Kingdom Come (20 page)

“What are you going to shave?” he asked. “Your beard does not look as if it is growing in.”

She giggled at him, her lovely face rosy and pinched from the warm water. “It isn’t,” she rubbed at her chin with one hand, took the razor with the other. “I want to shave my legs. In fact, do you think you can buy me a razor? I hate to use yours.”

He shrugged, watching her lather up her legs and carefully drag the razor over her flesh. “If that is your wish,” he watched her make careful rows in the suds. “Do not cut yourself; the razor is very sharp.”

“I know,” she said steadily, biting her tongue as she proceeded to shave her right shin without a snag.  She moved to the left one. “So what’s going to happen tomorrow? Are we leaving first thing in the morning?”

He just stood there, watching her hard nipples just beneath the water line and thinking very carnal thoughts. “When you are ready,” he said. “You and I and Liberator will travel to Paris and from Paris, we will go to Calais and take a boat to England. If all goes as planned, we should reach Paris in a little more than a week.”

“A week?” she looked at him, shocked. “It’s going to that that long?”

He nodded. “There are no airplanes nor trains here. Only Liberator.”

She made a face, knowing he was correct. “I know, but a whole week?” she shook her head. “I’ve never really ridden a horse. My butt is going to be killing me after a week on a horse.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.  “It will be more like eight or nine days, depending on how fast we move.”

She closed her eyes. “Oh, my God,” she hung her head a moment before lifting it.  “Is there any way we can get a wagon? Something I can sit in?  I’m not sure if I can ride on back of that horse for nine days.”

He scratched his head. “I suppose we could find a cart,” he said thoughtfully. “Can you drive a wagon?”

“I can drive a car.”

“That is different. I would hate to see you run amuck in a donkey cart.”

She snorted, her mood lightening. “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she splashed in the tub. “I’ll live.”

He grinned, moving back to the table and drinking the last of the wine as she finished shaving her armpits.  He kept glancing back at her, watching her wet, supple body.  The sun was starting to set outside and he went to the small, battered bronze furnace in the corner of the room near the window.  It was basically an open bucket that, when filled with coal or other substance, gave off a significant amount of heat. Since there was no hearth in the room, it was a way to produce heat.  There was a small bucket of charcoal next to it mixed with chunks of peat.  Kieran positioned the peat and coal, then lit it with a flint that was mixed up in the coal.   As Rory finished her bath, a warm fire began to burn.

Rory continued to sit in the bath even when the water went from very hot to moderately warm. It simply felt wonderful to be warm and clean again. She knew that Medieval people didn’t bathe often but that was one cultural condition she refused to succumb to. She planned to bathe every day if she could.  But eventually, the water grew too cool for her taste and she knew it was time to get out. Besides, her fingers and toes were all wrinkled.

“Baby?” she called sweetly.

He was draining the pitcher of wine. “Aye?” he smacked his lips.

She leaned over the side of the tub, smiling brightly. “Can you please bring me my towel?”

He put down the pitcher and dutifully went over to the pile of trunks again, rummaging around in the top trunk until he pulled out a big, folded piece of white linen.  Rory had purchased it when she had bought the oils, after she realized that anywhere they stayed would not be like the hotels she knew and would therefore not provide towel or bathrooms, for that matter.  Kieran approached her as he unfolded the linen, holding it up to her as she stood up in the tub.  She stepped into the linen and he wrapped her up, picking her up in his arms and giving her a good squeeze. She squealed as he bear-hugged her, nuzzling her wet neck.

“Kieran, I’m all wet,” she protested weakly. “Put me down so I can dry off.”

He was feeling his alcohol, hot and lustful. “Shall I put you down near the fire?”

She looked over at the wide-open bucket that was now glowing with flame. “We’ll be lucky if we don’t die of carbon monoxide poisoning,” she muttered. “Make sure you put that thing near the window where the fumes can escape.”

“Aye, madam,” he murmured into her skin.

He took her over to the furnace and set her gently down.  Rory teetered when he put her on her feet because the floor was cold, so she danced around as she dried off. The linen wasn’t particularly absorbent so it took some time, but she was able to dry off sufficiently.  Then she hopped over to the table where her oils were.

“I think I want to use the one that smells like jasmine,” she hunted around, smelling, until she came to it. “Ooo, here it is.”

She popped open the stopper, which was a lovely glass cork.  It wasn’t perfectly made, like it would have been in her time and modern machinery, but it was gorgeously crafted with a tint of yellow to it. She poured some of the precious oil onto her palm and began rubbing it on her legs.  Kieran watched her intently.

“What is in that potion?” he asked.

She rubbed it into her thighs, dropping the towel completely to rub it into her torso. ”The merchant said he bought it from an old woman who pressed the flowers and poured sesame oil over them. Then she would let it all sit and steep for awhile.” She held up the phial and shook it, watching the liquid swirl. “You can see bits of flower petals in it.”

Kieran smelled her shoulder where she was rubbing the oil in; it was too much. Having a naked woman standing in front of him overwhelmed him and, with a growl, he wrapped his big arms around her and bit softly into her neck.   Rory gasped.

“Kieran,” she protested weakly.

“No more talk,” he ordered gently. “You have been flaunting yourself in front of me all day and I have reached my limit. I can no longer stand not having my fill of you.”

She giggled as he suckled her neck, the giggles quickly turning into soft grunts of pleasure.  One big hand found a breast, fondling her from behind as she purred like a kitten. As he was preparing to delve further into his tender assault, there was a knock on the door.

Rory moved away from him quickly, running to collect the linen towel on the floor. When she was properly and completely covered up by it, Kieran answered the door.  The tall tavern keeper and two serving wenches stood there, their arms laden with huge bundles of material. Kieran lifted an eyebrow.

“What is this?” he demanded in French, his voice cold.

The innkeeper pointed his chin at the bundle in his arms. “I was told you wanted a clean bed, m’lord.”

Kieran nodded, standing back so they could come into the room.  Rory stood over by the open furnace, watching them lay what looked like a large sack on the bed.  The serving wenches deposited the material in their arms and then went back into the hall, reemerging into the room towing great bushels of hay.  There was hay all over the floor, floating in the air, but it told Rory that the hay was dry and more than likely relatively clean.  She moved closer to the group as they worked to stuff the sack on the bed, which was quickly assuming the shape of a mattress.

She peered closely at the sack they were filling with straw.  A cursory examination showed no bugs that she could see but that wasn’t good enough.

“Ask them where they got this from and how they cleaned it?” she asked Kieran.

He proceeded to relay her request in French. The innkeeper replied that it had just been boiled because a man had been murdered on it and they needed to clean off the blood. Kieran didn’t tell her that last part, however, only that it had just been boiled. Satisfied, Rory stood back as they finished her new mattress.  Kieran came to stand next to her, his massive fists resting on his slender hips as he supervised the work.

“You are fortunate, madam,” he told her. “Beds such as this are not the common place.”

Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

“I have slept on rope beds or the ground for most of my life.”

She understood what he meant. “This is a mattress,” she pointed at the straw-stuffed sack. “Or at least the beginning of them. You may as well know that I intend to sleep on beds like this for the rest of my life.”

He grunted. “I assumed as much,” he muttered. “Do you mean to tell me you did not like the hammock of the boat?”

She made a face, putting her hand on her belly. “Don’t remind me,” she groaned. “That was the worst experience of my life.”

He grinned. “I suspect it is just the beginning of many such experienced you will have in the future.”

She slapped at him playfully and he laughed low in his throat, putting his arms around her as the tavern keeper and the two wenches finished stuffing the big bag with straw. It was enormous and lumpy. The tavern keeper then tossed the two coverlets they brought with them onto the bed, bowing swiftly as they quit the chamber.  Kieran went to the door and bolted it when they were finished.  By the time he turned around, Rory was changing into the soft lamb’s wool sleeping shift. He watched her as she sighed contentedly and ran her hands over the garment, the first really clean clothes she had on her body in weeks.

“I feel so much better now,” she sighed again, moving to the bed and picking up the mound of coverlets left behind. She sniffed at them and looked surprised. “They smell like they’ve just been washed. They’re kind of stiff, too. Did they boil these also?”

Kieran looked at the linens, wondering if those were the same that the man was murdered on as well. When Rory shook them out over the mattress, there was a massive faded reddish-orange stain in the middle.  She let the coverlet fall on the bed, peering at the stain in the middle.

“Hmm,” she smoothed her hand over the stain curiously. “What’s that?”

Kieran didn’t want to tell her what he knew so he tried to sound very casual about it. “It looks like rust,” he said.

Rory bought it. There was no reason for her not to. She smoothed the coverlet down onto the lumpy mattress and put the other one on top of it.

“Hey,” she looked at him thoughtfully. “Do you think they’ll let us take this mattress with us?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s washed and I know the only bodies sleeping on it will be ours.”

He liftedd his eyebrows. “I suppose so.”

That seemed to satisfy her. “Help me smooth out the lumps in this thing,” she told him, jumping on the bed. “The hay is lumpy.”

Kieran watched her roll around on the bed, trying to roll out the lumps of hay. He didn’t move to help her; he did, however, begin to remove his clothing.  He’d long since packed away Richard’s three lion tunic and now wore his father’s tunic, the Hage colors of blue, black and white with the bird of prey emblem.  The tunic came off, followed by the chain coat, the hauberk hood, the leather undervest and finally the heavily padded linen tunic.  He stood there in all of his muscular glory, an amazingly built man with massively wide shoulders.  He was positively enormous. 

Rory continued to roll around, pounding out the lumps, as he went over to the chair and sat, removing his massive boots.  The breeches were next.  Now totally nude, he went over to the bed where Rory was squirming about and fell right on top of her.

She yelped as his weight came down on top of her, giggling uncontrollably as he wrapped her up in his big arms and nuzzled her neck.  She was sweet, soft and clean smelling and her damp hair licked at him as his nuzzling turned to gentle kisses.  Rory wanted to get the bed made but his heated body and manly musk overwhelmed her, so she gave up trying to smooth out the bed and wrapped her legs around his narrow hips.  Arms around his neck, she met his passionate kisses with passion of her own.