spread across Gray’s face. “Aye, lady, I’m sensitive enough to it. And I’ll be sure to let you know if ’tis too hot for me to bear.”
With a curt nod, she stroked the linen across the muscled planes of his abdomen. The dusting of ebony hair there thickened below his navel; she tried not to notice how the wet cloth made his hairs whorl together, or how his hips seemed to tilt slightly back, revealing a sudden, unmistakable swelling beneath his braies .
Her pulse quickened, and she paused in her ministrations to look up at him in uncertainty. But his eyes were closed. He leaned back against the bunched up blanket that served as his pillow, seeming completely contented. Even relaxed.
Heat flooded her cheeks again. Relaxed was the last word she’d use to describe her own state right now. She kept her gaze trained to the area she washed, pointedly ignoring the spot below his waistband as she rushed to finish quickly; her cloth skimmed along the edge of the garment, dampening the fabric as she gently rubbed to remove a particularly stubborn bit of blood.
She lingered there, fighting the urge to delve beyond that barrier, trying to ignore her desire to see if he looked as impressive to the naked eye as he appeared with the layer of fabric covering him.
She was just mastering her emotions enough to pull away, when he subtly lifted the rolled edge of his braies , causing her hand to slip beneath it on a downward stroke. She gasped and Gray groaned as the force of her motion slid the wet cloth—and her palm—across the hot, rigid length of him.
At that moment the door swung open. Catherine jerked back, and Gray shifted with a wince. The serving boy turned red as he looked from his master to Catherine and then back again. Finally, he averted his gaze, staring straight at the wall behind them, announcing, “My humblest apologies, my lord, my lady.” The boy’s voice cracked as he continued, “But I come with report from the sentries. A caravan has been spotted, approaching from the East. Sir Alban thought it best to inform you, my lord.”
Gray sat up a little, holding his side and grimacing. “Are they outfitted for war? Look they ready to attack?”
The boy shook his head, so nervous and embarrassed that Catherine could see his knees quaking; the tops of his ears glowed scarlet. “Nay, my lord. Sir Alban said naught of that.”
“Then why the summons? Tell Briggs to have chambers readied to accommodate them if they’re nobility, or victuals served and a place to pitch their tents if they’re but passing travelers.”
“But my lord, I—I think you should come down yourself, if ’tis possible. The caravan—they be nobility all right, my lord,” the boy stammered. “Sir Alban recognized them by their pennant.”
“Well, son? Who is it then, that needs bring mefrom my chamber when I’m being tended for my wounds?” Catherine could tell that Gray was trying hard to keep his temper in check. But when the boy answered, he came bluntly to the point, and Catherine thought that her heart might stop in her chest.
“Why, ’tis the king, my lord!” The boy finally met Gray’s gaze, his eyes wide with the wonder of a child. “King Henry himself has come with his caravan, and he’s about to gain entry to Ravenslock!”
Chapter 5
G ray gripped the edge of the table, balancing himself. All of his wounds throbbed, but at the moment the torn muscle in his thigh pained him the most. He knew that his wife had noticed the hidden injury when he’d stood after hearing about the king’s arrival at Ravenslock, but he’d foregone wrapping it to avoid being late to the great hall.
Now she stood a little behind him on the dais, silent. They both faced the arched doorway, but still he felt her gaze upon him, sensed the worry emanating from her clear, expressive eyes. The hall was filled with his own people, as well as many of the visiting tourneyers, yet the only sound came from whispers and hushed comments as
With a curt nod, she stroked the linen across the muscled planes of his abdomen. The dusting of ebony hair there thickened below his navel; she tried not to notice how the wet cloth made his hairs whorl together, or how his hips seemed to tilt slightly back, revealing a sudden, unmistakable swelling beneath his braies .
Her pulse quickened, and she paused in her ministrations to look up at him in uncertainty. But his eyes were closed. He leaned back against the bunched up blanket that served as his pillow, seeming completely contented. Even relaxed.
Heat flooded her cheeks again. Relaxed was the last word she’d use to describe her own state right now. She kept her gaze trained to the area she washed, pointedly ignoring the spot below his waistband as she rushed to finish quickly; her cloth skimmed along the edge of the garment, dampening the fabric as she gently rubbed to remove a particularly stubborn bit of blood.
She lingered there, fighting the urge to delve beyond that barrier, trying to ignore her desire to see if he looked as impressive to the naked eye as he appeared with the layer of fabric covering him.
She was just mastering her emotions enough to pull away, when he subtly lifted the rolled edge of his braies , causing her hand to slip beneath it on a downward stroke. She gasped and Gray groaned as the force of her motion slid the wet cloth—and her palm—across the hot, rigid length of him.
At that moment the door swung open. Catherine jerked back, and Gray shifted with a wince. The serving boy turned red as he looked from his master to Catherine and then back again. Finally, he averted his gaze, staring straight at the wall behind them, announcing, “My humblest apologies, my lord, my lady.” The boy’s voice cracked as he continued, “But I come with report from the sentries. A caravan has been spotted, approaching from the East. Sir Alban thought it best to inform you, my lord.”
Gray sat up a little, holding his side and grimacing. “Are they outfitted for war? Look they ready to attack?”
The boy shook his head, so nervous and embarrassed that Catherine could see his knees quaking; the tops of his ears glowed scarlet. “Nay, my lord. Sir Alban said naught of that.”
“Then why the summons? Tell Briggs to have chambers readied to accommodate them if they’re nobility, or victuals served and a place to pitch their tents if they’re but passing travelers.”
“But my lord, I—I think you should come down yourself, if ’tis possible. The caravan—they be nobility all right, my lord,” the boy stammered. “Sir Alban recognized them by their pennant.”
“Well, son? Who is it then, that needs bring mefrom my chamber when I’m being tended for my wounds?” Catherine could tell that Gray was trying hard to keep his temper in check. But when the boy answered, he came bluntly to the point, and Catherine thought that her heart might stop in her chest.
“Why, ’tis the king, my lord!” The boy finally met Gray’s gaze, his eyes wide with the wonder of a child. “King Henry himself has come with his caravan, and he’s about to gain entry to Ravenslock!”
Chapter 5
G ray gripped the edge of the table, balancing himself. All of his wounds throbbed, but at the moment the torn muscle in his thigh pained him the most. He knew that his wife had noticed the hidden injury when he’d stood after hearing about the king’s arrival at Ravenslock, but he’d foregone wrapping it to avoid being late to the great hall.
Now she stood a little behind him on the dais, silent. They both faced the arched doorway, but still he felt her gaze upon him, sensed the worry emanating from her clear, expressive eyes. The hall was filled with his own people, as well as many of the visiting tourneyers, yet the only sound came from whispers and hushed comments as
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