“Lady,” he murmured, his warm breath brushing her skin, stirring the strands of hair that had come loose from her braid.
“My lady?” It was the squire, his voice high and nervous, as if he thought he was interrupting something. “The water for Lord Alric’s bath is here.”
“Help your master to sit down,” she said coldly. That was better. She was back in control.
As Alric was seated upon his stool, the servants carried in the round wooden bath tub and the buckets of hot water that had been heating in the kitchen. Soon the tub was half full of steaming water, and there was soap and towels.
Isabella turned to the boy, opening her mouth to order him to bathe his lord, when her emerald gaze clashed with that sapphire blue one.
“Are you running away, lady?”
He was daring her. He was testing her. If she was really the Ice Queen, he was thinking, then she would have no trouble doing as the lady of the castle was required to do, and help her guest to bathe.
Isabella hesitated. There was a sense of danger, a feeling of balancing on a knife edge. But she could not allow him to think her attracted to him; she must put him in his place before Freemantle came.
“You may leave us,” she said firmly to the boy.
Alric glanced down, but she did not miss his smile. His smirk, she corrected herself. He thought he had bested her; he thought she would fall willingly into his arms, but he would soon discover how wrong he was.
***
The steam from the water was making her perspire and she wiped a hand over her brow. It was also making her hair curl, and a trickle of perspiration ran down between her breasts, beneath her tan coloured dress.
Alric had stripped off his tunic, standing huge and naked, before climbing into the tub. Isabella had busied herself with moving towels and soap, pretending not to notice him, but a sideways glance had shown a magnificent warrior, muscled and sleek, his back straight and his buttocks tight. And, as he turned, there between his thighs . . . She closed her eyes tightly.
Once she heard the splash of him entering the water she breathed a sigh of relief and opened her eyes again. She told herself she would bathe him as quickly as possible and as impersonally as possible, and then she’d walk away leaving him in no doubt who was the Ice Queen.
She knelt down, reaching for the soap and washcloth, and stared uneasily at the broad expanse of his back. Isabella bit her lip. Despite her promise to herself there was a tremble in her, a shaking that was threatening to tear her apart and send the Ice Queen shattering.
She stiffened her spine and set to washing him.
His skin was warm and she could feel the hard muscle beneath it, the ripple of movement as he shifted under her hands like a cat enjoying her stroking. She gritted her teeth and began to rub the cloth over his shoulders, then across the nape of his neck.
He winced. “Are you trying to rub my skin off, lady?” he growled.
“I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. Taking more care she began to wash his hair, running her soapy fingers through his blond locks. They were like rays of sunshine. A memory popped into her head of a boy standing on a wall against the sky, laughing down at her. A moment later it was gone.
“The soap is in my eyes, lady,” he said in a long suffering voice.
Isabella took up the bowl and began to rinse his hair while he bowed his head. He was still squinting and rubbing at his eyes, and she clicked her tongue.
“Let me,” she ordered, and shuffling around the tub so that she was at his side now, she used the cloth to wipe his face, taking care to remove every last sud of soap. She was so intent on what she was doing that she didn’t realise how close she was to him, how she was leaning over the tub, her dress damp and clinging to her, her red hair loosening about her shoulders.
Until he reached out and tucked a strand behind her ear.
“Freemantle does not deserve you, Isabella.”
Her eyes widened, and then narrowed suspiciously. “He will not have me. Will he, Alric?”
Alric’s own expression darkened. “Not while I have breath in my body.” Something in her chest gave a pang, became an ache, and her own breath lodged in her throat. She swayed, then reached to steady herself, resting her hand flat against his chest. The contact was intense. They both went still, and then with a soft groan he leaned forward and captured her mouth with his.
It was as if she caught fire.
Nothing with Hamon had prepared her for this explosion of desire. His mouth was caressing hers with a confidence, and yet a gentleness, that Hamon had never shown, and when his tongue dripped between her lips and stroked hers, she moaned softly in her throat.
Her dress was sodden from the bath water, and when he drew back his gaze went to her nipples, poking against the thin cloth, as if begging for his touch. He reached to brush one with his fingertip and then the other, those blue eyes lifting to hers, reading her confusion and desire.