The Dumont Bride. Terri BrisbinЧитать онлайн книгу.
and walked away from him toward the door. Still not moving from the chair, he waited for her to leave so he could enter the blessed bath in front of him.
“Milord?” she called from the door.
“Oui?” He answered in his native tongue without thought. “Yes?” he repeated to her in hers.
“Milady has an ointment that could help your injuries.”
Shame poured over him as he realized she’d seen his body after all. Did she know how he had come by these injuries? He prayed not; he prayed the queen had not shared his disgrace, his dishonor with all involved in this endeavor. A lump blocked his ability to answer her offer, although any medicament that could take away the pain and itching from his sores would be welcome.
“I will return anon with it and you may try it if you wish.” Alyce did not wait for his response. He wondered if she could tell he could not answer even if he wanted to. He cleared his throat several times until he could speak.
“Alyce?”
“Aye, milord,” she answered without turning to him.
“Leave the door ajar.”
“Milord?” This time she began to turn and then stopped herself.
“I want the door left open.”
“Aye, milord,” she said on a sigh, as though familiar with the strange requests of nobility.
Alyce left the room and positioned the door so that it was open. Christian could breathe more easily now. Closed spaces and rooms without windows left him breathless and nervous. Rising from the chair, he walked to the tub and tested the water with his fingers. Stepping carefully over the side of the tub, he allowed his legs to become accustomed to the heat. As it permeated his muscles, he sat and then slid even lower until he was covered up to his neck.
He dipped below the water and wet his hair. Scooping out some of the soft soap in the bowl, he lathered and scrubbed his head until it tingled from his efforts. It would take more than a few baths to remove the squalor and filth of months without them, or at least the feel of those months and that filth. After his hair was soaped and rinsed several times, he settled back in the still-steaming water to relax his tense muscles.
Christian pulled a towel into the water and over his body to keep the warmth close to him. His thoughts drifted and soon he could feel sleep overtake him.
“What do you mean he asked for the door to remain open?”
“’Tis just as I said, milady. When I was leaving the room, he called out to me and told me to leave the door ajar.”
Emalie believed her maid, she just did not understand the request. Only the lord’s and lady’s chambers gave any measure of true privacy and that was due to the stout doors at their entrances. To leave the door open was to invite intrusion…or to simply invite.
“Was he in his bath when you left?” Emalie demanded. At Alyce’s nod, she added, “And was he alone?”
“Aye, milady. Fitzhugh knows Lyssa and her tricks. He ordered her out before the lord undressed.”
Was he leaving the door open so the maid could return to him? Was he taking his pleasure with the servants in her keep even before it was his? ’Twas a fine way for the new lord of Greystone to begin.
“I will take the ointment to him.” Emalie decided to look into this herself. If her new husband was going to make shaming her a regular occurrence, she would know it now.
“But, milady, I told him I would bring it. Mayhap you should wait until this evening to meet him, as the queen suggested?” Alyce frowned at Emalie’s attempts to take the pottery jar from her grasp. Emalie stopped trying and held her hand out for Alyce to relinquish the jar. With a sigh, her maid finally did. Emalie picked up one more bottle, gathered her skirts and left her workroom, heading to the lord’s chamber. Alyce’s huffing and puffing followed close behind. Stopping in front of the room, Emalie leaned closer and peeked in.
“Go quietly, milady.”
Now it was her turn to frown. “What do you mean, Alyce?”
“Poor lad, looked nigh to fainting from exhaustion, he did.”
“Poor lad? That poor lad is le Comte de Langier,” Emalie whispered in her best French accent, “one of Poitou’s finest, fair of face, and warrior extraordinaire, according to the queen.”
“He looked like a man worn down by life to me,” Alyce answered with a snort. “Step lightly and do not disturb him if he rests.”
Emalie gaped openly at her maid. Alyce’s softness toward this man was frightening to her. If Alyce backed him, who would stand by her side? Deciding it was time to meet this poor lad, Emalie pushed the door open a bit more and stepped into the room. The humid air swirled around her as she approached the hearth and tub. The man in the tub did not move as she walked closer.
His head lay turned to one side and he snored lightly. She smiled as she thought of how innocent her father had appeared in sleep. Now, as she looked at Dumont, no frowns marred his strong brow and face. His hair looked to be a dark brown, but the wetness made it difficult to tell. Her gaze moved down his face and neck to his shoulders and chest. The rest of him was covered by a length of linen.
She could see some of his bones lying just below his skin. He was either very thin or had been ill and lost much of his body’s weight. Was this what Alyce meant? Her trained eye noticed several lesions on his arms and chest, some unhealed sores of long standing. She suspected that he suffered with many more on places she could not see. This was truly a puzzle.
Debating whether or not to let him know of her presence, Emalie decided to let him sleep on. She placed the jar of ointment on the floor next to the tub where he would find it. Then she quietly opened the bottle she carried and poured a small amount into the bathwater. Reaching down, she swirled the water with her fingertips to mix the healing potion into his bath. Careful not to touch him, she stepped back and walked toward the door.
Once in the hall, she pulled the door closed and then adjusted it as Alyce had left it. Tonight. Tonight she would have her answers when she and the count met officially.
Strangely, as she left the chamber, only one question filled her thoughts. She wondered what he would look and sound like once awake. Too wrapped up in her own thoughts, she hadn’t seen his eyes open and his gaze follow her steps.
An angel from heaven? Had he finally died and this angel was there to escort him to his judgment?
As he opened his eyes, he saw her standing over him, her gowns and long, honey-brown hair flowing around her. The flames in the hearth outlined her womanly form before him. Her face glowed with the golden fire tones and not even the frown she wore could mar the smooth inclines of her nose, the gentle arching of her brows or the fullness of her mouth. He saw her hand reach out to the water and he closed his eyes and waited, nay hungered, for her healing touch.
When it did not come, he fought with his last ounce of strength to open his eyes. She was gone. Then he saw her moving toward the door, silently gliding away from him. His strength, sapped by both his own exhaustion and the heat of the water surrounding him, deserted him completely and all he could do was close his eyes once more and surrender. And his dreams were filled with visions of his caring angel.
Chapter Five
The knock on the chamber door roused Christian from his brief rest. Still exhausted from many days of hard riding and traveling, he slid down from the raised bed, tugged on a robe and stumbled to the door. Although the door was ajar, the visitor did not presume to enter the room.
“Milord?” a man asked. “Are you within?”
Christian reached the door and pulled it open wider until the full bulk of the captain of the guard was revealed to him.
“Forgive me for disturbing your rest, milord. Her Grace asks that you join her in the solar