‘Tend it a while, add more wood, until it gets to roaring. Can you manage that?’
‘Yes,’ said Giselle, humiliation taking her.
Her captor went over to the window and flung open the shutters. A stiff breeze filled the room, bringing with it the smell of smoke and ashes, of death and hopelessness. Giselle tended the fire, terrified to let it go out and risk his disdain as Lyall Buchanan stood motionless and silent, just a black silhouette against the sky. Was he deciding what to do to her? Would he turn in a minute and wreak violence on her in that big bed? She wanted to trust in him, but the terror of the last day would not leave her and, any moment, she expected the axe to fall and her life to disintegrate a little bit more. It was already in pieces. But he said nothing, seeming to enjoy the relative silence in the chamber.
By the time the fire started to crackle and spit, Giselle’s head was lolling with tiredness. A light tap on the shoulder, and she was awake with a shriek.
‘I need your help,’ he said, beckoning with his hand to a table, where a bowl and jug was set out. He leant over and splashed water on his face and then wiped it clean with a rag. Now it was clear of dirt, Giselle could see its true beauty. How raw and wild he was, with his dark hair and startling eyes.
‘Come here, lass. Wash me,’ he said, holding out the rag
‘I cannot possibly do that. It is not fitting.’
‘What?’
‘I would have to touch you. A lady cannot touch a half-naked man like that. It is shameful. I should not even be looking at you in a state of undress, for we are not wed.’
‘Well, I’m not planning on trotting to the altar with you any time soon, and I am stiff and sore, and I am filthy. My muscles are seizing up after such a long day, and I can’t reach around my back to get the sweat and grime off. I want to get clean, and I need you to do it.’
‘I will not, it is not proper.’
‘How about I put you over my knee and thrash your backside until you do as you are told. How about that for proper?’
The hard look in his eyes made Giselle step forward and take the up the rag. She doubted it would make him much cleaner as the water in the bowl was already pink with washed-off blood. It gave her a moment’s pause as she wet the rag again.
‘I should not be doing this,’ she said.
Lyall Buchanan laughed, a deep manly sound. ‘How feeble you English are, how careful with your manners and what is right and proper.’
‘Would you prefer we were all mindless killers, like you Scots?’
‘Open your eyes, and you will see who the killers are,’ he said bleakly. He turned to her and said, ‘Come on, I’m not a monster, just a very dirty Scot, and no one can see us, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.’
‘God can see us,’ replied Giselle.
‘He gave up all hope of salvation for me a long time ago, lass, so I’m only risking your soul.’
He smiled again, those green eyes so warm and seductive. Lord, this man could persuade her to do anything with those eyes, she thought, as she put the rag to his skin.
Giselle bit her lip hard as she drew the wet cloth down his back and what a back it was. Long and lean, with smooth, pale skin, vivid here and there with bruises, from Banan’s fists or elsewhere? There were a few scars too, some smooth, white slashes, some ragged, with raised pink edges, as if his flesh had been sewn together, in haste, with clumsy hands. She almost felt a stab of pity at the sight of them. He winced as she touched him, as gently as she could, rubbing him dry with another cloth.
Then she turned her attention to his arms, powerful and roped with muscle. The hair on his forearms was darker than on his head, and his hands were broad, with dirty and cracked fingernails. They were shaking a little. She took hold of one to and scrubbed at it.
‘The blood won’t come off,’ she said, glancing up at him.
‘Scrub harder,’ he whispered. Giselle took his fingers in hers, and it felt surprisingly intimate. As she washed the blood away, she daren’t look at him, but she could feel him staring at her. The water in the bowl grew dark with blood. She turned his palm over and rubbed, feeling callouses, rough against her fingers. From wielding a sword all day long, she supposed.
He didn’t seem to like it for he said, ‘Enough, do my front,’ in a hoarse voice.
Giselle’s hands shook as she touched his hairy chest. Surely he could do this himself? She could feel him towering over her. Oh, this was wrong. She was acutely aware of his breath on her forehead, the rise and curve of the muscles on his tight stomach as she cleaned lower. He was not bulky like a bull, as some men were. Instead, he was long and strong and perfect.
‘You are gentle with me, Giselle, and I thank you for it,’ he murmured.
Giselle looked up at him and gave him a fearful little smile. She was so distracted by his beauty that her hand went too low and encountered something standing hard in his braies.
She leapt back, which just made him start laughing again.
‘You should take that as a mark of your beauty and the skill of your hands,’ he said.