He grinned at her. “I suppose I am,” he admitted. Then “I’ll bathe with you. I stink of horses too.” Reaching out, he pulled her into his arms, pushed her hood off, and loosened her hair so that it tumbled down her back in a shining black mass. One strong arm pressed her tightly against him. The other hand caressed her silken hair. She could feel herself growing weak with his touch, and fought to control her emotions. His green eyes mocked her efforts, and for a moment she became angry and struggled to escape him. He released her instantly.
“I’ll never force you, Skye,” he said aloud. The thought lay between them: because I don’t have to.
There was a scratching at the door and then a sturdy boy lugged in a small round oak tub. Several other boys carried in buckets of water. Rose ordered the tub placed before the fire, and set a carved screen about it. When the tub was filled and the male servants gone, she asked, “Shall I stay and help you, madam?”
“Thank you, Rose. I should appreciate it.” Her blue eyes twinkled wickedly. “Sorry, Geoffrey, but the tub is much too small for us both, as you can see. You will have to bathe after me.” It was a small but delicious revenge, and she was hard pressed not to laugh. She slipped behind the modesty of the screen and slowly removed each garment.
Sitting on the bed, he watched through narrowed eyes as first her velvet riding habit and then her perfumed, silken undergarments were handed over the screen to the solicitous Rose. Soon he heard the water splashing gently as she lowered herself into the tub.
“Will you need help, madam?”
“No, Rose. I can wash myself.”
“I’ll take your riding habit and cloak to be brushed, ma’am, and your underclothing to be washed. Then I’ll come back.”
“Don’t bother, I will care for my lady,” said the Earl as he escorted the servant girl to the door and firmly thrust her out. To sweeten the rebuff he slipped a gold piece down her front and, patting her backside, sent her on her way. The door was shut, the bolt slammed home. “And now, madam!” He strode across the room and yanked the carved screen aside. She sat covered by suds, her dark hair loosely pinned on top of her head. She looked up at him mockingly.
“My lord?”
He stripped off his clothes, letting them lie where they fell, and strode purposefully toward the tub.
“No!” she shrieked, “you’ll flood the room!”
He grinned wickedly. “Then get out and let me bathe.”
“I am not through!”
“But I am ready!”
“Oh, damn you, Southwood! Hand me a towel.”
He held it just out of her reach so that she was forced to stand in order to get it. The suds sluiced down her lush form, and Geoffrey Southwood drew in his breath sharply. The beast in him stirred. Clinging to an end of the towel as she grabbed it he pulled her over and kissed her. Her small full breasts, wet and warm, pushed de- mandingly at his chest.
“Skye, oh sweet Skye!” His voice was rough with longing. Then suddenly he felt the ground give way beneath him and he landed rudely in the warm, scented tub. She was laughing uproariously, the red mouth wide and luscious.
“There, Master Lecher! Cool your heels, and wash the stink of the road from your handsome body! Geoffrey! Geoffrey! How ac- customed you must be to getting your way with women! Shame, my lord! Fie! We barely arrive and you ogle the maidservant. Then you kiss me, ogle the wench again, and pat her backside! Yes! I saw it! Then attempt to climb into my tub for another kiss and a cuddle. No, my lord! If you would have me as your own then I will demand fidelity. Are you capable of fidelity, Geoffrey Southwood?”
For the briefest instant he was angry. Angry with this nameless female, the Whoremaster of Algiers’ woman. How dare she impose conditions on him? But as he gazed at her he felt the anger dissolve. She was right. She wasn’t some common trull to love or ignore as the spirit moved him.
“Touche, sweetheart,” he admitted ruefully.
“I’ll teach you manners yet, Southwood.” she said mischievously.
“Scrub my back,” he shot back and, laughing, she complied.
She had decided in the early hours of the dawn that if she was to become his mistress it must be on her terms. She would not be one of many. She must be his only love. She would give to him affection and respect, but in return he must give her the same. And as she would be loyal and faithful to him, so must he be to her. She had, just now, won their first battle.
They ate in their room by the fireplace. It was a simple but very tasty meal of boiled lobsters, artichokes in oil and vinegar, newly baked bread with sweet butter, whole apples baked in pastry with colored sugar sprinkled over them accompanied by clotted cream, sharp cheese, and a pitcher of white wine.
Afterward they lay back against the plump goose-down pillows on the lavender-scented bed and, holding hands, fell asleep. Skye woke to watch the firelight dancing against the wall. Instinctively she knew he was awake too. Turning, she lay her head against his heart.
“What a wench you are,” he said softly, and stroked her hair. ”I’ve fallen in love with you, Skye. You know that, don’t you? I’ve never loved before, sweetheart, but as God as my witness I do love you.”
They made love tenderly, lingeringly, then slept, awakened, and made love twice more. As Geoffrey had promised her, the next three days were spent in an orgy of love making, eating, and drinking. And even if they had wished to change the program they would not have been able to do so, for they awoke that first morning to find a January snowstorm swirling about them.
As gleeful as children, they piled wood upon the fire and then snuggled naked beneath the down coverlets just before Rose arrived with a breakfast of hard-cooked eggs, thick slices of country ham, bread, cheese, and nut-brown ale. It snowed all that day and they never stirred from their bed except to feed either the fire or them- selves. Skye could not believe how often and easily he aroused her, fulfilled her, loved her. Each time she thought surely it could not happen again, and yet it did.
On the second day the snow stopped and the sun shone again. They dressed and played outdoors in the snow like youngsters, much to the amusement of Master Parker and his wife. But Rose was outraged. It was unthinkable for the gentry to behave in such a fashion! Especially such a handsome, romantic gentleman as the Earl.
Skye’s cheeks were red with the cold and she shrieked with mock terror as the Earl pelted her with snowballs. She got back at him by teasing him into position beneath the roof and then sending a well- aimed snowball into the piled-up snow on the edge. It tumbled down over him like an avalanche, leaving him sputtering his surprise.
That night they sat before the fire, Skye in her simple white caftan and Geoffrey in a green velvet robe. They roasted chestnuts in the coals of their fire, picking the sweet, hot meats from the shells, burning their fingers in the process. He found a lute in the common room of the inn and brought it back to their little room. To her surprise he played and sang quite well. He sang her several naughty ditties that left her weak with laughter, and when he saw that she was helpless he put the lute down and pounced on her. Giggling, she fought him off, tickling him mercilessly until he too was helpless with mirth.
They lay panting upon the bed, and then suddenly he was kissing her frantically. “Skye! Skye! Dammit, woman, love me a little!”
“But Geoffrey,” she protested, “I do!”
“No, sweetheart, you love what I do to your passions but you feel nothing for me. You’re so fair, so charming, so intelligent! I thought it was enough, but it isn’t enough. I want you to care as I care.”