“As for that nephew of mine,” Maurice had grunted in disdain the afternoon before, “he’s naught but a worthless fool.”
“Mayhap a dangerous one,” Graelam had said calmly.
“Aye, ’tis possible,” Maurice had agreed. “Slimy bastard!” He had told Graelam about his son, Jean, a fine lad, who, he had long suspected, had been left to drown by the jealous Geoffrey. “He lusts after Belleterre, and his mother has encouraged him. She had the effrontery to tell me to my face that her son was my heir! My heir, all the while looking at Kassia as if she were naught but a fly on the ceiling! Aye, I know what is in both of their minds. Kassia wed to that malignant wretch and my sister lording it over everyone at Belleterre!”
“Why,” Graelam had asked Maurice, “did you not remarry after the death of your son?”
The veil of pain that had fallen into Maurice’s eyes had shaken Graelam, and he needed no words to answer his question.
And now he would meet Maurice’s sister, Lady Felice, and perhaps the nephew, Geoffrey.
Beaumanoir was a small castle, of little strategic importance, Graelam
saw, set near the edge of a narrow lake. The water was dirty brown and churning, but had not yet flowed over its bounds. Nor did Beaumanoir appear to be a rich keep. The surrounding countryside was dotted with hilly forests of beech, oak, and pine, and the rain-drenched soil looked poor. He was aware of ragged serfs, shivering and miserably clothed in the inner bailey. He followed Maurice up the stairs into the hall, Guy at his heels.
“Brother dear,” a tall woman said. “What a pleasant surprise. My, how very wet you are, Maurice. I hope that you will not die of a chill,” she added, her smile ruthlessly insincere.
Maurice grunted. “Felice, this is Lord Graelam de Moreton. We are both in need of a hot bath and dry clothes.”
She was a tall, slender woman, Graelam saw, and not unhandsome, even though she must be over forty. Her hair was hidden beneath a large white wimple.
“Certainly, Maurice.” Felice glanced more closely at Graelam de Moreton and felt a quickening of blood in her veins. Lord, but he was a man, and handsome! Felice gave sharp instructions for her brother’s bath to a serving wench and walked toward Graelam, her hips swaying gracefully. “You, my lord,” she said softly, “I will see to personally.”
This is all I need, Graelam thought, to be seduced by Maurice’s lustful sister in my bath. He was tired, and all he wanted was to drop in his tracks. Aloud he said, “You are all kindness, my lady.”
He left Guy in front of the open fire in the hall, a shy serving wench hovering over him, and followed Lady Felice to the upper chambers.
“Your son is not here, my lady?”
“Nay,” Felice said. “He will be sorry to have missed his uncle.”
If Geoffrey were behind the ambush in Aquitaine, Graelam thought, it did not appear that his mother knew about it.
“I am certain,” Graelam said, “that Maurice is of the same mind.”
Felice did not notice the sarcasm in his voice, her attention on lighting the candles in her chamber. “Ah my lord, ’tis not elegant, for I am but a poor widow.” Her voice rose sharply toward a cowering serving girl: “Betta, see that Lord Graelam’s bath is prepared, immediately! Now, my lord, let us ease your . . . discomfort.”
She is very efficient, Graelam thought, as she deftly assisted him out of his sodden surcoat. She unlaced his mail, clucking at its heaviness, and gently laid it in a corner. To his chagrin, she knelt before him and unfastened his chaussures. It was common practice for a lady to assist a visitor in his bath, but her caressing hands were anything but matter-of-fact, and made him aware that he hadn’t had a woman in several long weeks.
When he was naked, he felt her eyes upon him, studying him and his burgeoning manhood, he thought sourly, as if he were a stud for her stable. Belatedly she handed him a thick wool cloth to wrap about his loins.
“I see that you have known much battle, my lord,” she said, her voice low and throaty. She reached out and touched the long scar that ran along his left side and disappeared beneath the cloth.
“Aye,” Graelam said, wishing only for the serving wenches to return with the hot water.
Felice did not move away from him. She breathed in the male scent of him, the fresh rain smell mixing with his sweat, so potent that she felt her senses reel.
She stepped away from him when three serving wenches hauled buckets of steaming water into her chamber and heaved them into the wooden tub. She herself added cold water and tested the temperature of the bath. Satisfied, she rose and beckoned Graelam with a smile.
“Come, my lord, ’twill revive you.”
Graelam pulled off the cloth, relieved to see his manhood lying soft against him, and stepped into the tub. The feel of the hot water made him draw in his breath with sheer pleasure. He leaned his head back against the edge of the tub and closed his eyes.
“I did not know that my brother called an Englishman friend,” Felice said, her voice soft and close.
“We have traveled together from Aquitaine,” Graelam said, wishing that the woman would leave him in peace.
He felt a soft soapy sponge drift slowly over his shoulder and forced himself to keep his eyes closed.