Gayle Eden (7 page)

Pagan had been watching the dogs, but she knew he now glanced at her. For extended moments, they did that, a wall of snow thickening in the distance between them. He seemed large, looming, and as strong as the castle walls. However, she remembered his smile, his glorious eyes so she raised her hand before turning to go inside.

Illara spent nearly all of the evening in that heated bathing pool. Groaning at both pleasure and pain, rubbing her muscles—and knowing on the morrow, it would be worse.

* * * *

Pagan met her for three more days whilst the snow deepened, but on the third delayed to have one of the sub chambers cleared in the dungeons. As he lit torches and lanterns, he was aware that Randulf was as curious as he was disgruntled.

His brother was helping him ready the large area. They wanted it well lit and as yet were feeling around for loose stones that may trip her or anything that was in the way.

Pagan had to ask himself why he agreed to a new form of torture. From the first day, watching Illara in those breeches and her blouse and vest, clothing that conformed for comfort and movement, completely practical and similar to what he had seen his mother and sister’s wear—yet they hugged a pert, full backside. In addition, Pagan had seen everything whilst tucking her into bed, so that flashes of it went through his mind constantly. Her hair braided, but strands loosing, and face often flushing, that smile, even the concentration when she gave herself to the exercise aroused him. He was impressed with her. One could not mock someone who was both serious in their focus and skilled with a weapon.

Pagan had observed her turns, flips, and the way she moved her body. He knew Lord John had taught it to her for many reasons. In a land not of one’s friends, in crowded bazaars and markets, and on the roads, there were dangers. He did not doubt she could ride. He had already picked a muscled gelding for her. It was not her Arab racers, but he would eventually find her one of those.

When the area was checked, Pagan asked Randulf, “What think you, can Beroun spar with her?”

Randulf, for the moment had his face uncovered. “I will fetch him. But answer me this, what is the reason, the point behind this training?”

“She enjoys it. Her father taught her, and you know as well as I that anyone connected to us could be in danger. The prizes in this castle are well known and there is kidnapping and ransom, bandits on the roads, and aside from all of that—the women in our family all knew how to fight.”

“It didn’t save them.”

“It was an ambush, during a feast, Randulf.” He met his brother’s eyes. “What is the reason for your antagonism? You liked her well beforehand. She had nothing to do with our losses.”

Muscles flexed in Randulf’s face. “Does it not occur to you that we must ask anyone who connects themselves to us, to lie? If the church knew, even your marriage would be void—”

“The vows matter more than the names, Randulf. And yea, I am aware of the life we chose. However, we chose it and it is how we will live. As long as you are champion, no one cares where you were birthed, or if you sprang up from hell. Not enough to challenge it. What would you have me do, abandon her? And I must go soon enough, without some truth between us...”

“That is not all one observes, between you.”

Pagan held that stare longer, trying to sense what troubled his brother, and then guessing. Pagan said quietly, “Do not fret for me, brother. I am a grown man, with few expectations where intimacies are concerned.”

“Yes. You are a man. And, why not expect. Scars and living nightmares should not rob us of everything.”

“Randulf, why this fury?”

“It is not fury.” His brother’s hands fisted. Randulf turned and took a step and then paused. “Perhaps… it is envy.” He started to leave.

Pagan stopped him. “Envy? For what?”

“That despite your fears, you took a wife,” Randulf’s voice was quieter and less tense. “You allow yourself to be human, even vulnerable, Pagan.”

“This, I know.”

Randulf turned and peered at him. “I want to believe in what you are likely, unconsciously, hopeful of. I would that one of us, had something--besides vengeance.”

Pagan glanced beyond him.

Randulf turned too, seeing Illara standing there.

She glanced between them then stared at Randulf’s face fully and said softly, “I did not mean to intrude, but Lylie sent me down.” Then while still holding Randulf’s gaze. “Don’t feel you must cover your face from me. I have seen more damage and less handsomeness than you retain. Save for your fear someone will connect you with your father on account of them, I would not have you think that I see anything to recoil from.”

Pagan realized he was holding his breath, still glad for his own mask, because he was not certain that she spoke out of more kindness than truth. Yet he wanted to grab and kiss her for her words.

Randulf’s fingers went to his brow and dragged down the scars over that side of his face. He raised the wool scarf and covered most of it, walking as if to pass Illara, pausing to say, “I’m to fetch a young man to spar with you. I will return shortly.”

She nodded and let him pass then stepped down into the chamber, meeting Pagan’s gaze before looking around.

The torches were set in niches, and lanterns rested on stone ledges. The arched area had rough walls and ceiling, and hard stone flooring. Trickles of water could be heard beyond, where the grates were open, a dozen turns and corner niches hid doors and passages that worked through the castle.

There was another tunnel, not as high below. It smelled damp here, earthy, but not overpowering.

Finally, her gaze rested on him. Her eyes appeared darker yet the color was enhanced by the illuminations of flame. She wore no cloak, only the breeches and blouse, and she carried her sword and sheathe in her hand.

His gaze dropped to her breasts, pushing against the pleating made from the drawn ties of the tunic. Then back up. Pagan wished she had worn the vest.

“It must have been hell,” she rasped. “But I meant what I said to him.”

Pagan nodded, fighting the emotions racing through him with the same blood that was heating, causing his senses to be too aware of her, of the smoothness of her lips and the curve of her throat, the sound of her voice, more intimate in the labyrinth.

She wet her lips and turned, removing the sword from the sheathe, then going through movements that would warm and stretch her muscles.

Pagan leaned back against the wall, his eyes on her, his mind other places, and both absorbed by the grace of her movements.

When Randulf entered with young Beroun, they stood for a moment watching Illara, who was finishing her practice. Though Beroun was a head taller, he was the least in bulk of Pagan’s men.

A young man who had been beaten bloody at one of the Tourneys in Italy for thieving, Randulf had found him behind their tent and nursed him. The boy offered to do anything from Squire to groom. He was parentless, a bastard he said. They took him, and for a while watched him close, until he could be trusted. In three years, he had proved himself. Though trained, he would never have the body of a Knight. He was good with bow and blade, and he served as messenger and any other needed service.

His hair was a shock of unruly black curls, broad shouldered and lanky, more sinewy and of dark skin and eyes, he still spoke with some thick provincial accent—but Randulf and Pagan liked him. His wit was as sharp as his eyes, and he used it to handle the mockery the other guards and bigger males heaped on him. He also had turned his thief’s skills into amusing tricks.

Pagan raised his brow when the young man looked at him and gestured toward Illara.

Beroun nodded. Having worn black leather breeches, a loose fitting linen tunic, the young man turned to Randulf who handed him an adequately matched sword. The blade was four foot and thinner than a broad sword, also of Arabian steel, one they had brought back from the holy land.

Timing her turns, Beroun stepped into her reach at the next one. Pagan tensed every muscle until she raised her blade and deflected. From there they tested each other. Pagan glanced at Randulf when Beroun tapped her with his fist at the sword hilt--at what would have been a hit—or rather in battle, a lethal strike. His brother shook his head and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.

Their boots scuffing the floor, breathing and grunts sounded amid the slide of steel for the next hour. He saw her shirt dampen down her back, and lost count of the times Beroun tapped her. Just when he thought to put an end to it because she would be black and blue, Pagan straightened from the wall, noticing Beroun being driven back.

Grinding his teeth to keep from praising her, Pagan witnessed Illara drive him to a point, and when Beroun recovered, she ducked a swing of his blade, drove her shoulder into his stomach and was behind him.

Pagan flickered a glance to see Randulf had straitened too and was tensely watching. Beroun laughed and it rang in the space. Nevertheless, Illara was focused, her eyes on his sword. After an exchange she sliced, then used her other hand to grab his free one, and it was only her skill that kept her from breaking his arm when she had it back behind him, her body also, with the blade at his throat.

Half-bowed Beroun was huffing, breathing as hard as she, but smiling like an idiot.

“Yield?”

“Aye.” He grunted on a laugh.

She released him and came around, showing a grin of her own on her flushed face. Illara bowed her head. “I would have been dead long before then.”

“Aye.” The young man took her hand, stepping close. “Here, here and here.” He moved the hand with the sword. “You sweep too wide. You must tighten the arc and shorten the openings. Better to have your arm cut than your guts.”

“Yes.” She waited for him to release her then switched hands, shaking the other, which was red. “And you must protect your other hand and arm whilst fighting.”

They laughed.

Illara turned to Pagan. “A poor showing, Sir.”

“I have seen worse.” He turned and unhooked a wineskin from the wall, tossing it to her.

She drank cold water as her opponent was doing. Pagan took her sword a moment and trickled water over her knuckles, rubbing lightly at her reddened hand. When he saw her glance down, he realized he had not drawn his gloves back on. However, when he would have pulled his hand away, she grabbed it.

Her back was to the others and only he saw the action, as well as the expression in her eyes. Her damp fingers rubbed over the scars, some from the fire and more from those brutal days fending off more predatory guards in the tower.

“Paraffin wax,” she supplied softly. “I have it in my trunk. It helps to keep the skin supple and scars less dry in harsh weather. I will leave some in the bathing chamber. You melt it in a bowl and let it form on your skin.”

Pagan nodded. “You will be dotted with bruises.”

“I already ache from head to foot.” She chuckled. “What are a few bruises? Besides, it is not often I have had an opponent. There was a sister of a knight, Sefare, who was well trained. She and I exercised together until her betrothed came for her. I would like to practice more with the young man.”

“Beroun.”

“Sir?”

Pagan considered the man. “This is Lady Illara. Illara, Beroun.”

Illara released Pagan’s hand and took the young man’s. They again smiled at each other.

“I must take him away.” Randulf drew her attention. “We have work.”

“Thank you,” Illara offered quietly.

Pagan saw his brother’s eyes soften toward her before Randulf nodded and turned away.

Pagan doused most of the torches and turned from the end in time to see her lay her sword aside, and then trickle the water from the skin, patting her neck and chest. She turned towards him, having smeared it across her throat.

He had the odd thought that she could perhaps hear his heart slamming against his ribs.

Stilled for a moment she said, “I’ve asked that our meal be brought to the solar. Will you join me there, in perhaps an hour?”

“Aye.” Pagan stood rooted to the spot, noting that water had dripped onto her blouse and made it transparent over one nipple.

“I will see you then.”

Pagan nodded, not breathing until she exited.

* * * *

Illara did not linger in her bath although she yearned to. When she entered that chamber, she left the wax on a copper plate where Pagan would find it. Washing and grunting a few times, she rubbed sore spots while musing on those hands, strong and browned where no scars were.

Though it would have been better to apply wax after the wounds, she did not have to ask to know they were probably scarcely tended at all. She did not find them repulsive or ugly but could see the strength in them and his palm was calloused from years of wielding a broad sword. Nevertheless, his flesh was warm and her hand had tingled touching it, that odd flipping and fluttering had begun in her belly.

Out of the bath, she rubbed her skin with jasmine and donned the plain flannel gown, smiling later at the young woman who brought up trays, placing them on the trunks by the window seat, and thanked her.

There was a jug of wine and two cups. She sat on the fur by the fire and let her straight hair dry while combing it until the strands lay against her shoulder blades. When young, it was cut short and she preferred it that way, but with the other distractions at Starling, she had not worried about grooming.