Free Montbryce Next Generation 03 - Dance of Love by Anna Markland

her only motivation to ease his pain. But that was not the whole truth. She wanted to touch him, everywhere. These wanton urges left her gasping for breath as she turned the handle of the heavy door of the Still Room. The door creaked on its hinges and she clung to it for a moment, lifting the candle high with her free hand to illuminate the shelf where the precious oils lay, ready to release their mystical powers.
    She set the candle down on the bench. Her hand shook as she drew her finger in front of the row of vials. Which to choose? She decided to take a risk and bring the Garden of Love, and the infuser. She reached for the spikenard, then changed her mind. Too soon.
    Gathering her supplies into a satchel, she retrieved the candle and proceeded to Izzy’s chamber, her heart thudding in her ears.

CHAPTER TWELVE
    Izzy sat on the edge of his bed, feeling foolish. A maiden was coming to his chamber to put her hands on him and he had no idea what to do. Should he disrobe? Keep his boots on or take them off? Sit on the bed or in a chair? Let his rock hard shaft have its way, or control himself?
    He shook his head. Forcing Farah was not what he wanted, and he doubted she would surrender her innocence willingly. If she had survived life in a harem and the streets of Jerusalem intact, he would not be the one to steal her maidenhead. He lay down impatiently on his back, fisting his hands at his sides, wondering if he had time to see to his own needs before Farah arrived.
    A tap at the door had him cursing. He fell off the bed in his haste to compose his clothing. “ Entrez !”
    The candle she carried illuminated Farah’s face as she peeked cautiously into the chamber. He had thought all angels had fair hair. She seemed relieved, perhaps because he was still clothed. He took the candle from her, snuffing it out.
    “There is enough light with the torches and the firelight,” he rasped, wondering what had happened to his normally deep voice. He coughed to clear the persistent lump in his throat. “Shall I sit in a chair while you administer to me?”
    She must think me an idiot.
    The corners of her mouth edged up. “ Non , Izzy. Lie down on the edge of your bed, after you have removed your boots.”
    She walked to the sideboard and placed a satchel on it. Despite his determination not to blush, he felt his face redden, but did as she bade him. She returned to his side and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. “You won’t need your dagger—I hope.”
    He laughed then at his foolishness, despite the warmth of her hand seeping through the fabric of his tunic, relieved she had eased the tension between them. He had never given a thought to his dagger. He was rarely without it. When his affliction flared, swordplay was beyond his capabilities. A dagger he could manage. He pulled it from its scabbard and handed it to her.
    “I sometimes forget I carry it. It’s the only weapon I can handle when my—”
    Why am I telling her this?
    “And the scabbard,” she insisted. If she had sensed his embarrassment, she hid it well.
    He undid the fastening, lifted his hips, and slid it from beneath his body. She tucked the dagger back into its leather sheath and whirled off to the other side of the chamber, the hem of her silken robe swishing on the wolf skin rugs. He was glad she still wore eastern garb. At first he had found it offensive, but now it seemed fitting, a part of her exotic nature.
    He heard the sound of his weapon being placed on the sideboard. He turned his head to see what she was doing, but her back was to him. She reached out one arm to a wall sconce, a twisted spill held in her elegant fingers. The sleeve of her robe fell back to reveal her bare arm. He groaned inwardly and looked away. He smelled the flame when the spill caught. She busied herself. It sounded like she was washing her hands. He licked his lips and closed his eyes.
    Soon an aromatic fragrance took the place of the odour of the burning sliver of wood.