Tori Phillips - Lady Of The Knight

Her pulse skittered when he murmured the endearment to her. Rosie quelled the warm feeling. This man was too smooth to be trusted. He meant none of his sweet words. Ducking under the overhang, he carried her inside his pavilion.

Rosie drew in her breath then exhaled slowly. The interior was even more lavish than its rich ground coverings. Rose-pink silk draperies masked the plain canvas walls. The color made the pavilion glow with a soft, heavenly light. A small, but elegantly carved table stood near the center pole. Beside it was a matching armchair with a red cushion covering its seat. A thin wisp of smoke curled from a brass brazier, perfuming the air with an exotic scent.

A second tent of equal size and lavish appointments opened into the first. Rosie could see part of a large bed draped with billowing gauze. Its covers were turned back. Fat pillows nestled against the gilded headboard. Fear swept through Rosie. That bed would be the stage upon which she must act the part of a shy virgin.

The nobleman set her down on one of the wooden stools that dotted the rug. “Keep your feet up for one minute, my sweet,” he instructed.

Rosie obeyed, too stunned by her sudden turn of fortune to ask why. Her master opened one of the many chests that lined the walls of the tent and took out a piece of plain muslin. He spread it on the rug in front of her. “There now. Put your feet on that, but do not move an inch off of it. There’s a good lass.” He stepped back to the center of the tent and regarded her as if she were a horse for sale.

Just then, a boy in his early teens stuck his head through the tent opening. “Good evening, my lord. I did not expect you to return so soon.” Then he noticed Rosie. “By the book, what’s that?”

Jack replied, “Your master’s latest bauble, Jeremy.”

One of his companions chuckled. “Tell him the price.”

The boy gaped at his lord. “You paid good coin for that guttersnipe?”

Before the gentleman could reply, Jack said, “Not a coin, but an angel. In fact, thirty of them.”

“And three of my sovereigns,” the tallest one added.

The servant blanched. “For her? With all due respect, my lord, have you taken leave of your wits? Why?”

The youths laughed again. Then Jack caught his breath. “Are you so green that you cannot guess why a man buys a wench? Methinks we need to teach you the ways of the world, Jeremy.”

The boy made a rude noise.

Rosie huddled deeper inside the cape, despite the fact that the evening was very warm. She cast a quick glance at her patron to gauge his reaction. She wished they would stop talking about her as if she were a chamber pot. She shook her hair out of her eyes and returned their stares.

The noble lord appeared to take no note of the conversation around him. Instead, he continued to look at her, cocking his head to one side then to the other. He took one of the lanterns and held it up close to her face. Rosie shied away. He winked at her, then he turned to his companions.

“Well, gentlemen, there she is in all her muted glory. By my troth, she is too low for high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise. In short, she is perfect for our devices.”

Panic welled up in Rosie’s throat.

The gentleman continued, “She has a good figure—once we fatten her up a bit. Hair is a rat’s nest. Can’t even tell its true color.”

Jack made a face. “I counsel you not to touch it, Andrew. The rats may still reside therein.”

Rosie murmured an oath under her breath. That flapeared knave might look pretty but he was a double-dyed churl. Then she realized that Sir Andrew had heard her. She bit her lip.

“I agree with you, sweetheart. Our Jackanapes is a bit rough around the edges,” he whispered to her. He took one of her hands in his, studied her palms and fingers then he whistled through his teeth. “Zounds, mistress, what have you been doing with these?”

Rosie curled her fingers to hide them. “Plucking geese, scrubbing floors and washing foul linen, so please ye, my lord,” she retorted.

Sir Andrew rapped her knuckles. “And biting your nails, I see.”

Humiliated, Rosie sat on her hands to avoid further inspection by the other three who had drawn closer to look at her.

“Methinks she would have a pretty mouth—if she ever smiled,” remarked the middle one.

She glared at him. What reason did she have to smile? Any minute now, they were going to ravish her. She held her tongue and prayed that the nobleman would finish his strange examination. She wanted to get the bedding over with before she lost her nerve to hoodwink him.

The serving boy cleared his throat. “May I inquire what does my lord intend to do with this piece of baggage?”

Everyone turned toward Sir Andrew. Rosie’s heart pounded against her rib cage.

He unbuttoned his beautiful doublet. “Why, bathe her, of course,” he replied. “Tell the pot boys to heat up more water. Fetch the tub!”

Jeremy groaned. “I have just now cleaned it after your own bath.”

Sir Andrew removed his coat and hung it over the back of the arm chair. “Excellent! Then you will know exactly where to find it. Be quick, sluggard! The moon begins to wane and we have not yet supped.”

Rosie licked her lips. Food! She would bear anything Sir Andrew did to her, if he would only feed her afterward.

Jeremy disappeared with a good deal of grumbling. The three youths settled themselves on the various chests.

Jack chortled. “This will be good sport, Andrew. My thanks for providing us with such unusual amusement.”

Under the cover of the cape, Rosie trembled. None of Quince’s girls had said anything about entertaining men in a bath.

Sir Andrew rolled up the flowing sleeves of his shirt. The muscles of his forearms surprised Rosie. By his exaggerated mannerisms, she had taken him to be a languid fop. Yet, when he had held her in his arms…She pushed that delightful memory out of her mind. Obviously, her empty stomach played tricks with her fancies.

He cocked an eyebrow at the others. “I fear I must disappoint you, Jackanapes. This much maligned lass must be treated as a lady, therefore she will have privacy while at her bath.”

Jack ogled Rosie. “I have seen a good many ladies of the finest quality in their baths. Indeed, I have often joined them.”

Sir Andrew snorted. “Not tonight and not with this lady. Tis time to bide your adieus, my lads. Go pester someone else with your rude company and leave me to my pleasant one.”

The three moaned in protest. Holding her breath, Rosie prayed that Sir Andrew would prevail.

“Begone at once!” He raised his voice slightly.

The youths roused themselves and padded in their stocking feet to the entrance. They made a great show of struggling to pull on their boots.

“Tis a cruel thing that you do to us, Andrew!”

He planted his hands on his hips. “I have heard that complaint far too often to be moved by you, Brandon. Everything is cruel if it does not suit your fancy. Now, out!”

Jack bestowed a final wink on Rosie. “Remember, wench, if old Andrew goes to sleep on you—”

Sir Andrew tapped his foot. “I hear only a breeze whistling in my ears and not your words at all. Good night, my Lord Stafford.”

The tallest of the three was the last to leave. For the first time that night, he gave Rosie a genuine smile that held no lechery in it. “Mark me, lass. Andrew is a good man, despite his peculiar ways. He will treat you well.” Then he ducked low to avoid hitting his head on the cross pole.

Just as they departed, Jeremy pushed a round wooden tub into the tent. To Rosie, it looked no bigger than the wash tub she had slaved over in the scullery of Quince’s bawd house in Bankside. It was certainly too small for her, much less for the two of them. She glanced at Sir Andrew.

“Haint ever had a bath in my life before,” she murmured.

Sir Andrew opened one of his coffers. “That is quite obvious, my dear.” He took out several small bottles and lined them up on the table.

Jeremy poked his head and shoulders inside the tent. He carried a wooden bucket full of water. A curl of steam wafted from it. Without a word Sir Andrew took the bucket, poured its contents into the tub, then returned the bucket to his servant. Jeremy disappeared only to reappear a minute later with another bucketful. Rosie chewed her thumbnail.

Sir Andrew glanced at her. “You spoke, sweetheart?”

“Ye want to scald me like a goose for plucking.”

Andrew chuckled as he emptied the contents of one of the bottles into the hot water. “Tis an interesting simile, but I doubt you will cook in this broth. By the time my creeping squire and his minions have filled this tub, the temperature will be merely warm.”

Jeremy reappeared with two more brimming buckets. Rosie eyed the tub as if it might suddenly attack her. Sir Andrew removed his short gold brocade vest and stepped out of his trunks, leaving him clad only in his shirt, his bright stockings and the most unusual codpiece Rosie had ever seen. Red silk tassels hung from each of its three corners. Sir Andrew noticed her fascination. He cleared his throat.

“Is something amiss?” he asked with a wide smile.

Rosie dropped her gaze to her toes. “Nay, my lord,” she murmured. “I was just wondering why ye…that is…what manner of…A pox upon it, my lord! Why do ye truss yourself up like a mummer at a fair?”

Instead of striking her, Sir Andrew threw back his head and roared with laughter. “How refreshing you are in this old world, sweetheart! My attire is all the fashion in Italy and France, though, in truth, many Englishmen would rather die than wear such finery.”

Rosie eyed the intriguing apparel. “Then why do ye?”

Sir Andrew sprinkled some shredded herbs into the water before he answered. “Tis my own fancy and conceit, I warrant. And to amaze the ladies. Confess it— aren’t you amazed?”

She nodded. “Beyond belief, my lord.” She tried not to stare at the dancing tassels. They made her heart skip in the most wanton manner. “Are ye going to do it now, my lord?”

His eyes twinkled with pure mischief. “That depends on what it is.” He unwrapped a waxy green tablet from a piece of linen and sniffed it with appreciation. “Ah! The finest milled soap this side of Castile.”

Jeremy returned with yet more water. By now the tub looked almost too full. Sir Andrew nodded to the boy. “Good! Now away with you, my sprite. Find us something edible in the cooks’ tent. Spend an hour, and do not reenter until I call you.”

Jeremy bowed his head, then turned on his heel. He gave Rosie a nasty smirk. “Methinks you are in a fine pickle now, wench.”

Sir Andrew pointed to the entrance. “Peace, knave! Such carping is not commendable. Begone! And tie down the flap behind you.”

Black terror engulfed Rosie. She was now alone with the man who presumed her virginity. She touched the hidden vial of blood. “Are we going to do it now?” she repeated.

An easy smile played at the corners of his lips. “If it means taking a bath, you will do that now. If it means that I take my pleasure with you, the answer is—not yet.”

She released her pent-up breath.

He arched his brow. “Take off your clothes,” he murmured.

Fury almost choked Rosie. The handsome peacock had lied—just like all the knaves in her life. “But ye said—”

Sir Andrew snapped his fingers, though he continued to smile warmly at her. “Hurry, my sweet, before the water cools.”

Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Rosie stood up. She was careful not to move off her allotted piece of muslin. She untied her skirt and allowed the ragged garment to fall around her feet.