Chapter Five - Bathing

Xander came into the room a short time later, looking refreshed and impossibly handsome. She felt like a traitor even thinking like that. He was clean-shaven and she could not help noticing the sharp jawline and mobile mouth below a hawk nose fit for a nobleman. His green eyes were alert, despite his casual demeanour; she judged him anything but relaxed.

Presumably the beard and unkempt appearance had been a result of weeks on the road. How active he had been in the assault on the kingdom was anybody’s guess and yet, hadn’t she cleaned the blood off his blade only yesterday?

“Sleep well?” he asked, with studied nonchalance.

“My daughter is sulking. See if you can bring her round, Xander. I am going for a nap.”

He pulled up a stool and perched his large frame upon it with no sign of being hunched. This was a man comfortable in his own skin. “So, you’re refusing to speak, eh? I can assure you that won’t last long. When I’m done with you, Princess, you will be begging me for more.”

“You insult me, messire.”

“I’m just getting started, little one.”

“Why didn’t she use your title or address you with more respect? Clara, I mean.”

He leaned forward, putting a lean finger to the side of his nose. “I’m lulling her into a false sense of security. Don’t worry, my sweet. When I no longer need her, she and her lover will learn their place quickly or – ” His gesture was unmistakable. She imagined it was her knife being drawn across his throat rather than his own digit.

“Do you have a lust for murder?”

“You misjudge me, Princess. The only lustful thoughts I have are about you.”

Eithne became aware of the unseemly nature of her attire and recalled that she was bound and at his mercy.

“How dare you speak to me like that?” Her bosom seemed to swell to twice its size and her breathing quickened. She folded her arms across her chest and waited.

“I dare because I can,” he told her, hopping off the stool and coming to stand behind her. Even so, she felt he was standing indecently close.

When his fingers began to play with her hair, she started.

“Stop that!”

“You need to learn who’s master, little fire,” he taunted, allowing his hand to drift to the front of her neck.

She remained perfectly still, asking herself why this man didn’t make her skin crawl. Did she want him to touch her, to go even further? Certainly not. And yet, her very bones were melting at the slightest caress.

“Untie me, at once,” she said, only too aware of the tremor in her voice.

“With pleasure, my lady. You need a bath,” he informed her, as casually as if he were talking about the weather. When he went on to say, “It’s colder than it looks outside,” Eithne had to stifle a giggle.

“You went riding, didn’t you?” she guessed.

It hadn’t been too difficult given the faint aroma of hay and horseflesh which clung to his jerkin.

“I’ll break that stallion if it kills me,” he muttered.

Xander knelt to deal with her bonds and she saw a wound which wasn’t healing well close to the natural parting of his hair.

Something else was puzzling her. What did she care if he lived or died? “Do you mean Isambard? He’s a mean one.”

“No, Eithne,” he told her, the use of her given name surprising and rare from him, as was his precise pronunciation: Eth-na. So many people got it wrong. “Maris has been with me for over a month. He was mis-sold, being drugged and docile when I gave him a quick once-over.”

“So you’re not infallible? That’s good to know.”

“Looking for a weakness?” he taunted, the mocking light back in those striking emerald eyes. “My bet is it’s going to be you, Princess. On your feet.”

“Where are you taking me?”

It was an obvious question and she was one who hated to be predictable, but she had to know. Hopefully it wouldn’t be her brother’s old room. That would feel extra sordid, she supposed, not having any experience in the matter. The royal bedchamber was likely to be out of bounds given that her mother had probably claimed it already, even though there was an unused dowager room somewhere.

Wait. Wouldn’t Xander install himself in what had been King Stephen’s domain for so long? If so, there would probably be an almighty battle of wits between him and Clara and whoever-he-was, this latest beau of hers. Eithne felt a faint pride in the knowledge that Xander could more than hold his own on that front. But winning just because he could would be insensitive as far as she was concerned.

She became aware he was regarding her as they walked along the passageway, her hand clasped tightly in his. The look was one she couldn’t fathom and she didn’t have the will to try.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, startling her so much she let out a gasp.

“Are you not a mind reader, as well, among your many talents? And you have yet to answer me, my lord,” she pointed out.

“Rest assured on one thing: I am no warlock. Yet I have made it my business to read people. We do not go to your chamber, little one, if that is what vexes you. Please me, and it will not be totally off limits. Though I know about the dagger, which is now in my possession.”

“It’s not your style, is it? Opulence.”

“Well-observed.” He smirked. “In another life I may have come a-courting.”

“Am I supposed to be grateful to hear that?” she scoffed.

“Enough talking now, slave. We are here.”

Eithne stared at the partially open door to the guest suite and had to revise her opinion of him. A nervous woman was waiting to hand him the key and dipped her knees in a poor attempt at a curtsey before making her way to the next room. It seemed she must have been working half the night in order to clean the place, which shone, from the gilt cornices to the ornate furniture.

Several golden candle-holders were dotted about the chamber, some on small tables, others hanging from the wall, their scented contents patiently awaiting the flame which would ignite them. There was even a small bookshelf containing works of philosophy and Irish poetry. Her father had wanted to feed the minds of his important visitors, maybe even more than he desired to assuage the needs of their bodies.

Her eyes were drawn to the bed, a huge ebony four-poster with velvet curtains and she began to chew her lip.

There was a tap on the door, startling her, and the same woman entered with a jug of hot water. She was followed by a long line of them and it occurred to Eithne that no slave she’d ever heard of was pampered in this way. Was she going to have to earn it on her back? No doubt.

Yet Xander seemed antsy now. Did he like this no more than she? Had he just been playing a part?

The answer came when she ventured into the next room and saw the steam rising from the huge wooden tub, big enough for two. No, he wouldn’t, would he?

It turned out she must have been projecting her unease. For his next words were peremptory and not to be denied: “Strip and get in. Don’t keep me waiting, girl.”