Lady of the Knight Page 4

  She studied his face for nearly a full minute. Finally she nodded. “So please your lordship. I had forgotten that ye own me.”

  Andrew opened his mouth to defend himself, but instead he decided to seize the moment of her docility. He filled the pitcher and poured it over her hair. She screamed like a scalded cat.

  Andrew paused. “What now?”

  She hunched her thin shoulders. “Tis mickle wet!”

  He chuckled. “Water usually is. Tis its God-given property. Now close your eyes and hold still.”

  She squinted at him through her wet lashes. “Why?”

  He poured some pale cream into his palm. “Because this will sting if it creeps into your eye.”

  He lathered the wilderness of her hair. Patiently, he worked his fingers through the tangles. Rosie sat very still while he added more soap, then more water. The scent of roses grew stronger after each rinse.

  Andrew discovered that he was enjoying himself. He liked the way her wet locks tended to curl around his fingers. He caressed her neck and behind her delicate ears. He traced his finger down her bowed spine. She shivered under his touch. Andrew brought himself up short. Attend to your business. He soaped her tresses a fourth time.

  “Ye have done that already, my lord,” she sputtered.

  “Aye, and I will do it again, if tis necessary.” He poured several more jugfuls over her.

  As the last of the soapy water ran down her back, her dull grayish hair turned into an ash blond. He whistled under his breath.

  “What?” She patted the top of her head. “Have I gone bald?”

  He smoothed her crown. “Nay, I have discovered a rare beauty.”

  “M…me?” she asked with an incredulous voice.

  He smiled into her brilliant eyes. “Aye, my sweet. I will show you anon.” He cleared his throat again. “But first you must attend to your personal needs.” He handed her the scrubbing cloth and the diminished chunk of soap. “Wash your paps and your…ah…nether area. Tis not proper for a gentleman to perform that service.”

  He levered himself onto one of the stools and watched her as she continued her ablutions. He could not remember the last time he had grown so hot at the mere sight of a beautiful wench. He welcomed the pleasurable ache that he feared he had lost with the lusty days of his youth.

  Rosie wrung out the washcloth. “Water’s getting cold.”

  Her words snapped Andrew out of his erotic reverie. He pulled himself together and hoped she would not notice the physical change in him. He opened another chest and took out several pieces of clean toweling for her and his blue silk brocade dressing robe for himself. He put on the robe first before turning around to hand her the towels.

  “You may get out now, Rosie, and dry yourself off with these.”

  She took the towels. “Ye look flushed, my lord,” she observed.

  “Tis the heat. France is quite warm for this time of year.”

  She turned her back to him, then stood up and stepped out of the tub. Andrew collapsed into his armchair. He could not believe Rosie’s transformation. Her skin glowed like pink roses floating in a bowl of cream. A little rivulet of bathwater meandered down the hollow of her spine and disappeared between her softly rounded buttocks.

  His mouth went dry as he watched the drop’s sensuous journey. He wished he were twenty years younger.

  Someone scratched on the tent flap. “My lord?” Jeremy called through the canvas. “I have returned with your supper.”

  She glanced at the entrance with a sudden spark of interest. Andrew shot to his feet. He would not allow that young coxcomb of a squire to spy Rosie in all her naked glory. “One moment!”

  “Food!” Rosie inhaled the aroma of roasted fowl with closed eyes. A radiant smile touched her lips. The sight of her bliss nearly undid all of Andrew’s good intentions toward her.

  He moved quickly behind Rosie and took the towel from her limp fingers. He dried her with considerable speed. She tried to squirm away from his vigorous ministrations.

  “Soft, my lord! First ye cook me, then ye flay me. Ouch!”

  Andrew murmured soothing nonsense. Rosie’s loud protests subsided into small kittenish sounds. He gentled his touch, patting her across her shoulders, down her lovely back and around her delicious bottom. He enjoyed touching her soft curves through the damp cloth. Giving Rosie this bath had been worth every groat he had paid that abominable villain.

  Rosie leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. Her damp golden hair smelled of roses and almonds. Andrew slipped his arm around her waist. He suspected that she would not protest if he chose to take her straight to his bed. He glanced at the linen bedcovers that were turned down so invitingly. After all, it was what she expected him to do.

  Andrew steeled his resolve and banished the tempting idea before it grew to full flower in his imagination. He had never used his wealth to buy either a man’s good opinion or a woman’s favor, and he refused to begin now. He hugged Rosie as if she were a beloved daughter—the child he had never had. He reminded himself again that he needed her goodwill to win his madcap wager.

  Just then Rosie looked up at him. The candlelight made her green eyes luminous. “If ye do it now, I will get your fine bed all wet.”

  Andrew put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Rosie, my sweet, we are not going to swive now.”

  She regarded him with that soul-plumbing stare. “Ye want to,” she observed in a soft tone. “I can see it in your eyes. Am I not clean enough for ye yet?”

  Andrew framed her lovely face in his hands and traced her high cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs. “Aye, Rosie. You are as clean as an angel’s wing, but I have other plans for you.”

  She stepped away from him and drew the damp towel tighter around herself. “Ah, ha! Now I begin to understand. Ye have different tastes. I have heard that there are men who like to hear a girl scream in pain afore they are aroused. Trust me, my lord, I will scream this bloody tent down to please ye, but…” She paused, gulping for breath, then folded her hands as if in prayer. “I beseech ye for the love of God do not beat me.”

  Her plea took him aback. How could she say that when he had already told her how much he hated to see the bruises on her young skin? “Rosie, I have no intention of beating you, nor do I wish to hear you scream. That behavior is not to my taste either. Trust me. Please?”

  Rosie lifted her chin. “Then what are ye a-going to do with me now that I have no dirt and no clothes?” She took another step backward, narrowly missing the tub of dirty water.

  The poor girl looked like a hunted doe. Instead of trying to placate her fears with more words, Andrew turned to the nearest coffer, opened the lid and drew out one of his plainer shirts.

  “Will this garment suffice for the time being, my lady?”

  Rosie caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Haint ever been a lady, but that is the finest-looking shirt I ever did see.”

  He waved it back and forth. “Tis yours, Rosie. Take it. Put it on.”

  Like a spark of summer lightning, she reached out and snatched it from his fingers. In one fluid movement, she dropped it over her head as she let the wet towels fall to the rug. The hem fell just above her dimpled knees. Andrew tied the neck laces high above her collarbones.

  Rosie ran her hand over the ivory lawn material. “Tis like wearing a spider’s web,” she whispered. “Haint ever had so fine a shift.”

  Andrew resisted his latest impulse to kiss her. Instead, he draped his red cape over her shoulders to ward off both the night chill and his squire’s lusty gaze.

  Then he stepped to the middle of the tent and bellowed, “Are you still out there, Jeremy?”

  “Aye, my lord,” the boy replied, “together with your cooling supper.”

  Andrew winked at Rosie. “Well, maltworm! Bring it in!”

  A cloud of succulent aromas followed the squire into the tent.

  Rosie nearly swooned when she smelled the delicio
us mixture of roast chicken, warm yeast bread and a cinnamon-spicy scent that she couldn’t quite place. It smelled heavenly. Her stomach rumbled with her hunger. She longed to snatch the huge covered platter out of the boy’s hands, but Andrew intercepted her and guided her to a stool.

  Jeremy cast her a quick glance through the shaggy fringe of his dark bangs. His jaw dropped. Rosie pulled the cape across her bare knees.

  Sir Andrew took a comb and began to pull it through her tangled locks. “Mind the platter, clodpate,” he growled at the speechless boy. “I much prefer to take my supper off a table than off the floor.”

  Jeremy gaped at Rosie. She returned his penetrating stare.

  Sir Andrew chuckled while he worked on a particularly stubborn snarl. “You remind me of a goggle-eyed turbot, Jeremy. Have you never seen a lady with her hair unbound before?”

  The boy swallowed. “Not like her,” he muttered.

  Rosie stiffened. The young churl was making fun of her predicament. She glared at him. “I may not be a lady, but haint ever been a mermaid either, so ye can put your watery eyes back in your sockets, boy!”

  Sir Andrew patted her shoulder. “Well-spoken!” he whispered into her ear. Then he continued to torture her scalp.

  Jeremy stepped closer and peered at Rosie as if she were a creature from the New World. “Tis the same wench as before?” Disbelief spread over the boy’s face.

  Rosie whispered a tavern oath.

  “The very same lady indeed!” Sir Andrew worked on another tangle.

  “Haint ever been a lady,” Rosie muttered, then she squealed. It felt as if he had ripped off half her scalp. “Pray, my lord, I beg ye stop! Are ye a-trying to make me bald?”

  He massaged her tender skin. “May I be boiled in a suet pudding if I ever inflicted such a dire punishment upon you, my dear. Jeremy!” he snapped at the transfixed youth. “Attend to your duties! Set the table for two. Use my silver gilt service.”

  Jeremy slid the platter onto one of the nearby chests. Then he opened the coffer next to it and took out golden plates, goblets, eating utensils and folded pieces of white damask. He set all these items on the table, and arranged them in a pattern. Rosie couldn’t understand why her master waited so long before eating. The food must be half-cold already.

  She twisted on the stool. “I pray ye, my lord. Leave my hair in peace. Let us eat now.”

  Sir Andrew clicked his tongue against his teeth. “You must be patient, Rosie. Patience is a virtue, you know.” He continued to work with her tresses as if he had all the time in the world.

  She eyed the tempting tray and fumed at his delay. “Haint ever had a virtue,” she muttered under her breath.

  Sir Andrew chuckled. “How now? What about the virtue of chastity? Remember, I paid a great deal for that particular virtue.”

  She shifted again on the stool, then rubbed the side of her nose with her forefinger. “Aye, my mind mistook that for a moment.”

  “Of course it did,” he agreed in a soothing tone of voice.

  Her lie made Rosie feel sick.

  Jeremy poured red wine from a large clay jug into a silver pitcher. The polished metal gleamed in the candlelight. Then the squire shook out one of the cloths, folded it in the artful shape of a swan, and placed it on the table. When he noticed Rosie’s attention, he made an exaggerated display of his surprising skill with the second snow-white cloth.

  She hid her amazement behind a look of disdain. She didn’t want this green stripling to think that she had no idea why he had wasted his time to make two such fantastic shapes. She would rather eat a swan than look at one. From under the tantalizing cover of the tray, Jeremy extracted a small bowl of salt and a larger bowl filled with assorted fruits. He put the salt on one end of the table and the fruit on the other. Finally, he wedged a beeswax taper into the golden candlestick, and lit it.

  Rosie had never seen such a lavish table setting. The squire lifted the cover from the platter with a flourish. The supper’s delicious aroma filled the air. “Tis a torture,” she moaned.

  Sir Andrew chuckled. “Tis merely combing your hair.”

  “Nay! That!” Rosie pointed to the steaming dishes on the tray.

  He stopped his painful occupation with her locks, and placed his hands on her shoulders. “When did you last • eat, Rosie?” he whispered.

  “Yesterday after we landed in France, but twas only some stale bread crusts.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. His hazel eyes returned her look with a heart-melting warmth. She forced herself to ignore the confusing feelings that stirred within her. “We had a dinner of tripe at a public house in Dover, but the journey over the water was too rough. I puked it all away afore we were even out of sight of land. God shield me, twas a hellish trip.”

  Sir Andrew put down the comb and brush on a chest. “Then I shall not make you wait any longer.” He stood and held out his hand to her. “Come, Rosie, tis now or never.”

  Rosie groaned. Now the perfidious rogue had finally decided to debauch her! Just when she could almost taste the princely banquet set before her. Her empty stomach roiled with fear. Sir Andrew would soon discover her deceit, and she would never taste a mouthful of that delicious-looking supper. She stared at his hand, then at his grinning face. She cast a farewell glance at the roast chicken.

  “Where do ye want me to lie down, my lord?” she murmured.

  Chapter Four

  Sir Andrew’s smile broadened, making him look even more handsome than before. “Tis not yet time for bed, Rosie, but for supper, if it would please you to join me.”

  With a great sigh of relief, she jumped up so quickly, she knocked over her stool. Andrew restrained her before she could lunge for the food.

  He tucked her hand firmly within his. “A lady does not charge the groaning board like a battering ram,” he admonished her.

  Jeremy smirked, though he was wise enough not to look Rosie straight in the eye.

  Anger mixed with her hunger. “Haint a lady! And I am perishing for want of food. Is it your cruel jest to make me grovel for your pleasure?”

  Sir Andrew chuckled in the back of his throat, though he still held her tight within his grasp. “My pleasure is to escort you to the table.”

  Rosie tugged at her pinioned arm and shot him a frustrated look. “I can get there well enough on my own. In sooth, I can get there a good deal faster than ye, my lord. Tis but two short steps away.” The aroma of the roasted fowl enveloped her. “Let me go, for sweet charity’s sake!”

  Andrew checked her second lunge. “A lady is led in a docile and demure fashion with downcast looks.”

  She blew a damp curl out of her eyes and glared at the pigheaded gentleman. “Told ye afore, haint a lady.”

  He planted his feet on his red-and-blue patterned rug, and gripped her arms. She lifted her chin and glared at him.

  The laugh lines around his eyes crinkled in a maddeningly delightful way. “Attend upon this most important point, my dear. If you desire to partake of the delectable victuals that my good squire has procured for our enjoyment, you will act like a lady. That is my pleasure. Tis what I paid good coin for. Now, what say you?”

  Rosie suppressed her immediate inclination to tell him exactly what she thought of his delusions. Instead, she decided to humor his whims while the food was still warm. She drew herself up and tossed her wild hair over her shoulders. “Then lead me to yon table, my lord, if that’s what pleases ye. But, prithee, do it quicklike.”

  Sir Andrew beamed at her as if she had just said something clever. “Your dulcet voice is a delight to my ears, even if your words are a bit rough around the edges. Let us repair to our feast—my lady.” He cocked his head and grinned at her.

  Rosie almost corrected him again, but she closed her mouth at the last split second. This stubborn lord would only argue the matter further while the food congealed in its sauces. Andrew led her to a folding chair, then he stepped behind it and gestured for her to sit. Rosie eyed the sway-bottom leather seat
and wondered if it would fold up with her inside of it.

  She twisted her fingers behind her back. “I do not know what ye want me to do.” She eyed the tempting dishes arrayed before her.

  He gave her another one of those melting smiles. “You thank me very prettily, and allow me to push the chair closer to the table.”

  Rosie cleared her throat. “Thank ye kindly, my lord.” She didn’t move. Her mouth watered.

  Behind her, Jeremy snickered.

  Andrew leaned over the back of the chair and whispered, “Rosie, you are supposed to slide in front of it and sit down when you feel the seat touch the back of your knees.”

  Rosie wiggled her nose as she regarded the flimsylooking thing. She didn’t trust Sir Andrew. This could be a daft prank. He would pull the chair out from under her and laugh when she landed on her bum. She didn’t trust him an inch. He grinned at her and waited. No one uttered a word. The lure of the tantalizing supper grew stronger. Rosie’s stomach growled out loud.

  “Trust me,” his lips mouthed the words.

  Flinging her usual caution to the wind, Rosie took a deep breath and did as he had instructed. To her surprised delight, he seated her exactly as he had said he would. Once she was in place, he went around to the other side of the table where Jeremy seated his master in similar fashion. Rosie reached out to wrench a plump leg off the golden chicken, but Sir Andrew clasped her hand in midair.

  He clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth. “We say grace first and thank the good Lord for this bounty.”

  Rosie snorted. “Why? He never did cook it.”

  Jeremy gasped while Sir Andrew merely raised his brows at this bit of blasphemy. She curled her fingers into a fist to keep herself from attacking the chicken.

  “Have you never prayed before a meal, Rosie?” her patron asked.

  She decided to tell the truth. This peacock of a gentleman should learn something about poverty. “Twas more like a-praying for a meal, and the Lord did not see fit to listen much to me.”