Free Lady of Fire by Anita Mills

The mutually hated name hung in the air between them, with each reluctant to acknowledge its presence. Finally she nodded. "He was here last week."
    "Prince Henry told me."
    Her voice dropped to a near-mumble. "He means to wed with me, Roger. I… I cannot do it! I do not think myself cowardly, brother, but I cannot wed with such as he."
    He clasped her hand reassuringly and would have drawn her down next to him, but he looked into those dark eyes ready to brim with tears and he had to look away. The time was not yet. "Lea—Henry and I will see that you do not have to. But for now," he changed the subject, "I would have my bath."
    "Nay"—she shook her head even as she knelt to unwrap his cross-garters. "I have thought much on it, Roger, and I am decided that I would prefer the Church to marriage with the Devil."
    "Nay! Lea, it will not come to that. Let me rest but a little and I will tell you what we must do." Her head was bent beneath him so that he could look upon the shining dark crown of her hair. By the saints, but she was beautiful. With an effort, he tore himself away and tried to study the hanging on the wall. It depicted Satan tempting Christ. Her hands were cool and light to the touch, but they seemed to burn him wherever they brushed against his bare skin. He'd had his share of wenches—none lasting more than a day or two—but none had ever affected him like Lea. Why was it that that which is most unattainable is most desirable? All he knew was that ever since the day when she'd brought him to the Conqueror's notice, the same day he found out they shared no common blood between them, he'd yearned for her with something that went beyond mere desire. In his saddle, in his bed, on the battlefield even, she was never completely out of his thoughts. But now that Curthose had allowed her to be given to Belesme, it was time to act. And later, sometime when she was safe, he would tell her how he felt—tell her what he wanted most in this world—and he would hope against hope that it would be what she wanted also. But for now, he dared not risk telling her he was not her brother.
    "Roger?" She had finished the cross-garters and was peering anxiously at him. "Are you all right?"
    "Aye."
    "Well, you will have to stand if I am to finish this. I cannot remove your braichs with you sitting."
    He rose self-consciously while she undid the waist and let them slip to the floor. And there he stood naked before her.
    "But you are beautiful. Roger, I never imagined a man to be beautiful."
    He reddened uncomfortably, both pleased she'd found him pleasing and embarrassed by his own growing reaction. He had to get into the water. He turned away to hide himself and eased his body into the tub. Water sloshed over the sides and splashed against the stone floor.
    "Where do I start?"
    "Nay. You sit over there and talk to me and I'll wash myself."
    "Nay, you are too tired." She picked up the soap and wet his hair, then worked her fingers through the thick, tousled blond waves. Unlike most Normans, his hair did not lie flat and straight across his forehead. He looked like she imagined angels looked except for the two days' growth of pale stubble on cheeks and chin. When she satisfied herself that she'd gotten it clean, she began to rinse the hair, first with the bath water itself and then with a pitcher of clear water set beside the tub. While she located a dry cloth for his head, he finished lathering his body. She filled the pitcher again from a larger one and started pouring it over his shoulders. His head was leaned back and his eyes closed again. Without thinking, she leaned forward and brushed his lips. His eyes flew open and he ducked his head.
    "God's teeth, Lea! Do not do that!"
    "Why? You are my brother."
    "I am a man."
    Stung, she set aside the pitcher and turned away. "I am sorry, Roger—I didn't mean it like that—I saw little enough harm." The dark eyes were brimming again with unshed tears as she fought against a lump that