Maris rose and followed the black gowned woman as she wound her way through the corridors of the abbey. Though not much lighter than the keep at Breakston, the building was warmer and more inviting than that dreary place.
And, indeed, Maris’s chamber, though not richly furnished, held more welcome than hers at Bon de Savrille’s home—mainly because no guard was stationed outside of the door. The bed was smaller, and not as plush, but the bedding was clean and thick and promised heavenly warmth after a long, frigid day of wandering through the countryside. A fire nearly burst through the grated fireplace, easily heating the room, and Maris sighed as she sank onto a stool nearby.
Father Alphonse, summoned by the abbess’s servant, arrived to hear her confession. When that was done, and her pena
nce given (Maris did not blink at the large number of paternosters that was her penance. In light of the many lies to Lord Bon and the pain she’d inflicted upon the folk of Breakston ’twas a small enough penalty) a tub and buckets of steaming water paraded into the room, carried by quiet and efficient servants.
When the priest had left and one of the servants had assisted Maris with disrobing, she sank gratefully into the generous wooden tub. One of the women sprinkled chamomile flowers over the warm water and Maris inhaled the sweet, calming scent as they steeped in her bath.
As she rested her head back, she felt a folded cloth being inserted between her head and the rough stone wall. The vapor from the tub swirled about her face and she could feel the fear and tension of the last few days easing away as tiny rivulets of sweat trickled down her cheeks. She was safe at last. She sighed and closed her eyes.
They popped open as an image of the agonized face of Dirick de Arlande intruded into her thoughts.
She firmly turned her mind toward the thought of seeing her father again, refusing to let the face of the man who’d betrayed her encroach upon her peace. Nor did she allow herself to think long and hard about the fact that she’d saved his life when Bon de Savrille would have slain him. Maris might despise the man, mistrust and dislike him, but she would not have his death on her hands.
Dirick’s face, and the fury in his voice as he’d cursed her “witch,” would not be banished, however. Maris shivered, remembering the glint of anger in his grey eyes as she’d yanked free of his grip and swept past him to the steps. She’d felt something akin to remorse as she left him behind, knowing the pain her herb was capable of inflicting. He’d always appeared so large and strong that it disturbed her to see him laid low. An odd thought, she allowed. For should she not have been glad to see such a threatening man laid weak and slow?
He’d been grey with fatigue and breathing heavily against the agony in his middle. Thick hair clung to the sweat on his face and neck, and Maris remembered how his hand, though gripping her ankle tightly, trembled with the effort. She could not dismiss the memory of the lines of pain that radiated from his eyes and mouth. His lips had been thin and taut…not at all like the full, soft ones that had closed upon her mouth in the stables.
For a moment, she was back there, his arms around her and that mouth devouring hers. She remembered the feel of his fingers grasping handfuls of her hair, pushing up through her scalp…the warmth of his hard body in the chill of the early morning…and the spiraling pleasure curling up into her belly.
Maris jerked her thoughts from their pathway so violently that her body moved in the tub, splashing water onto the floor and startling the servant who sat silently in the corner. Must she call her confessor back so soon?
Pulling upright in the tub, she gestured for the maid to attend her. As the sure fingers of the servant massaged her scalp, spreading a rose scented soap in her damp hair, Maris allowed her eyes to ease shut again.
Lulled by the fingertips stroking her head, she found herself back in Dirick’s arms. His eyes were a silvery grey flecked with black and blue, and fringed with dark lashes, half closed with desire, his soft, smooth lips moving closer to hers…she could not block the image from her mind.
Instead, she focused on the expression of loathing in his face. The fury and disgust. And the abject pain and misery.
When the maid gently pushed, Maris bent her head so that the soap could be rinsed into the tub in front of her. The water trickled down her neck and the sides of her face, spilling into the water.
All at once, fear struck. Had she given too much of the broom? Mayhap he’d not survived, as she’d promised. Mayhap she’d risked overmuch in using the potent plant…and even now, Dirick and other innocents could be lying in their death pools.
She shuddered, pushing the thought away. Nay, she’d taken care so as not to make the dose too strong. But the look of agony…and the hatred in his eyes….
Maris swallowed deeply as she was made to stand in the shallow tub. Careful hands soaped her body as she struggled to dismiss the fears and regrets that plagued her mind now that it was not occupied with thoughts of escape.
Nay, she decided firmly, she’d not worry over it. Her papa may not have arrived in time, and she could not give pause to regret. What she’d done, she’d done. She’d escaped Breakston and would return home to her family.
Banishing the lingering thoughts of Sir Dirick, Maris stepped from the tub and allowed the maid to towel her dry. The fire still roared in the grate, keeping her warm until a borrowed night shift was slipped over her head. The maid braided the long dark hair then helped Maris climb into the high bed.
Just as she began to slip into sleep, a menacing thought prodded her wide awake. Returning home to Langumont meant returning home to her betrothed.
For an instant—a brief one—Maris contemplated returning to Breakston and accepting Lord Bon’s offer of marriage. At the least, he was malleable and would do her bidding. Sir Victor was naught but a rough bully.
But, nay, she’d return to Langumont and find some way to dissuade her father from finalizing the betrothal.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Dirick’s head swam.
He closed his eyes, then reopened them carefully. Aye, the room was still shifting, tilting to one side.
Then a face bent over his.
It was a woman’s face, aged and covered with the fine, soft hair of the elderly.
“Ah, milord, you’ve come back to this world at last. ” The voice was gentle and its accompanying smile the same. “Ye gave me quite a scare, lord, for how was I to explain how a dead knight came to be in me home?” Old eyes sparked with humor, but Dirick was too weak to acknowledge it with more than a grunt. “Drink this. ” She firmly shoved a crude wooden mug of something warm and heavenly smelling at his mouth and he accepted it gratefully.