My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Sixteen

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sitting on the stool before the hearth, Catrin watched the firelight play across the stone floor of the solar. She wore only a chemise. A cold rain had started to fall after the meal at midday and now the October evening felt dank.

“He sent the little Welshman away,” Meg said with a grunt. The maid had helped Catrin undress and now stood behind her, brushing her hair with long, easy strokes. She moved the brush from Catrin’s scalp down the length of her fair curls that fell to her waist.

“Aye,” Catrin murmured, drugged by the motion of the brushing. ’Twas a hypnotic thing, filling her with lethargy and a peacefulness she knew to be unfounded. “Rhys goes to find Gilbert’s murderer.”

“What? I thought you suspected Lord Northbridge of slaying your brother.”

Catrin sighed. “That is the mystery. I only have Court gossip to rely on and the scrap of cloth found by Gilbert’s body.”

Memories of that hideous day flickered in Catrin’s mind like the firelight dancing before her eyes. The red blood of her brother and the black of the fierce raven on Bran ap Madog’s red war shield all meshed, leaving only the impression of horror and sadness.

“But you say he claims not to have done the deed,” Meg said.

“I suppose he may be telling the truth,” Catrin admitted. She was tired of the worry and heartache. Tired of the verbal battle between her and the man she had falsely married.

The day had been a long one. After dinner, Bran disappeared outside with Rhys, but the dreary weather kept her indoors by the fireplace. She picked up Olwen’s needlework to pass the time. How she hated the wearisome sewing. Anyone with half an eye could discern her crooked stitches from the careful, even ones of the real lady of Northbridge Castle.

With light waning, she and Meg retreated upstairs to eat their evening meal in privacy and prepare for bed. Thoughts of the night to come troubled her, for Catrin vowed no cooperation, planning to coerce a confession from him by withholding her favor. Bride she may pretend to be, but she was neither willing, nor eager.

A sudden commotion erupted on the stairs. She glanced up at Meg, whose face mirrored her perplexity.

Without comment, the maid strode to the door and swung it open. “Who goes there?” she called.

“Water for the lord’s bath.”

Catrin jumped to her feet, toppling the small stool. She hugged her body with her arms, a niggling fear prickling the back of her neck. “Your new wife will attend to you while I’m gone,” Rhys had said .

Strapping serving boys burst into the solar, carrying a large wooden tub and several buckets of steaming water. Catrin sprung out of their way. They sat their burdens down near the hearth and waited for instruction.

She did not have to look to know when Bran entered the room. His presence filled the solar with a spark that electrified her senses. She glanced up to see him surveying her with shuttered eyes, assessing her from afar as a falcon scouted its prey.

“Pour the water into the tub,” he commanded. “Leave one bucket by the fire.” The boys scrambled to do as they were bid. “Now get out!” He turned to Meg. “Even you.”

Meg seemed about to speak, mayhap to challenge his orders, but she thought better of it. Darting past him, she fled with the others, leaving Catrin very much alone.

“I have not finished with my maid,” she said, glaring at him in defiance. “My hair needs tending.”

“I will tend it.” Bran shut and bolted the door. Then he came toward her. “And you will tend me.”

Dread filled her. She might as well have been naked for all the cover her thin chemise gave her. Whereas moments earlier, she’d been sleepy and at rest, now all of her nerve endings crackled with tension.

“Nay!” she defied him. “Tend to your own needs.”

Catrin turned away. Hearing him cross the room, she was unprepared for the way he grabbed the fleshy part of her upper arm and jerked her around. Anger burned in his eyes and something more.

His gaze left her face to scorch her body, traveling down to her bare toes. “I am tired of your willfulness.”

She glanced down. Her flesh paled white where his fingers bit into her arm. “And I am tired of fighting you. ”

Bran threw back his head in laughter. “Well met! We are only one day wed, and we are both in agreement.”

He dropped his hand, leaving her arm suddenly bereft of warmth, and turned from her to start undressing. “I am glad you will cooperate.”

Cooperate? ’Twas the last thing Catrin wanted. She stared at his back, watching him strip off his tunic and braes. Soon he stood stark naked before her, the taut shape of his buttocks testifying to years in the saddle.

She swallowed. Fascinated by the curve of his back and his well-muscled shoulders and thighs, she fought the low, insidious lust inching its way to where she had lost her maidenhead only hours earlier.

He faced her, and Catrin could not help but gape at him. Grinning like a cocky page, Bran stepped forward and brushed a hand over the top of her head and down the side of her face to hold her cheek.

“I will not force you,” he murmured, his black eyes growing even darker. “In faith, I have another bauble to give you once I give you this one.”

Catrin flushed to the tips of her toes. She knew what bauble he referred to—the one thrusting so proudly before him.

Her breath grew labored. The flesh where his fingers touched her cheek sizzled. She must resist him, but it made better sense to go along with his game. For the moment.

And for the moment, his gaze entranced her, pulling her in, mesmerizing her. Swaying, a deep stupor engulfed her. When he bent his head to kiss her, she let him, drowning in the soft pressure of his lips.

He broke off with an audible sound of regret. “The water cools. ”

Bran left her. She teetered, licking her dry lips. He climbed over the edge of the tub and sank down into the steaming water. Too tall to fit comfortably, he bent his knees so they peeped out of the water.

Glancing back, he raised an eyebrow. “I am waiting.”

Snapped out of her trance, Catrin lashed out, “I am no serving wench.”

Leisurely, she bundled her hair by tying it once into a loose knot thereby getting it out of the way.

Expensive lavender soap from London and a linen rag lay beside the tub. Bran reached over the side, picked them up off the floor, and extended his hand, offering them to her. “Rhys usually adds woodruff to the water,” he said matter-of-factly as if they had lived this way for many years.

Well, then let the sainted Rhys tend you! But she dared not speak this bit of boldness. ’Twould serve him right to smell like lavender flowers.

Had he heard her thoughts? She tipped up her chin and firmed her jaw, hesitating. Her knees felt weak, but as before, something about him enthralled her, melting her reluctance and moving her step-by-step toward him.

Taking the soap and rag from his hand, Catrin settled on her knees at the side of the tub. She dipped the rag into the water and then soaped it, working up a rich lather. Slowly, afraid to touch him, she caught his long hair with her left hand and lifted it from his shoulders.

“I thought crusaders wore short hair because of the clime,” she said, faulting him for going against fashion.

“’Twas short at the time,” he replied.

Catrin patted his back with the rag. Trembling slightly, she rubbed his muscled shoulders, made strong from the wielding of his longsword, leaving the sweet-smelling lather covering his skin. Then she followed his spine until she reached the water.

She suppressed the need to gulp. “Why not now?”

“It suits my purpose.”

More calculation. Marriage to Olwen was part of his purpose. There was something satisfying about knowing he would get his comeuppance some day, no matter the cost to her safety.

“Extend your arm, if it suits your purpose,” she directed, releasing his black locks so they fell against his wet neck.

Bran complied, and she ran the soapy cloth from his shoulder down the length of his left arm until a ragged red scar near his elbow stopped her. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

He glanced down. “I think that’s where a Saracen almost severed my arm.”

His words chilled her.

“Why?” He smiled slightly and lifted an eyebrow. “Do you care about me?”

Catrin jerked back. “As much as I care for anyone in my household.”

Bran caught her wrist, his fingers seeming to burn to the bone. “You don’t disappoint, do you, cariad ?” Catrin pulled back but couldn’t break his grip. He growled, “I thought you were tired of fighting.”

She shot him a look. He didn’t seem to mind her reluctance but simply drew her hand toward the curly, black hairs on his chest.

“You are not finished,” he said.

Helplessly, Catrin touched the rag to his chest. He dropped her wrist and rested his arms on the side of the tub, settling back. She scrubbed the place between his breastbones and then up to his throat. Going down again, she passed over his nipples that hardened at her slight touch. Seeing them tighten, Catrin felt warm shock waves wash through her womanly place.

She no longer stopped the gulp that escaped her lips. Her throat ached. She felt out of her skin—cold and hot, flushed with a fiery lust she could not hope to control. Washing the hard planes of his stomach, she was all too aware of the heat in her face and in his even hotter gaze that landed possessively on the thin fabric covering her breasts.

When she came to the water once more, she stopped.

“Tend to it all.” His voice was rough with what she took to be desire.

Was his man part fully erect in the water, hiding just beneath the surface, taunting her?

Catrin sprang to her feet and slammed the rag into the tub, splashing water into his face. “Do it yourself!”

She ran from him, as far as the confines of the solar allowed. A flickering thought crossed her mind. The secret steps. Escape! But where? She was barefoot and practically naked.

Her mouth dry, Catrin turned and saw him rise from the tub. He stepped over the rim onto the stone floor and came toward her, slowly and menacingly. He seemed in control of himself. Did he take pleasure in the game? After all, what man did not enjoy conquest, especially of a woman?

“Queen Eleanor pegged you wrong.” He crossed the floor to where she cowered at the window seat, her hair now loosened and falling around her face. “She told me to go slow, for you were inexperienced and innocent. Faith, you have fooled her highness.”

Catrin’s fingers curled into fists, her nails biting the pads of her palms. What had she done? By her simple acts of defiance, she was giving him cause to doubt her. Soon he would figure out he had taken the wrong cousin as wife. Her head or those of the servants who helped her would not be safe.

“You bring out the worst in me,” she snapped.

“And you bring out the best in me.”

Without more ado, he caught her by her shoulders and dragged her to him. He crushed her to his wet body, suffocating her with a kiss that devoured her lips and invaded her mouth. She resisted only briefly before the same hard-breathing desire exploded within her. She kissed him back, seeking satisfaction, exploring his mouth and hating herself for her own insatiable hunger.

He broke away, panting, and as she breathed quickly, he lowered his head once more, raking his lips down the tender flesh of her throat. Angered by the thrill that trailed through her when he found sensitive targets, Catrin had half a mind to resist again. Instead, she brought her trembling hands up to his chest to brace herself, and gasped aloud when his mouth found her nipples beneath the ineffective chemise.

“ Myn Duw !” he groaned.

She felt like groaning too, her hands clawing at his solid chest. She ached and throbbed. On instinct, she sought release, pressing her hips toward his man part. Only it could give her what she suddenly could not do without.

Bran dropped his hands to her buttocks, pulling her toward him. Breathing fast, he forced her back against the chilled window seat.

“You make me a mad man,” he admitted with a growl.

Catrin was mad too. Mad with a desire she’d never thought to feel and for a man she had no reason to love.

He took her then. Up against the drafty window, thrusting hard. But she did not care. ’Twas her penance. Her punishment. Bran pulsed inside her, full and hot. She rode him, her chemise pushed up around her stomach, her legs wrapped around his waist.

“ Cariad! ” he shouted, grabbing a frantic breath before he jerked once, twice, and then shuddered like a sobbing child as once more he came within her.

Catrin clung to him for dear life, feeling limp and incomplete again. She longed for her world to be different. For this black knight to have been dressed in white. For this man who brought her to the height of desire to be her lover. The man who could give her what she could not even begin to know she needed.