Lady Of The Knight. Tori Phillips

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      “Humph!” she retorted. “Tis easy enough for you to say. You do not have to face Quince in the morning.”

      “Neither do you, sweetheart,” he murmured softly.

      Slowly, she turned around. A sheen of tears filmed over her eyes. Andrew almost kissed away those bitter drops, but he checked himself in time. It would only reinforce her mistrust if he had.

      “How now?” she jeered. “Is this another one of your tricks to drive me mad? I pray ye, do not jest with kind words.”

      Andrew dipped a soft cloth into the water, soaped it, then gently held her chin between his thumb and forefinger while he washed her face. “I swear a solemn oath upon my word as a knight—oh, aye, Rosie, for all my fripperies and silvered hairs, I am a true swordsman—I swear that I do not make sport of you.”

      Her lips hardened into a thin line. “That is a pretty promise, my lord, and as solid as smoke.”

      He tenderly wiped the soap suds from her cheeks. “Mark me well, Rosie. I paid enough money for you to last a lifetime—both yours and mine. As of this night, you are bound to no man but me. You will never return to that abominable villain again, I promise.”

      She stared at him searching to find a falsehood in his eyes. Then she wrinkled her nose. “I will believe you when pigs sprout wings, my lord.”

      He chuckled. “You never can tell, my dear. Pigs are uncommonly intelligent. Sometimes they surprise us.”

      Rosie almost smiled. Andrew yearned to kiss her lips, but the voice of prudence warned him in time. This girl was a skittish colt. He knew he must exercise great restraint and patience to win her trust, especially if he wanted her cooperation to turn her into a lady within twelve days. He picked up a jug from the floor.

      “Bend over and close your eyes,” he instructed.

      Rosie’s expression immediately hardened. “A blister on that sweet tongue! I spy your deceit, my lord. First you make me half believe you, then you show your true colors!”

      Her sudden mood swing caught Andrew off guard. “’Sblood, Rosie, what brought on this tempest of fury?”

      She glared at him. “Myself, my lord! Ye tell me that I should not fear ye, then, in your very next breath, ye tell me to bend over and close my eyes while you use me like a dog. I am a puling fool to have believed your honey words!”

      Andrew beseeched heaven for patience. He sat back on his heels and held up the jug for her inspection. “I must wash your hair, Rosie, or else the whole bath will be for naught. I merely asked you to bend your head over so you will not get soap in your eyes.”

      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 СКАЧАТЬ