The Black Lyon

followed the contours of the wide shoulders to his arms, her hands generously soaping the hair on his forearm. His fingers were long and beautifully shaped, the nails smooth and well cared for. There was an especial pleasure in the feel of her own sensitive fingertips against that hard palm, the callousing reminding her of the strength of the enormous man who sat docilely under her exploring hands.
    His chest was of iron, the granite of it relieved only by the covering of bronzed flesh and the thick mat of curling black hair. She lathered the sable mat vigorously, watching it twine around her fingers, her hands small and light against the dark mass.
    His neck was indicative of all the reserved, restrained power of the knight, the muscles lengthened and tightened from years of strenuous training. Her fingers traced the steel tendon that ran down the back of his neck to his spine. She pressed on it with a great deal of strength, but Ranulf seemed not to notice. She smiled and looked, for the first time, at his face.
    He stared at her with the strangest expression on his face. For some reason, she felt the blood stain her cheeks. She did not know where she erred. Her mother had bid her bathe their guest, and she did but obey. She knew she enjoyed the task; was that showing on her face?
    “I think I displease you. My mother has ever meant to train me in this bathing. Mayhaps I am too slow?”
    “Nay.” His voice was hardly more than a whisper—harsh, ragged. “If you wish to cease…”
    “But I have not finished.” She tried to conceal her blushes. “Close your eyes,” she ordered, no longer able to bear his scrutiny.
    She could continue in peace, now, to look at him, still and quiet, trusting her, waiting patiently for her gentle washing. She ran light fingers over the handsome face, feeling the thin scar along his cheek, not able to resist the sculptured curves of his lips. Her own lips seemed to burn, even her teeth to tingle as her body remembered his kiss. His lashes moved, as if he were about to open his eyes, so she quickly ran a soapy finger over each eyelid. She did not want him to see her, for she feared her thoughts would show on her face. She must remember that this man was a king’s earl. When he left in a few days, she wanted no memories that would shame her.
    She splashed warm water on his face to rinse it and then soaped his hair, a great thick down of black locks that curled and twisted in an unruly way. She rubbed his scalp hard.
    “You must tell me if I hurt you.”
    His grunt made her laugh, for he left no doubt as to his thoughts on her ability to hurt him. She poured a bucket of water over his head to rinse him.
    She moved to the end of the tub and motioned for a leg to come out, and she ignored his muffled protest. She was delighted to find that his legs also were covered in short, dark hair.
    With the last leg done, she looked up at him, seeing an expression of contentment on his face, the muscles relaxed, his wet hair clinging closely to his head. She could not help but laugh, and he looked at her in surprise.
    “My father, my maids and your men walk about you on their toes, as if they fear you, yet I do not think you look so fearful at this moment. The Black Lion looks more like a drowned puppy.”
    Ranulf glared at her, but one corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. “I cannot see how such a lovely lady as your mother was cursed with such a mannerless daughter. Now stop your fun of me and fetch that rinse water.”
    He stood up from the tub with his back to her, and she paused to look at his nude body, glistening with water, the firelight playing on the droplets that shadowed and highlighted the bronzed muscles.
    Ranulf cast a glance over his shoulder, questioning her long pause. In spite of her good intentions, she had soaked the entire front of the figure-molding tunic, leaving little to his imagination. He turned away quickly. “Lyonene, that water grows cold!”
    She did not seem to notice the unneeded sharpness in his tone, but quickly stood on the stool and poured water over his magnificent body. She turned away as he took one of the towels warming before the fire and did not look again until he stood before her clad in a brief loincloth.
    He smiled at her, teasingly. “I vow I have not been bathed so since my mother bore me. Are you sure you have not done this many times?”
    “Nay, only once.” The memory made her smile as she tried to control her laughter. “That