‘What about your brother, lord?’
‘We are very close. We were fostered together, with my father’s older brother in France. Henry won his spurs when he was eighteen, and then he took time to tutor me in the tilt yard. I still bear this scar on my chest from a badly deflected blow. There was lots of blood and Henry laid me down on the grass and wept.’
‘You love your brother,’ Soray said quietly.
‘That I do. I pray nightly that I will see him once again soon, God willing.’
The lad moved away and stood with one hand on the door bar. ‘Shall I fetch a page to empty the tub?’
‘What? No, do not. Use the water, lad. Strip and soak yourself.’
Soraya’s heart skipped once and stumbled to a stop.
Strip herself? ‘I thank you, lord, but… I…’
The knight turned toward the huge curtained bed, and Soraya swore he was hiding a smile. She was dirty and smelly, but… She glanced down at the inviting bathwater. Oh, to soak the filth off her body.
But she dared not. Unless…
She studied the blue damask curtains tied back with a thick red cord, then let her gaze drift to Marc, who was nearing the bed.
‘I wish you a peaceful rest, lord.’ She waited, heard the whisper of the straw mattress as it took his weight.
‘Peaceful it will not be until our friend the holy man is safe in his…monastery.’
Soraya did not reply. Instead, she stood motionless, listening to the knight’s gradually slowing breaths. When air gusted out of his open mouth with a hoarse after-sound, she sneaked a final look at him.
He lay spread-eagled on the fur coverlet, arms flung outward, his mouth sagging open. Asleep, she prayed. She tiptoed forward.
‘Lord?’ she whispered.
No answer, only a grunt and more steady breathing.
She tore off her leather sandals, her tunic, her belt with the precious pouch of herbs and her bag of gold coins, well wrapped in silk to prevent their clinking. Last she stepped out of her wide trousers and unbound the headpiece and the strip of linen confining her breasts.
Keeping her back to the sleeping knight, she noiselessly slid first one leg, then the other, into the lukewarm water. She dropped to her knees, tipped her head under the surface and soaped her thick curls. Every few moments she craned her neck to watch the figure on the bed.
Yes, he slept on. She took her time sponging her body, then rose, stepped silently out of the tub and wrapped herself in the still-damp towel. Just as she moved toward the pile of garments she’d left on the floor, someone began pounding on the chamber door.
‘De Valery, wake up! Open the door!’
God save her, it was the holy man with the voice of thunder. She froze in the center of the room, afraid to utter a sound, afraid to move lest the knight wake and notice her. She hugged the linen towel tighter around her body and flinched as the