Bride Of The Tower

His fingers relaxed within her grasp and, moaning, he closed his eyes and slumped onto the pallet. She laid his hand on his chest and sat back on her heels. Enemy or not, he posed no threat at the moment, nor would he in the future, she vowed, for she’d keep him under close guard at all times.

For now, however, she’d more work ahead of her, for she could wait no longer for Mary to arrive. No doubt the wench was the worse for drink again, and would be no use to anyone. Deciding to deal with her later, Julianna poured water into the basin, then reached for her basket of simples.

Shifting the candles for better light, she cast the man one last look. Please don’t be an enemy, she pleaded silently, though she knew in her heart that it mattered not a whit whether he was friend or foe. Now that she’d held him close within her arms, felt the warmth and weight of him against her skin, he’d become real to her—not some anonymous stranger she might wield her sword against in battle.

Her hands steady, she stared at his motionless face and said a swift prayer for guidance as she stripped off the first bandage and began to wash blood away from the wound.

She sent up another plea, as well—that her intuition had not misled her.

For no matter who this man might be, she could not let him die.

Julianna quietly closed the door to her chamber and slumped back against the well-worn planks with a sigh of bone-deep weariness. Though she’d had a brief chance to rest her body once she’d settled the wounded stranger in the chamber beside her own, her mind hadn’t allowed her a moment’s respite as it circled round and round the dilemma of his identity and his reason for being so near Tuck’s Tower.

Once Rolf had returned—bearing the news that Mary would be of no use to anyone this night, for she lay in the barracks in a drunken stupor—she’d asked him to watch over the man, for she’d duties aplenty yet to see to before she could return to her chambers.

Now that her tasks were done, she’d still have no chance to seek her bed before another day passed. She couldn’t ask poor Rolf to stay up the whole night, not when he’d been on guard duty at the gate all the night before with no rest in between. She needed her good fighters as alert and ready as possible.

As for herself, she’d managed on little sleep many times before. If her patient slumbered through the night, perhaps she could snatch a nap. If not, ’twas a sacrifice she’d gladly make, for to give of herself in any way she must was a part of her responsibility to Tuck’s Tower and its inhabitants. Despite the man’s injuries, she dared not leave him unguarded.

Before she sent Rolf away, however, she’d take a moment to avail herself of the basin of warm water awaiting her on the hearth and the clean garb hanging on a hook nearby.

Julianna pushed away from the door, set the bar across to lock it, and took up the night candle beside the bed, lighting the candles near the low fire before stripping off her sweat-stained shirt and braes. Stifling a yawn, she stretched her tired shoulders, wincing at the tightness she felt from the unaccustomed task of holding a man’s dead weight before her in the saddle. At least, praise the Virgin, he was not dead in truth.

Nor had she harmed him with her rudimentary treatment of his wounds, she hoped, sending another brief prayer heavenward.

She unwound the cloth binding her breasts and tossed aside the long strip of linen with a sigh of pure pleasure, for she’d not need to wear it again till the morn. Naked, she sank down on the drying cloth spread out on the hearthstones to let the fire’s warmth soak into her aching body and took up the small, precious piece of soap from beside the basin.

The clean scent of flowers made her smile, for as always, it brought her mother to mind. Whether dressed in a fine embroidered gown or her husband’s cast-off garments, Lady Marian d’Arcy had appeared a lady, and had always smelled of sweet summer blooms blended with spices from the East. She had mixed the scent herself. ’Twas as unique and precious as the woman who’d worn it, Julianna thought, and as unforgettable.

She regretted now that she’d not paid more attention when her mother sought to pass the skill on to her, for her supply of the soap and perfume was dwindling and she wasn’t sure she’d the knowledge—or the time, if truth be told—to replenish it. ’Twas a luxury she could live without, most likely, of a certainty less important than ensuring her troops were well-trained and the keep’s inhabitants fed and cared for.

She brought the soap to her nose and savored its fragrance once more before dipping it into the basin and rubbing it into the washrag. Though she nearly always dressed in men’s garb—indeed, she could scarce recall the last time she’d worn anything else—for now she’d take what womanly pleasure she could from the fruits of her mother’s ability by perfuming her body with the fragrance of flowers.

She closed her eyes and fought back tears as she imagined that the cloud of scent enveloping her came from her mother’s arms wrapped warm and tight about her. If only her mother were here with her now, to share her wise counsel about so many things! Instead, Julianna hummed a tune her mother often sang and sought comfort from her memories as she washed herself from head to toe, dressed and brushed out her hair.

The words of the song made her blush when she recalled them, for they told of a woman readying herself to meet her lover. The handsome blond stranger filled her thoughts until, with a moan of self-disgust, she pushed his unsettling image from her mind. The fact that there might be another reason altogether for her to take such care with her appearance made her blush all the more. ’Twas naught but a simple need to be clean and comfortable, she told herself, that had her bathing in the middle of the night; it had nothing to do with the man who lay sleeping but a short distance away.

The man she’d keep watch over for the rest of the night.

“Blessed Virgin, save me from myself,” she whispered, “for ’tis clear I’ve something wrong with me! Never before have I met a man who could make me doubt my own strength of will.” She tossed her loosened hair back over her shoulders. “I’d be a fool, indeed, to allow this stranger to tempt me in any way.”

Her determination fixed, she squared her shoulders, left her chamber and went to send Rolf off to bed.

Flickering candlelight and a low-voiced moan woke Julianna from a restless sleep. She forced her eyes open in time to see her patient attempting to sit up and nearly toppling a lighted branch of candles. Since she’d drifted off sitting propped against the wall, she shifted to her knees and caught him by the shoulders, clasping him against her as she rolled them away from the wavering flames. “Have a care,” she warned, “else you’ll set the place afire.” The words trailed to a whisper as they came to rest with him atop her, his weight pressing the air from her lungs.

He lay motionless atop her, his eyes squeezed shut and his breath gusting hard near her ear. He felt heavier than she’d imagined he’d be, his body relaxed upon hers, his muscular frame molded against her as though they were meant to fit together. She couldn’t tell if he’d swooned, or was simply unable to move, but either way she hesitated to push him off her, for she was sure ’twould cause him further harm.

Yet she dared not remain in this position, either, for it felt too good, too enticing…too likely to tempt her to foolishness. Fighting back the sensation, she tried to squirm out from under him, to no avail. He held her pinned fast to the floor—rough splintery oak beneath her, warm temptation above.

“Do I know you well enough for us to be doing this?” he whispered into Julianna’s hair, bringing her wriggling to a swift halt.

She stared up into his eyes, dark blue and surprisingly full of amusement, and tried to draw a deep breath to steady her suddenly racing pulse. Even if she’d had air enough to speak, she knew not what she’d have said, for he held her captive with both his body and his warm gaze.

Mesmerized, Julianna returned his stare and waited.

Chapter Three

Will sank down against the lissome woman who had, unfortunately, ceased her provocative movements beneath him, and buried his face in her hair while he gathered his strength. By the rood! The way his head throbbed and his stomach roiled, he must have fair climbed inside an ale barrel last night.

’Twas a shame he couldn’t remember anything, for his body was most pleased indeed by the woman beneath him. He drew in a deep breath and sought to settle himself. ’Twould not do to lose the battle and swoon—or worse—over his bedmate.

She didn’t have the feel of his usual choice—short, buxom and well-padded. She fit perfectly against him, though, nigh tall enough to reach his shoulder when they stood, he’d guess, and her body’s gentle curves all the more stimulating against him for the lack of excessive flesh. He nestled atop her with a sigh and rested his aching head on the soft mass of dark, wavy hair cascading over her shoulder. Ah, this was satisfaction indeed! Why had he never before realized the allure of a strong, slim woman?

He drew in another deep breath to clear his muddled brain and smiled his pleasure as his lungs filled with the beguiling scent of woman, of flowers and spice, firing his blood hotter still. She must be far cleaner than the usual tavern wench as well; he’d not smelled such a wonderful fragrance since he’d last visited Gillian’s solar at l’Eau Clair.

The realization shot through him as sharply as an arrow—he could not mistake the sweet perfume of a noble lady.

A noble lady…

Christ on the Cross, what had he done?

Arms stiffening, Will levered himself up and tried to climb off her, sending a lightning bolt of agony through his head and arm, while the pulsing pain in his neck killed the throb of pleasure in his loins as effectively as a cold shower of water.

She moved at the same time, giving him a shove that pushed him over and off her. He slammed to the floor on his back and stayed where he’d landed, his vision fading in and out and a wave of dizziness making his stomach threaten to rebel. Will sprawled before the woman like a drunkard, unable to so much as sit up. The impact sent shards of pain through his neck and arm, as well, reminding him exactly how he’d come to this pass.

’Twas not too much ale that had brought him here, wherever “here” was.

Cursing beneath her breath, Julianna scrambled to her knees beside the man. His quiet moans of pain, as well as the solid thump of his body as it hit the hard oak planks, sent a wave of guilt through her. He lay so still, she wondered if she’d knocked him senseless.

She ran a soothing hand over his face, smoothing the hair back from his brow, and reached for the wet cloth draped over the bowl of water. Guilt tinged with regret, she admitted to herself as she eased the cloth across his bandaged forehead. Those few, brief moments of his weight atop her, his hard lean body obviously responding to the feel of a woman beneath him, had sent a shard of pleasure shooting through her before her years of training had jolted to life and she’d thrown him off.

She’d grown so used to fighting back at any physical contact—not that she’d ever before experienced anything like that—that her body responded as a warrior, not a woman.

Though why she should react with such intense lust to the inadvertent touch of a complete stranger shocked her nigh as much as the realization that she wished it would happen again….

With her patient awake and aware of her, of Julianna—not simply responding to a warm female body beneath his.

What else could account for his reaction? He knew no more of her than she did of him.

He pushed aside the damp rag, caught her hand in a surprisingly solid grip and squinted up at her. “Who are you?” he asked, demand lacing his voice despite its quiet tone.

“Hush.” She slipped her fingers free of his and reached to pick up the cloth from where it had fallen on the floor. “You must rest, sir. Who I am matters not a whit.”

His arms shook as he levered himself into a half-sitting position, then, his face nigh as pale as the linen swathed about his brow, settled his back against the wall. “I fear it does, mistress—” He caught hold of her hair and let it sift through his fingers, then tightened his grasp and raised the disheveled locks to his face and inhaled deeply. He glanced up at her. “Or should I call you ‘milady’?” His tone matched his gaze—sharp, measuring.

Challenging.

And she’d always loved a challenge.