Rhys drank his wine as Elizabeau quickly stripped her wet clothing from her body and plunged into the pot. It was deliciously hot and she sighed with contentment as her flesh began to warm. But just as relaxation set in, the wench picked up the soap and the brush and went to work. Within minutes, Elizabeau was positive the woman meant to strip the skin from her bones and she found herself gripping the side of the pot for support. From the top of her golden red hair to the bottom of her small feet, the wench did an admirable job of scrubbing her silly.
When the woman’s job was done and Elizabeau was struggling against the heat of the pot and the near-beating she had just received, the wench looked about for something to dress the lady in but shortly realized that the couple had no baggage. There was nothing to clothe the woman in but the damp dress recently stripped off of her. Slightly confused but resourceful, the wench asked for the lady’s patience and fled the room.
The room was abruptly quiet with the wench gone and the activity quelled. Elizabeau sat in the warm pot, watching the back of Rhys’ dark head and listening to the storm outside. Realizing they were very much alone, and she was naked in a tub to boot, made her vastly uneasy. Not that she didn’t trust the man, but she was rather vulnerable.
“Feeling better, my lady?” Rhys’ baritone voice broke the silence.
Elizabeau started at the sound of it. “Aye,” she replied quickly, nervously. “But I will feel better still when I have my clothes back on.”
Still facing the window, Rhys grinned and held up a hand. “I swear that I shall not turn from this window until you are appropriately dressed. But it would have looked rather odd had I not accompanied you to your bath, as your husband, though I do apologize for the uncomfortable situation.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “Why should you apologize? Is this not your duty? To hound my every move until I can be safely delivered to my betrothed?”
Rhys’ grin faded as he thought of the perils that surely lay ahead; tonight had only been a foretaste. “Indeed,” he replied quietly, draining his cup. He’d had far too much wine but picked up the pitcher again. “Would you like some wine, my lady?”
“I am not sure how you can hand it to me without turning away from the window.”
“True enough.”
Elizabeau watched him as he set the pitcher down, and the cup, and settled back in his chair, gazing at the storm outside. She was seeing him through slightly different eyes, more so as the hours passed, coming to know a man with whom she had a great deal in common. He was respectful, intelligent, and wildly handsome. Her gaze moved over his impossibly wide shoulders and to the enormous arms still covered with mail and armor. Her thoughts lingered heavily on the man with the royal sire and Welsh mother.
“Rhys?” she leaned forward in the pot, her chin resting on the edge.
“My lady?”
“Are you married?”
“Why do you ask?”
She shrugged, her fingers toying with the edge of the pot. “No particular reason other than… other than I was just wondering what it was like, that’s all.”
“How do you mean?”
She shrugged again, moving away from the edge of the pot and flicking away at the soapy bubbles that lingered on the surface of the water. “I mean just that. What is it like? How do you behave with someone you are married to? Are you and your wife friendly to each other or do you simply tolerate one another? If you make a decision, does she support you? Or do you simply make a decision with no care to what she might think?”
Rhys turned his head slightly; he was no longer looking out of the window but staring at the door; Elizabeau could see his perfect profile. “You are assuming that I am married, my lady,” he said quietly.
“I was not assuming anything; I guess my question was simply a general query. I am thinking aloud, I suppose.”
He was silent a moment, still gazing at the darkened door. “It is different for everyone, I would think,” he said quietly. “I was married, once. My wife and I had known each other for a short time and were already acquainted upon our marriage. I was not home enough to truly be a part of any decision making process; she ran the household as she saw fit.”
Elizabeau’s big eyes were upon him. “I do not understand. You were married once?”
He nodded his head faintly. “She died a few years ago giving birth to my son.”
Elizabeau closed her eyes briefly, with sorrow. “I am sorry, Rhys. I did not mean to pry. Please accept my sympathies.”
He shook his head as if snapping himself out of that particular train of thought. Rising swiftly, he moved to the hearth where the linen sheet lay warming before the fire. He held it up to her.