EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER FOUR
The canvas walls blocked the sun, and the shelter was lit
mainly by the fire. It took Anna's eyes a moment to adjust
to the dimness as she slipped inside.
What she finally saw made her halt in her tracks.
Morvan had risen from the cot. He stood naked in front of
the hearth, facing it, legs parted and arms spread low and
wide. His head was angled back, and she imagined his eyes
were closed. He appeared as if the sensation of the heat
had created an ecstasy.
He had not heard her enter. She should leave, or make
herself known. She should at least look away.
She didn't.
The plague had cost him some weight, but it had not
diminished his strength much. He was still a beautiful
animal, more like the courser she had just ridden at the
farm than a warhorse. His torso and legs were muscular but
without exaggerated bulk. His shoulders stretched straight
and hard and a series of flat angled planes defined him.
His body was chiseled in stone rather than molded of clay,
and now it stood in its glory in the fire glow, like a
statue given life.
She had come to know that body well while she cared for
him during the fever and deliriums. More than once she had
needed to bathe it. After the first day she had ceased
being embarrassed. During his illness he was both with her
and separate at the same time, and his ignorance had made
her fascination with his beauty dispassionate.
It had been different since the fever had broken, though.
Very different. Suddenly Morvan became a man conscious and
alert, regaining his vitality with every passing hour. The
slightest touch had turned awkward and embarrassing. For
her, not him. His diamond eyes had reflected vague
amusement at her predicament. Ascanio had guessed, and
taken over the more personal duties. That had helped, but
the last two weeks had still been difficult.
She suspected that the next few would be impossible.
His arms fell. He looked over his shoulder. His fiery gaze
met hers, and she felt her color instantly rise.
He stepped to the cot, unembarrassed by his nakedness, but
then they both knew she had seen him thus often enough. He
sat and pulled the blanket around his hips. "You said that
I will move to the keep today. Now, I hope. I am done with
this death house."
She brought over the garments that she carried, and tried
to look like someone who had just arrived. "These were my
father's. There are more in a trunk in the chamber you
will use." She moved a pail of warm water from the hearth
to the cot. "After you wash and dress, I will take you
there."
She fetched a clean rag. His fingers closed on hers as he
took it, gently imprisoning her hand. "Aren't you going to
do it? I'm not sure I can spare the strength." His
expression appeared innocent, but his eyes sparkled.
"You looked strong enough to me just now."
"I was enjoying the sensation of the warmth. Such
commonplace things are like new to me."
She understood what he meant, but her instant
comprehension annoyed her. She did not want reminders that
they had shared this experience. She did not want the
empathy born of his illness to continue. "If you need help
washing, I will send for Ascanio. It is his duty."
The lights in his eyes turned mischievous. "It has been
recently, but was not always."
He could not know that for certain. He had been
unconscious when she tended him thus. Or so it had seemed.
It horrified her that he might have been aware of all of
it.
She pulled her hand away. He was teasing her, and toying
with the silly way he could fluster her. He kept acting as
if they shared a special familiarity. They did, but he had
survived, not died, and it was time to put that behind
them.
Fortunately, once he moved to the keep he would be
distracted by more appealing women and could test his
resurrected powers on them.
"Either do for yourself, or wait for Ascanio."
He grinned, pulled the pail closer, and cast aside the
blanket. She turned on her heel to leave him to it.
At the entry she glanced back. Morvan sat, wiping one
outstretched arm. Water glistened off its taut muscles.
His eyes burned with contentment and triumph as he felt
and watched the rag's progress.
She understood, too completely. He was reveling in being
alive.
Surviving the plague humbled most people. Morvan Fitzwaryn
looked like he thought it meant he could conquer the
world.
* * * *
He let the warm rivulets drip, relishing the meandering
sensations. He took his time, and tasted it fully while he
could. This sharp awareness of the little things would not
last. Already it had begun to pass.
Old things had been made new. Smells and touches. The
beauty of a flame's dance. The confusion of a woman
unsettled by a man's gaze.
That would pass too, if Anna had her way. For the last few
days she had been almost officious in her dealings with
him. But her curt instructions could not hide her
discomfort, and her impassive expression could not mask
the reactions that he sensed more than saw. Inside the
dutiful lady of the manor was one very uneasy girl.
When he stepped out of this shelter today, she would be
waiting. She would escort him back to the world of the
living. And she would expect him to pretend that nothing
had passed between them.
It would not happen that way. He could not undo it,
anymore than she could be a stranger with Ascanio after
her own fight to live.
He finished washing, and pulled over the garments. They
were lordly enough, but old fashioned. He dragged an
undertunic on, and a long cotte, and reached for the hose.
Light split through the shadows, then disappeared. He
turned to the entry, expecting to find Ascanio. Instead a
different blond haired man walked over, grinning. It was
John, the other knight in his troop.
"I see that God has blessed you, Morvan. It is being said
that the lady's prayers brought the angels here."
"Since two others perished on that other cot, John, I do
not think the angels came."
"Still, you appear hale and fit for one who almost died."
Morvan continued dressing, and waited for John to explain
why he had come. They were not friends, and John would
have not mourned his passing.
John moved the chair closer, and sprawled in it. "Her
lordship says we can leave in three days."
"The men will be glad for it. I will not be fit for travel
yet, however, and will follow later."
"I have been thinking it might be better to stay here too.
For all of us."
Morvan did not reply. He finished with the hose and pulled
on his boots.
John glanced to the entry and pitched his voice as lowly
as possible. "I have been speaking with the servants.
There are two poorly defended outlying fiefs. The land
goes east for miles."
Morvan gazed at the young knight, and waited for the rest.
John smiled slyly. "There is no lord and a weak defense.
We are inside already, and getting weapons should not be
hard with guards as green as this. Fortunes have been made
thus, and there is enough for us all."
"How many are with you?"
"Enough."
"With me dead, perhaps, but not now, unless I approve it.
Most will not stand against me, which is why you are
here."
John shrugged a grudging acknowledgment of that.
"You describe thievery, and a violation of the lady's
hospitality and help."
"She will not be harmed, I swear."
"Put this idea out of your head. Anna de Leon is under my
protection. If you try this, my sword will be waiting. If
you do anything to put her in danger, I will kill you."
John's face twisted into a mask of annoyance. He
rose. "You are ever the fool. If you want that giantess, I
would gladly let you have her. You could be the lord here,
and truly protect her. Think about what I have said.
Fortune led us here, and offered this gift. It is all ours
for the taking." He strode out muttering a curse.
Morvan rose, and threw a short cloak around his shoulders.
John had spoken so boldly because the two of them had one
essential thing in common. They were both landless.
Marrying property was unlikely. They could either buy it
with war booty or take it through force.
He crossed the shelter and stepped outside. The light
blinded him and the crisp air shocked his skin. He
adjusted to the raw reality, and surveyed the yard and
keep, and thought of the forests and farms beyond.
John's temptation worked on his mind despite his attempts
to keep it away. Vague considerations crystallized into an
inner debate. Right here, within reach, was the answer to
fifteen years of prayers. With an estate like this as his
base, he could plan to regain his family's honor. He could
get Harclow back, and restore the nobility of the
Fitzwaryn name. He could undo what fate had wrought so
brutally all those years ago.
He had not needed John to point out the possibilities. He
had been aware of them since he first rode in the gate,
and learned the situation here.
Servants were bringing fresh water to the camps' edges.
Anna was lending her strength to the chore, taking the
pails and delivering them to the individual men.
You could be the lord here, and truly protect her.
There was that appeal too. She was very vulnerable, and La
Roche de Roald was a tempting prize. How long could she
hold the world back? He doubted this lawless country would
let her return to the abbey as she intended.
But even if she changed her mind about the abbey, she was
not for him. If she did not take the veil her duke would
give her to one of his barons in a political match.
Except that the young duke was in England, and those
barons were at war. He was here.
He could make it happen before the outside world could
stop it. He could claim her.
It would not take the conquest of a castle, like John
planned. He need only breach one woman who blushed
whenever he wanted her to.
That woman noticed him, and joined him at the shelter.
"Can you walk on your own, or should I call for some men?"
"I will do it."
She fell into step beside him. Close enough for him to
smell the soap that she used to wash. He looked at her
profile, and the eyebrow shaped like a falcon's wing. He
glanced down to the woman's form hidden beneath the man's
cotte and cloak.
Memories from the shelter loomed in his mind. His
awareness, even in his delirium, when it was her hands
that bathed his body. Her eyes widening in surprise at the
pleasure of a touch. Her lips trembling beneath his kiss.
The glow of firelight on the half hidden swell of a
woman's breast. . .
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