turned back to look at the crackling fire. She’d treated countless injuries of this type. The only cause of her sudden nervousness was that they were alone in her chamber. Pushing aside these thoughts, she bent to examine the laceration.
No sooner had she turned her attention to him than she realized this was not the same as any other time. He was not merely a patient to her, a wound to be healed, a bit of skin to be cleansed.
And that thought made her all the more aware of what she was about to do.
His skin was warm and taut, with a few wiry hairs scattered over the curve of his shoulder. There were many, many other scars healed into pale puckers of skin…and some that were purple or red, ugly and jagged. Maris wanted to touch them all, to smooth over the remnants of the dangers he’d faced in the service of the king, to be certain they were as healed as possible.
Her fingers trembled as they brushed over Dirick’s shoulder blade and little bumps erupted over his skin. One of her braids fell from its mooring and thunked onto his shoulder, and Dirick started so that it slid down his back and rested along his spine.
She felt him draw a breath when she dabbed a damp cloth over the cut, then poked gently at it. It was a clean cut from a very sharp dagger, not deep enough to slice through the tendons, but enough that it would take some time to heal. Some threads from his shirt had caught in the coagulating blood and Maris used a bit of the heating water to wash them free. As she became more engrossed in her work, he seemed to sense it and released a long, slow breath.
When she left his side to prepare the poultice, Dirick shifted on the stool, watching her. Her fingers seemed to have grown twice as long and thrice as fat, as first they dropped the leather pouch, and then could not undo its knot. And finally, when she pulled a handful of dried woad leaves forth, her fingers did not hold them tightly enough and the leaves scattered over the floor and table.
Muttering to herself, Maris stooped to scrape up the dried herb, taking care not to crumble the fragile leaves further. By the time she gathered them into a small wooden bowl, the water on the fire was bubbling and steaming. When she glanced over to check it, Dirick noticed, offering, “I’ll get that for you.”
She nodded and returned to her work. The dried woad, at one time a pretty blue green color, but now dried into a dull black, crumbled in the bowl. She took a handful of dried chamomile flowers from a different leather pouch and added them to the woad. Dirick stood at her side, holding the hot water, and she gestured for him to add some to the herbs. He poured gently, taking care not to splash it, and when the water embraced the flowers and leaves, a pungent but pleasing scent filled the air.
Maris brushed past him, lightly touching his bare arm as she reached for the square of cloth. He stiffened, stepping out of her way, and returned to his seat on the stool. She stirred the contents of the bowl, unfolded the cloth into a long strip, then turned back to her patient. The bleeding had slowed to a mere ooze, and she washed the cut once more.
Then, using a flat wooden utensil, she scooped up the mass of herbs and water and murmured, “It will be warm.” Dirick did indeed start when she smoothed the poultice onto his injury, but she felt him relax as the treatment began to work to soothe the pain and cleanse the cut. Maris placed the cloth over his shoulder, lifting his heavy, muscular arm to wrap the bandage.
Once it was in place, she patted the poultice gently, checked that none of the herbs were leaking from beneath, and tied the cloth into place.
Then, her hands did not want to leave him: they brushed his thick hair from the nape of his neck, pulled a few strands from under the bandage, and smoothed over his uninjured shoulder. Dirick’s chest rose as he drew in a single, ragged breath, and then he stilled.
“You have many hurts,” Maris said, tracing a finger over one scar, and then another, and another…. His skin was warm and smooth, the little bumps erupting wherever she touched him.
“And none tended as carefully as this one.” His voice was rough. Reaching over his good shoulder, he captured her hand and pulled it forward, turning his head to place a kiss on her knuckle, and pressing her palm to the center of his chest..
The front of him was hot from the proximity of the fire. She smoothed her hand through wiry hair over the hard swell of muscle, brushing a flat nipple and tracing the ridge of bone down his center. The tingling that began in her fingers flushed through her body, culminating in a pool in her middle that warmed and stirred her entire being. Her chest rose, breasts pushing against his back, and her breathing became shallow and labored.
She wanted more. She wanted
Maris gasped at the thought, pulling her hand away, and stepped back. Before she could speak, to explain, Dirick whirled off the stool, turning onto her with dark, glittering eyes and a taut mouth.
“
She did not resist when he pulled her flush to the long, hard length of his body. Sinking against him, fingers closing over his shoulders, she tilted her head back to receive his kiss. His mouth covered hers, desperate and hungry, and Maris felt herself swept into a maelstrom of heat and energy, kissing him back, forgetting where she was, that she had to breathe….
The warmth of his bare chest, the texture of wiry hair and heated skin, the sleek bulge of muscle…all of him pressed against her, burning through the thin cloth of her gown. Her breasts felt tight, straining against him, her core tight and swelling and damp. When she eased a hand up into his thick hair, and the other back down over his chest, he pulled away enough to look down at her.
The intensity in his eyes, the deep need there, caused a great tightening in her middle. She met his gaze, reaching up to touch his parted lips with trembling fingers. “’Tis not right,” Maris whispered in a shaken voice.
He wrapped his fingers around her hand, pressing his lips to its sensitive wrist. His mouth closed over the thick pad of her palm, biting gently, sliding full lips over the inside of her hand. His tongue slipped out to thrust slick and wet between two fingers, and Maris closed her eyes, sagging against him as the sharp stab of pleasure arrowed into the pit of her belly and lower.
His fingers closed over her shoulders. “I want you,” his words were forced, harsh, as if wrung from his very depths. “I have no claim to you, but God above, I want you.”
She shook her head, forcing herself to ease away despite the need trammeling through her body. “Nay. I cannot give what belongs to the king.”
His eyes darkened to black and his face settled, livid with shock. “Henry?”
Maris realized his mistake. “Nay, Dirick, you mistook my meaning,” she pulled firmly from him, aware that her breathing was too rapid, too shallow, and that her entire being suddenly felt bereft and empty. “I am the king’s ward, to do with what he will. And I must pledge all to him on the morrow.”
The fury drained from his face. “Aye.” His eyes still glittered with desire as his gaze swept over her. “Maris,” he said, low and deep.
She had to turn away, else she would drag him to the pillow-strewn bed. “’Tis my fate to be used as a pawn, dangled as a prize, no doubt, for some well landed baron close to the king,” she said bitterly. “And of all men in this kingdom, it could not be you, as you’ve naught to bring to the great lands of Langumont.”
Dirick stepped back as if slapped. “Aye, ’tis true, I’ve naught to bring to your great lands,” he said caustically. “And I doubt you’d lower your great self to be given to one as mean as I, even if you did not answer to the king.”
He stalked to the door, pausing to give a mocking bow before he opened it. “Good night, my Lady Maris. And thank you for your services.” With a sharp gesture to his bandage, he turned and walked through the door.
Chapter Twenty
Maris knelt in front of King Henry, holding an old, dried bit of bone that the bishop claimed to be a finger of Saint Peter. The king closed his hands over hers, drawing them under his mantle, as he looked down at her with steely blue eyes.
“I become thy woman of such tenement to be holden of thee.” Maris spoke clearly so as to be heard above
