Page 30 of The Saxon Lord's Unwanted Bride
“Aye.” The gruffness that returned to his voice did not completely conceal his discomfort and Eloise couldn’t hide her smile.
“Let me begin by undressing you.”
While he remained sitting, she unlaced his boots, easing them off his feet, then placed them side by side as she had done on their wedding night. But this time, he was fully awake, watching her every movement. She unlaced his tunic, revealing his broad chest, covered in soft downy hair. As she tugged at the laces her fingertips brushed against his skin. Unable to resist she ran a finger across his chest, tracing an outline of each muscle. The intoxicating scent of male potency almost overpowered her, and she bent her head forward.
Strong fingers curled underneath her chin and tipped her head up until she looked into his eyes, their color a warm, soft brown.
“I wish to know about the night of our marriage,” he said.
“Husband?”
“Why did you tell me that we had not consummated our union? Had you said nothing, I’d never have known you were not a maiden.”
She blinked away the tears. His question was unexpected.
“I vowed to honor and obey you, my Lord.”
His brow creased into a frown. “How would such a confession honor me?”
“Honesty, my Lord,” she said, her voice wavering. “I have no wish to deceive you.”
His expression softened and he brushed his fingers against her lips, the gentle caress stirring her heart. She parted her lips and kissed the tips of his fingers. A soft growl rumbled in his chest.
“Eloise…”
His lips met hers, soft yet strong, then he caressed her cheek. His pupils darkened with desire, yet his fingers touched her with a delicacy which belied his uncouth nature. Though she’d always seen him as a handsome and potent male specimen, his gentleness elicited unfathomable feelings within her. A strange warmth radiated through her body. Was this what women felt when they experienced desire for a man?
Even for a Saxon, a man named The Butcher, with a reputation for swordsmanship and wenching, Harald had shown brief moments of unanticipated kindness. Perhaps she could trust him with her secret, to help her conquer her deepest fear, the darkness from her past which invaded her dreams at night. Might she trust him enough, one day, to tell him about Violette?
Violette.
“Who is Violette?”
Sweet heaven – she’d spoken aloud!
“A childhood friend, my Lord,” she said. “Come, let me bathe you before the water grows cold.”
After removing the rest of his clothes she led him to the bath, holding his hand to steady him while he lifted a leg to climb in. He lay back and she picked up the washcloth and began to massage his chest, following the planes of the muscles to ease the tension as she had done with the king the night before. He let out a deep sigh and she took pride in the way his body relaxed under her hands. Her Maman had taken the greatest care of their guests at Morigeaux and had taught her well.
She took him by the shoulders to pull him upright to administer to his back. As he leaned forward, she let out a cry at the sight before her.
His back was a mass of scars. Huge furrows ran the whole length, forming a criss-cross pattern. No ordinary lash marks were these—some were so deep they must have cut to the bone, administered with brute force and hatred. How had he survived such a vicious beating, let alone not be permanently crippled by it?
She touched the skin and he stiffened.
“How come you by these?” she whispered.
He jerked away from her touch.
“A woman.”
“No woman could have done this!”
“Her hand may not have been on the whip, but it was her doing.”
“What happened?”
“Her name was Margery. She whored her way into my bed. The devious bitch had another lover, and she bedded me to make him envious enough to offer. Only he did nothing. He discovered us together and said I was welcome to her.”
