Authors: Julia Latham
“Aye, sir,” the girl murmured, red hair escaping the coarse wimple that swathed her head and neck.
Elizabeth turned to the stack of linens and began to sort through them, while the other two maidservants filed out, nodding to Juliana.
Paul was hoping for a glare from Juliana’s dark eyes behind Elizabeth’s back, but all she did was lift one eyebrow, as if he were a little boy caught in a prank. She might feel she’d bested him, but what did she intend to do now that she’d told the maidservant it was her own duty to bathe him?
She walked right to him, so regal, so composed, and lifted her hands to unknot the laces of his shirt. He wondered how many other men she’d done this for, and the prick of jealousy surprised him. She’d made her choices, and perhaps she could allow herself to be intimate with him as well. The League would not be rent asunder should she have a moment of pleasure.
“So you cannot undress yourself now?” she murmured for his ears alone.
“They quite overpowered me with their willingness to serve.”
She bit her lip, eyes narrowing as her fingernails worked on the knot, but he thought she was withholding a smile. He liked that she was taller than most women, that he didn’t have to bend over so far to kiss her. That stray thought grew, until he was looking at her mouth and remembering.
At last the knot loosened, and she reached down to lift his shirt. And then she stopped, meeting his gaze.
A faint smile teased the corner of her mouth as she said, “Sir Paul, you have taken this too far. I know
you’re ashamed that you’re not in fighting shape, but I’m sure Elizabeth has seen other men such as yourself.”
And then she patted his stomach. Damnation, but he’d forgotten his slouching disguise. And she’d caught him out.
He sighed. “Elizabeth, my concubine is trying to pretend she’s not jealous of all other women where I’m concerned. My thanks for your assistance, but I can see that Mistress Juliana would like privacy.”
The maid departed.
Paul and Juliana stared at each other, not moving, and he knew it was a bit of a battle between them. He’d teased her, she’d paid him back.
And then she lifted up his shirt, and bemused, he took it from her hands to pull it over his head.
“It seems you are quite eager to be bathed, Sir Paul.” She glanced at the bathing tub, already full of steaming water. “Since you insist, I will comply.”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. What the devil was she doing? She began to untie all the points connecting his hose and codpiece to the waistband of his braies. One by one, everything slid down his body in loose folds. He wasn’t breathing—couldn’t breathe. As it was, the braies he wore certainly would not disguise his straining cock.
But she did not glance at it as she bent, lifting each of his feet to remove the discarded garments.
She turned her back to test the water, murmuring, “Perfect,” even as he put a hand on the back of a chair to steady himself.
She
was perfect, and seeing her bent over, he wanted to toss up her skirts and show her how perfect they could be together.
While he stripped off his last undergarment, she busied herself at a low table setting out a cloth and soap. He stepped into the padded wooden tub, then sank down, sighing aloud as he leaned back. The water only came to his waist, and nothing was hidden, but as she bent over him, she acted as if she saw a naked man every day.
And then she put the cloth to his chest and he closed his eyes in bliss.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked on a groan of appreciation.
“Since you wanted a bath, my lord, you should have one.”
She spoke in even, almost impassive tones, and he opened his eyes to watch her. She held his arm aloft while working the soap down his skin, her eyes downcast as she seemed to concentrate.
And washing took so very much concentration, he thought, holding back a grin.
“And since you saw fit to abandon me with those women,” she continued casually, “to tease me in front
of the maidservants, I thought it only right that you be paid back in kind.”
“This is hardly a terrible punishment,” he said, inhaling as she moved her ministrations from his other arm to his chest. Her strokes were slow and gentle, circling, moving ever lower down his torso.
He opened his eyes again to find her watching him.
Wearing a faint smile, she said, “Please sit up so I can work on your back.”
Disappointed, aroused, he did as she asked, bracing his arms on the tub, head lowered. He anticipated each stroke of the cloth, appreciated her deft teasing as the cloth dipped once or twice below the water line. Then she used the sopping cloth to soak his hair, before lathering in the soap. He’d never imagined that massaging his scalp could be so sensual.
“Sit back please, so I may bathe your legs.”
Leaning back against the tub, he watched her from beneath half-closed eyelids, wondering if he’d ever felt so good without being inside a woman’s body. He wanted to be inside
this
woman’s body, and hoped that these games they played might eventually lead him there.
She lathered his feet, then worked her way up one lower leg, and then the other. His breathing grew uneven, and it took more and more effort to appear relaxed.
Soap clouded the water now, so she couldn’t see what she was doing to him, but if she continued, she’d discover it.
Would she continue?
Slowly, carefully, she soaped her cloth again, and then bent over to begin on his thighs, going back and forth between them until she reached the water line not far from his groin.
She glanced up at him, her long hair half covering her face, her dark eyes watching him. “Should I continue?”
He stared at her, realizing that she would totally bathe him, but still didn’t intend to make love to him.
“This is a cruel way to punish me, my little duckling,” he said in a husky voice.
And then she smiled, a slow, seductive smile. She knew what she did to him, just how to arouse him. Somehow he would find a way to show her that bedding him would be a great adventure.
He reached over the edge of the tub, picked up a bucket—and tossed some of the warm water at her before dumping the rest over his soapy head. She gasped, hands splayed, wet hair clinging to her cheeks. Then he dragged her into the tub. She shrieked with laughter, before covering her mouth, eyes wide with shock.
“I think our masquerade calls for laughter in the bedchamber,” he said, holding on to her while she squirmed and giggled and only made herself wetter.
Juliana could barely breathe, her face plastered into his wet chest as she worked desperately to subdue her laughter. He tried to dip her head under water, and she eluded him, twisting his arm in just the right way to make him release her.
“Nice trick,” he said. “I wonder who taught you?”
When she didn’t answer, he tried to dip her again, and at last she was forced to say, “You did.”
Her gown and smock soaked up more and more water, clumped in wet heaps all over his lower body, thankfully keeping her from feeling his arousal. She knew she would have washed between his legs if he’d have dared her—she could weather the storm of temptation far better than he could. And she would have stopped after that, leaving him to suffer.
She didn’t like to think that she enjoyed the thought of him suffering a bit too much. It wasn’t his fault she was so attracted to him.
“I must get out,” she finally said, propped up on his chest.
When she didn’t, he said, “What is stopping you?”
“My garments are very heavy.”
“Then let me take them off you.”
She gave him a mock frown. “You would gladly accept such suffering?”
His grin was lazy. “Hopefully not for long.”
At last she dragged herself out, her soaked skirts still
trailing across him. Together they tried to squeeze out the excess into the tub, and she kept stealing glances at his face. She’d never imagined that he would be able to find amusement so easily, that she could enjoy his company. He’d returned to the League so angry about the past, but he’d never allowed that anger to take over his life, to make him bitter.
There was a sharp knock on the door, with the subtle cadence of a Bladesman, deliberately alerting them.
Their gazes met, hers alarmed, his calm.
“We’re in character,” he reminded her.
“Nay, we were not.” But she nodded and went to the door.
She paused until she heard him leave the bath, waited, then glanced behind her. He’d wrapped a towel around his waist, and she well understood why he paid particular attention to the folds at the front.
She opened the door and stood back, wanting to sink into the floor as all five Bladesmen entered.
Paul used his fingers to comb the wet hair from his face. “You did not see any maidservants lingering in the corridor, did you?”
Joseph, grinning, shook his head. “And why should we?”
Juliana strove to remain impassive, interested, unaffected. But old Roger hid a smirk behind twinkling
eyes, Michael gave Paul a suspicious look, and Timothy exuded worry. Theobald merely went to the window and looked out as if this did not concern him.
Paul gave a heavy sigh. “The maids were trying to bathe me.”
Joseph choked on laughter.
“We rid ourselves of them, but they were listening in. We put on a show.”
“How difficult that must have been,” Theobald mused from his place at the window.
Juliana’s eyes widened. She didn’t know if he was teasing or speaking the truth. She couldn’t read too much into any of their reactions, told herself there was nothing she could do, that her part as a concubine naturally opened her up to speculation by her fellow Bladesmen.
But she felt ill inside at this blow to her dignity, to her place among them. And she hated herself for feeling this way.
She would
not
be so insecure.
Timothy sat down at the table. “Let us report on our findings.”
Their discussion on the layout of the castle and wards was matter-of-fact, expected. Juliana gradually relaxed, except for the occasional chill that shook her. But it was a warm summer day; a little dampness would not hurt her. Paul paced as he reported for the two of them,
wearing just the towel, and though she wanted to avoid even looking at him, she didn’t.
When he reached the point in his narrative where she remained with the ladies in the sewing chamber, Timothy turned to look at her.
She related what she’d heard of the various guests, then with faint irony mentioned the gossip about Paul’s brother.
“We Hilliards are famous,” Paul said dryly.
“But at least
you’re
lucky enough not to be infamous for stealing women, unlike your brother,” Timothy answered with disapproval.
To Juliana’s surprise, he was looking at Michael as he said this. Paul seemed to realize the same thing. Michael remained impassive, but she could see a flush on his pale redhead complexion.
“Michael, were you with my brother when he kidnapped his future wife to use against her father?” Paul demanded, his voice soft but firm.
Michael glanced at Timothy, then answered almost belligerently, “Aye.”
Joseph, Roger, and Theobald all turned to stare. It was not League custom to discuss the missions of others. But then Juliana knew that Adam’s only mission had been a personal one of vengeance.
“He and Robert were acting alone,” Paul said. “Why would you go with them?”
“Because I am a knight of Keswick,” Michael said with pride, “as was my father before me. I would never allow my lord to travel on so dangerous and important a journey without me.”
In the tense silence, Juliana watched Paul. She knew his regret—that he hadn’t helped his brothers avenge their parents. Yet here was another man who’d had the privilege of doing so, and he looked down upon Paul.
“You are my brother’s knight?” Paul asked slowly. “And a Bladesman. Why do I not remember you?”
“I came to the League just after you’d left. It gave me great satisfaction to find your honorable brother and aid him.”
“My honorable brother,” Paul repeated, eyes narrowed. “But I am not like my brother, am I.”
It wasn’t spoken as a question, but Michael’s stiff shoulders and tight mouth said he agreed.
Juliana thought Theobald and Joseph looked as if they’d have to step between a fight. To Timothy’s credit, he still seemed relaxed, though grave.
Soberly, Paul said to Michael, “I envy you the privilege of riding at his side.”
Michael blinked, his belligerence fading. “But you left your brothers; you left the League.”
“I would not have done so had I known the name of the murderer. But I cannot change the past. And I still would have eventually left the League.”
Michael studied him in confusion, but said nothing.
Timothy slapped his hands against his thighs as he rose, breaking the spell. “‘Tis time to prepare for supper. Mistress Juliana, I will send for a fresh bath for you.”
She didn’t like to be singled out. “I can just use—”
“She accepts,” Paul said.
To her surprise and consternation, Timothy winked at her.
“‘Tis my duty as manservant,” Michael said. “Allow me to send for the bath, Sir Timothy.”
The Bladesmen all filed out, and before Paul could even loosen much of her damp lacing, a line of servants came, with empty buckets to haul away the cold dirty water, and then heated water that steamed as they poured it.
Juliana dipped her fingers in, closed her eyes, and sighed.
As Paul continued with the lacing at her back, he said, “You care too much what the Bladesmen think about how we conduct ourselves.”
“I do not.” But she knew she was angry with him—nay, angry with herself. “I know that success is the truest measure of my work.”
“Good of you to convince yourself.”
She tried to face him, but he held her in place.
“Hold still. This requires extreme concentration.”
She bit her lip, upset that even a small amount of amusement could surface after this last tense hour.
“I can feel you shivering,” he said.
“I am not.”
“I should have insisted that you be allowed to change before we had our discussion.”