Page 5 of The Rose at Twilight

Alys’s hair was long, and because of her hood she had worn it unconfined by any other headdress.

Once freed from the folds of the hood, it fell in damp curls to her waist, and as soon as the first of their coffers had been carried into the tent, Jonet unearthed a rough towel and began to rub.

Despite her efforts, however, long before the tub had arrived and men began carrying buckets of hot water in to fill it, Alys was chilled to her bones.

The water cooled rapidly, sending clouds of steam into the air, so as soon as there was barely enough for their purpose, Jonet told the men to leave the last two buckets and go.

Then, rolling up her sleeves, she ordered her charge into the tub.

Quickly doffing her damp clothing, Alys moved to obey. The water felt much too hot for her chilled toes, however, and after dipping one foot into the tub, she jerked it out again with a cry of alarm. But Jonet was having none of that.

“Get thee in,” she said, still speaking as though Alys were yet a child. “’Tis only that thy feet be cold. Sithee, if tha’ waits till it be cooler to thy toes, ’twill be cold to the rest of thy body, so tha’ must be wick.”

Moments later, her hair twisted in a heavy knot atop her drooping head, Alys sat hunched forward in the tub while Jonet poured more hot water over her shoulders and scrubbed her back with a rough sponge that soon gave her skin a rosy glow.

The soap was perfumed with attar of lilacs, and the scent, mixed with that of the herbs in the water, quickly filled the tent.

When Merion entered, a heavy dark cloak draped over his arm, he paused at the entrance to inhale deeply before saying, “I came to bring this cloak and to see that all is well, my lady, but I believe I shall stay to savor the delights of your scent.”

At the sound of his voice, Alys’s head snapped up and she gave a gasp of dismay, swiftly covering her firm, rosy-tipped breasts with her arms. When Sir Nicholas’s look of pleasure turned to puzzlement, she said with careful dignity, “I am not accustomed to entertaining gentlemen while I bathe, sir.”

“But surely ’tis as much the custom in England as in Wales for all members of a household to bathe together,” he said, still gazing at her and clearly deriving his pleasure now from more than attar of lilacs. “Has my informant misled me, mistress?”

“No,” she admitted, pressing her arms more tightly across her breasts.

“Such is indeed common practice in most houses, sir, but I was raised in the household of the Duke and Duchess of Gloucester, where I was permitted more privacy. Indeed, even at Drufield, I was accustomed to share my bathwater only with the other girls who fostered there. Men did not enter our chamber upon such occasions except to fill and to empty the tubs.”

“Even as a duke, your liege lord behaved in a right royal manner, I’m thinking,” he said, still looking directly at her, “and seems to have allowed those in his charge to do likewise.”

Much though Alys would have liked to debate the subject with him, she felt too much at a disadvantage, too vulnerable in her present position.

Jonet continued to scrub her back, ignoring their visitor, but Alys feared that she would rub the skin right off if she worked at it much longer.

She looked pleadingly at the Welshman, noting the twinkle in his eyes and the way his lips turned upward at the corners. He was amused.

“I should take it kindly in you, sir, if you would be so generous as to grant me my privacy,” she said quietly. “Truly, ’tis what I am accustomed to, and your presence does disturb me.”

“Does it, wench?” His voice sounded lower, throbbingly so, and she saw the tip of his tongue dart to touch the back of his teeth. He had not turned his head away.

The warmth that began in her cheeks spread rapidly through her entire body, heating it as the water had not done, stirring her nerves to tingling just beneath the surface of her skin.

She could feel her heart beating—no, thudding—in her breast, and when he continued to gaze down at her, it was as though his large hands reached out to caress her, as though he touched her in places where even Jonet had never dared to touch her before.

“Please, sir,” she whispered, unable to speak the words clearly. She looked away.

“Aye, mistress.” His voice sounded hoarse. “I’ll go.”

A moment later he was gone, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

No man had gazed upon her naked body since she had left Wolveston nine years before.

In fact, she could not remember the last time one had done so, but she was as certain as she could be that the looking had never stirred such feelings in her as she was feeling now.

Even now that he had gone, the tingling continued, though it seemed to have focused itself in one particular area of her anatomy. She squirmed in the tub.

“Straighten up now, Miss Alys,” Jonet said, “so that I might soap the rest of thee.”

“I’ll do it,” Alys said quickly, taking the sponge and rapidly soaping her breasts and stomach, then rinsing herself. “The water turns cold, Jonet. Fetch my towel. And stop talking to me as though I were four years old.”

“Aye, mistress.”

Jonet hurried to do as she was bid, and Alys stood, keeping a wary eye on the door, fearing that Sir Nicholas, or even one of his men, might enter again.

No one did, however, and she was soon wrapped in a large rough towel.

At her command, Jonet unearthed a French surcoat from one of the coffers, and with that over her linen smock and woolen overdress, she was nearly as warm as she would have been in her own cloak, or in Merion’s, which still lay in a tumbled heap on the floor where he had dropped it.

“Shall I call in the lads now to empty the tub, my lady?”

“Aye,” Alys agreed, “and we will go stand out by the fire.” Lifting the front of her skirt, which had been hemmed long enough to puddle fashionably about her feet, even in clogs, she turned, pushed aside the flap with her free hand, and stepped outside.

She half expected Merion to take exception to their joining the others, particularly since she had refused to wear the cloak he had brought her, but he just smiled at her.

She was grateful then for the darkening gloom, because her cheeks warmed again the moment he glanced at her and she found it difficult to think of anything but the moment inside when he had stood gazing down upon her naked body like a hound eyeing a favorite bone.

Looking at him from beneath her lashes, she noted as she had before that he was a handsome man and strong.

His shoulders were broader than any she had seen since King Edward had died, and he was easily as tall as Edward had been.

Indeed, had Merion’s hair been golden instead of dark, one might have mistaken him for a Plantagenet.

She remembered that Anne’s Dickon had been dark, but he had not been a typical Plantagenet in size either.

“Your supper is ready,” Sir Nicholas said, breaking into her reverie. “Since the rain seems to have passed us by, will you eat here by the fire, or do you prefer privacy for dining also?”

There was no taunt in his voice, and she smiled at him.

“You must think me foolish, sir. In faith, I cannot think why your entrance discomfited me so. ’Tis certainly a foolish custom to waste hot water when there are others about who might make use of it.

No doubt the ways at Middleham were extravagant. ”

“No doubt,” he agreed, smiling back. “I’ll warrant that everyone there did not sleep in the same room either.”

“Goodness, does that old custom still prevail in Wales?”

He chuckled. “It does in many a household, just as I make no doubt it does here. But since what you really mean to ask is if that custom still obtains in all Welsh homes, I will admit that it does not. My parents demanded a certain privacy unto themselves even before it became fashionable to do so, and since our house is a large one, it was possible for my mother to have her solar and my father to have his private chambers as well. Their sleeping compartment is kept to themselves alone.”

“As was my Lord Richard’s,” she said, subdued again.

“And your parents’ also, by what I have seen.”

“I believe so,” she said, “but such is commonly the way of things now amongst the privileged in England.”

“Aye.” He was silent for a moment, then noting that young Tom stood nearby with a pair of rough wooden trenchers in hand, he signed to the lad to serve Alys and Jonet.

One of the other men brought a pair of joint stools for them to sit upon, and Alys sat down and removed her gloves to eat.

The food was common, being no more than a thin meat stew served with chunks of stale bread, but she ate with relish, using her fingers and sopping up the juices with her bread.

When she had finished, she washed her hands in the pail of water Tom brought for the purpose, dried them, and replaced her gloves.

Sir Nicholas waited until she had smoothed them, then handed her a mug of ale. “Down that, mistress. ’Twill warm you well.”

“Aye, it will that,” she agreed, sipping cautiously.

It was a heady brew, so she took her time, enjoying the warmth of the fire, determined not to drink enough to make her sleepy.

A few moments later, however, she realized that it might serve her purpose better to let it appear that she could scarcely keep her eyes open, and yawned behind one dainty hand.