Читать книгу Marrying Her Viking Enemy - Harper St. George - Страница 12

Elswyth hadn’t thought that she would be attending the warrior named Rolfe in his bath. Yet there he sat in a tub of steaming water. His chest was thick and broad, roped with muscle above the rim of the tub which was too short for his large frame. His knees were bent, sticking up out of the water so that she could see the cords of muscle that shaped his powerful thighs. Water clung to his hair, making it a few shades darker than the blond it had been earlier. It hung free from its constraints, but had been pushed back to better reveal the chiselled planes of his face. His nose was a bit too prominent, his brow line too defined, his lips too hard, but somehow taken altogether those features were almost pretty on him. A masculine pretty that took her aback.

And that was before he looked at her. His eyes were the purest blue she’d ever seen. Not piercing, but intense and so vivid the colour almost didn’t seem real. There was a kindness lurking in their depths that helped her to step farther into his chamber and draw the door closed behind her. Lady Gwendolyn had made it clear to all when they’d arrived that she and Ellan were not here for the men’s pleasure. But this man was new and she didn’t know if he’d been advised. Wounded or not, he was powerful enough to do what he wanted with her and, though she could fight him, her axe was best thrown from a distance.

A soft growl from the corner warned her to proceed with caution, as a large mongrel with grey fur rose to his feet. ‘Down, Wyborn.’ The dog responded immediately to the warrior’s command and lay back down, but his ears were standing up as he watched her.

Casting her wary gaze from the mongrel to his master, she said, ‘I’ve brought herbs for your shoulder, Lord.’

‘I’m no lord.’ His voice was somehow smooth and rough all at the same time and pitched so low that the timbre of it was quite pleasing. She was surprised at how easily he spoke her language with barely any accent at all. His gaze dropped to the axe on her hip before he turned back to the task she had interrupted and splashed more water over his head, though he only used his right hand.

His chamber was larger than she’d thought. Shelves and chests lined one wall and a table and bench occupied the corner. Behind the dog, a bed was set into an alcove that could be curtained off from the rest of the room. It was larger than the one she shared with Ellan and piled high with thick furs. In the middle of those furs a red stone set amid pieces of silver and gold glinted back at her in the candlelight. She carefully averted her eyes from that treasure. It was stolen from a Saxon, no doubt. The thought gave her the surge of anger she needed to rediscover her courage.

‘What’s your name, girl?’

She set the tray holding the poultice, linens and herbs down on a chest a little harder than she’d intended to. So hard that he paused in his administrations and looked over at her. ‘I’m no girl,’ she said, mimicking his words to her. Whenever men wanted to keep her in her place they liked to throw that word around. It made them feel stronger and she found herself disappointed that a warrior such as him would feel the need to use it.

She expected him to let those unnaturally vivid blue eyes sweep down her body. To take in the curves of her breasts and hips. To make it clear that he understood that she wasn’t a girl after all. Her body could only belong to a woman who could only be here to please him with those very same curves. But he didn’t break eye contact except to take in her expression. Finally, he gave a brief nod and a tiny smile lurked around the corners of his mouth, hinting at a dimple in his cheek.

‘Nay, you are no girl. I can see that now.’

Those words felt like a compliment. In a life that had been short on compliments of late, it was most welcomed. Her cheeks burned and she looked down at the tray to make herself appear busy.

‘What are you called?’ he asked.

‘Elswyth.’

‘I’m Rolfe,’ he said and held out his hand.

She stared at it, half-expecting it to hold some danger, which was silly. It was simply a hand, calloused and rough looking with a complement of various nicks and cuts. However, men did not generally offer a hand to her, especially in her current capacity as servant. It was suspicious for its eccentricity alone. With a glance at his bare chest and the water lapping at his hips, she gave him her hand in a brief touch before quickly turning to secure a scrap of linen for a bandage. This man had unsettled her from the first. The sooner she could be done with this task the better.

‘You weren’t here when I left in the summer. Who are you?’ He, too, seemed content to go back to the task at hand and continued to sluice water on his body.

‘My mother was a distant relation of Lady Gwendolyn’s mother. My sister and I have served here for the past few months at the Lady’s invitation.’

With a gentle hand on his shoulder, she pushed him forward to take a closer look at his wound. His hair nearly covered it, so she was forced to take the thick mass in hand and move it aside. It was wet silk against her palm, smooth, yet strangely rough, too. The heaviness of it sliding against her skin seemed too personal. Everything about this seemed too personal. She should have very little to do with this man who was her enemy, yet here she was tending to him in his bath. He was naked beneath the water and her entire body burned in awareness of that fact.

Forcing a deep breath, she leaned in closer to examine the puncture. He was lucky that it hadn’t festered yet. The edges were slightly pink, but they weren’t swollen and angry. It was clear that someone had tended it after it had happened. Plunging the linen into the water, she gently ran it over the gouge to clean out the dried blood. ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, though he hadn’t flinched.

The mongrel came forward, curiously sniffing around her as she worked on his master. She tried to ignore him, somewhat confident that the warrior would intervene should the mongrel overstep his bounds. Reassured that she meant his master no harm, the mongrel went back to his spot beside the bed and plopped down. Putting his front two paws out in front of him, he dropped his muzzle on to them and watched her, his deep brown eyes glittering in the candlelight.

‘Are you a healer?’ Rolfe asked.

‘I know enough to clean wounds and mix common poultices. It is one of my tasks back home.’ Satisfied that she’d done her best to remove the dried blood, she grabbed a bit of soap from the bowl that sat on the floor beside the tub. He clearly wasn’t able to use his left arm well, so his back was still marred with smudges of dirt and old blood from the wound that he hadn’t reached. With gentle strokes, she washed his back, the linen moving over his skin in a soft caress that allowed her to feel just how hard he was beneath his skin. His strength was powerful and could have been intimidating, but he merely hummed softly in approval of her touch and dropped his forehead to his knees, lending an odd peace to the moment.

When she was finished cleaning, she laid the linen across the rim of the tub and dipped a dish into the bucket of steaming hot water that had been left beside the tub, careful not to burn her fingers. ‘This may hurt a bit.’

He smothered a groan as she trickled the hot water over his wound. The water left streaks of reddened skin down his back. ‘I’ll need to do it once more to make certain the wound is clean. It helps the healing.’ He nodded, leaning forward a bit more to give her better access. This time he didn’t make a sound save for a swift exhalation of breath as the scalding water slid over him. ‘There. It’s done.’ The wound had reopened, but only a little blood seeped from it. It was a good sign that there would be no festering.

‘You’ve been sent to exact Saxon vengeance. Admit it.’ His blue eyes gleamed at her over his shoulder, that same almost-smile hovering at the edges of his mouth.

‘I’ll admit nothing,’ she quipped, squeezing out the linen and indulging this strange urge to tease with him. ‘But if a Saxon gave you this scratch, ’tis my duty to make it hurt more.’

He laughed and sat back against the rim, his eyes stroking her face. ‘Then I’m forced to disclose the truth. It was no Saxon, but a Scot. Are you under the same allegiance to the Scots?’

She had to force herself not to take in a breath or show any sort of reaction. He was teasing, but it was as close to the truth as anyone had come in the entire time she had served Lady Gwendolyn. She was not in league with the Scots, but her father very well might be by now. There had been rumours that he’d met with them before she’d left.

‘Not to my knowledge.’ She gave a shrug, hoping the comment sounded flippant and a part of the game.

‘That’s good to know. Otherwise I would worry about your axe.’

‘You’re not worried about it regardless? Saxon vengeance, as you said.’

His eyes fairly sparkled with merriment and she found herself unable to look away from them. It was as if someone had found a way to dye them the most vivid shade of blue she had ever seen. He slowly shook his head, a drop of water running down the side of his face. ‘It’s an interesting choice of weapon.’

She stared down at the axe attached to her belt because she had to look away from him. ‘It’s more tool than weapon. It’s useful on the farm and I’ve grown accustomed to wearing it.’ She didn’t mention that she was more accurate than any man when it came to hitting targets with it. ‘Lady Gwendolyn has been kind enough to give me archery lessons while I’m here. Perhaps you should worry about that tomorrow on the practice field.’

This made him grin and that dimple in his cheek shone. He was so handsome when he smiled that she had to look away again. He was likely to think she was a fool like Ellan with how she seemed suddenly unable to hold his stare. There were many ways that this man unsettled her. What was happening? Was he flirting with her? Was this teasing usual for the warrior?

Enemy, enemy, enemy, the mantra repeated in her head.

‘I’ll look forward to seeing that.’ Something about the way he said that, so firm and exact, made her believe it. It also made her chest swell with pride. Despite herself, it pleased her that a warrior of his renown wanted to watch her skill.

‘Is that where you were all summer?’ She busied herself by sorting the items on the tray and preparing the poultice. ‘Fighting the Scots?’ She told herself that she was asking out of curiosity, but the words of her father wouldn’t leave her. They made that feeling of unease churn deep in her belly. Any news about the relations between Danes and Scots would be useful to him.

‘Not all summer, but a fair bit of it. They’ve been active, but are so far no threat to Alvey.’

‘My home is to the north. Should I be worried about them?’ It was a fair question. She had spent many nights in her bed worrying about the Scots to the north and the Danes to the south, and her tiny village caught between them.

‘Nay, no need to worry yet. And, Elswyth...’ She nearly dropped the poultice when he reached out to touch her shoulder. His eyes were deep and solemn with concern. The warmth from his touch moved down her back to settle deep in her belly, wrapping itself around that knot of unease. ‘We’ll protect you from them if the time comes.’

And what if we are the reason the Scots have come? What if Father has done something that has brought them to our door?

She didn’t ask those questions, though. She would not give her family away. ‘How do you know they won’t be too powerful?’

He smiled again and let her go. His teeth were straight and white, making his smile far too pleasing for a warrior such as him. He should be fierce, with a fierce smile to match. His expression turned to pure masculine arrogance when he answered, ‘They’ll never be too powerful for the Danes.’

She scoffed and made a show of finishing her work with the poultice, mixing the herbs in the bowl before readying a bandage with a length of folded linen. However, deep in her heart, she feared that he was right. She’d been impressed with the Danes who had spent the summer in Alvey. She’d been even more impressed by the sheer power of the army that had marched into Alvey hours ago. Tomorrow she would see them in practice, but she really had no need to see them to know that they would be fierce. Their reputation preceded them there.

‘You Danes are all alike. Too full of yourselves for your own good.’

‘It’s not conceit if it’s true. I’ve never lost a fight.’

She found it very easy to believe him. He sat in that humble tub like a king, his powerful arms stretched along the rim, his eyes shining with confidence. In that moment she had to wonder if it was possible for anyone to best him.

His eyes had gone slightly hooded as he watched her, an indolent quality coming over his face. ‘I toured the north after Lord Vidar married Lady Gwendolyn. I don’t remember meeting you.’ He said it as if he would’ve remembered.

God knew that she would have remembered him had they met before. He was too vibrant and too formidable, equal parts terrifying and fascinating.

‘Nay, we never met.’ She remembered their visit well, though her father had kept her and Ellan hidden away inside so that she’d never actually seen Rolfe. It was no secret to anyone that Father distrusted the Danes. She suspected it had been one of the reasons Lord Gwendolyn had sent for her and her sister. The woman was ever trying to make peace, but it seemed no matter what she did, Father wouldn’t approve.

He despised the fact that his own wife had run off with one of them. It ate at him constantly. Before it had happened, he’d always been stern and quiet, but something had changed in him in the years since. He brimmed with anger and bitterness. Lady Gwendolyn marrying a Dane had brought it all to overflowing. He hated that she’d married Lord Vidar and he hated all the Danes in Alvey that came as a result of that marriage. There would be no peace as far as he was concerned.

Elswyth had been surprised that Father had agreed to Lady Gwendolyn’s plan, but his reasoning had become clear on the morning of their departure. He had approached her horse where she was saying goodbye to her younger brother Baldric. Ellan had followed their older brother, Galan, out of the yard, giving them a brief moment of solitude.

Pitching his voice low, he’d said, ‘Keep your eyes open, Elswyth. We need to know what these Danes are really up to. I’ll expect your account upon your return.’ She’d stared at him in shock, but he’d only slapped the horse on the rump and called after her, ‘I’m depending on you!’

He had meant for her to spy. A lump of unease had been present in her belly ever since. Rolfe’s presence only made it worse. While everyone knew that Lord Vidar was in charge, he would not dare to lead warriors against people he was sworn to protect. Should an uprising occur, it would be Rolfe sent to dowse it. Rolfe commanded the warriors. Rolfe would raise his sword against her village and her family if it was ordered.

Knowing all of that, she couldn’t understand why he fascinated her so. She should despise him. Because of men like him, her mother had abandoned the family. Elswyth had been forced to take over her duties when she’d scarcely been able to carry a pail of water on her own. She had spent the formative years of her childhood wondering how she could have prevented her mother from leaving, questioning if she had been a better daughter would her mother have stayed and even secretly thinking that perhaps she herself was unlovable.

Yet, even with that history giving her plenty of reasons to hate him, she couldn’t keep her eyes from him. From beneath her lashes, her gaze swept over his broad shoulders and the cords of muscle that defined his arms. ‘You’ll need to get yourself dry so that I can put the poultice on your shoulder. It shouldn’t get wet.’

Without giving her a chance to prepare herself or even avert her eyes, he stood in the tub. Water sluiced down his strong body in rivulets, reflecting gold in the soft glow of the candles. The solid muscles in his back tapered down to a narrow waist and a pair of buttocks that might have been carved stone. His thighs were corded in muscle, thick as tree trunks and just as strong from the looks of them, with a light sprinkling of dark blond hair. In the slit of light visible between them, the weight of his manly parts hung—a gasp tore from her throat when a sheet of linen blocked her view, making her realise that she had been staring. Not once had she even attempted to avert her gaze. He had been decent enough to not ogle her the entire time she’d been in his chamber, his eyes had never left her face as they’d talked, but she couldn’t find the decency to look away from his nakedness. Her face burned in shame as she forced her attention to the poultice.

He stepped out of the tub on to a rug made of rushes and tied the sheet around his waist. Grabbing another sheet of linen, he wrapped it around his shoulders, though he did it awkwardly with one hand while keeping his left arm against his torso. She would have helped him had she not been too astonished at her own bad behaviour. Instead, she waited for him to get settled on the bench before bringing the tray over to set it on the table next to him, her face—indeed her entire body—still flaming with embarrassment. Slowly and with as little touch against his bare skin as possible, she used the sheet to dry off his back.

Working with efficiency, she managed to apply the poultice on to his wound and wrap linen around his shoulder. The light sprinkling of fur on his chest teased her fingertips on the first pass, sending cinders of curious sensation running down her arm. This man was nothing like she had imagined. He wasn’t a monster, or even particularly unpleasant. He was simply a man, made of warm, solid muscle and bone. Yet, that realisation somehow made him more dangerous to her. Tying off the end of the bandage, she stood back, making minor adjustments to the wrapping. ‘I’ll make you a sling. You should wear it to keep your shoulder braced until it starts to heal. You don’t want it to break open again.’

‘I’ll try.’ Wearing only the linen slung low around his waist, he walked to a chest at the foot of his bed and pulled out an under-tunic. ‘Would you help me put it on?’

With a wordless nod, she took the folded linen from him. She was tall for a woman, but he was so much taller he had to stoop down for her to put it over his head. A tightening of his jaw was the only indication he gave that he experienced discomfort as he shoved his left arm through the sleeve. She didn’t even give him time to rummage through the chest for trousers, knowing that she couldn’t handle the embarrassment of watching him discard the linen sheet to put them on. Instead, she immediately grabbed the material for the sling and stepped up to him.

He smelled good. Clean like the soap, but also like evergreen needles in the forest mixed with a rich masculine scent that was very pleasing. He was quiet as she fitted it, knotted it and then slipped it across his chest, but she could feel his eyes on her face. They seemed curious and that damnable kindness lurking in their depths made it impossible for her to summon the anger and hate that she meant to feel towards him.

‘When do you go back home?’

The question made her heart stutter. Satisfied with the sling, she lowered her arms from his shoulders and forced herself to take a step back from him. Distance seemed very good at the moment. ‘My father is meant to come before the next full moon.’

‘A fortnight, then.’ He nodded as if the information pleased him somehow, as if he was mulling something over and that worked nicely into his plans, when she shouldn’t fit anywhere into his plans.

Her heart picked up speed and she turned to quickly gather up the tray of medicinals that she’d brought. Never mind that her hands shook for some odd reason or that her knees were so weak she felt certain they would follow suit. Distance. The single word replaced the ‘enemy’ mantra in her head because she no longer believed that to be true. Or worse. It was true, but it was no longer enough to keep a wall between them.

‘Good evening.’

‘I look forward to seeing your aim on the practice field in the morning.’ His voice followed her out.