Free Patricia Ryan - [Fairfax Family 01] by Falcons Fire Page A

slid down until only her head and knees were above water, her hair hanging over the side of the tub and spilling onto the rush-covered floor.
    Felda pulled up a stool, draped the hair across her lap, and spent a wonderfully long time brushing it. The feel of the stiff boar bristles against her scalp intoxicated her. Such sensual luxuries were foreign to Martine. She wondered what it would feel like to be caressed by a lover, and her mind instantly conjured up a picture of Sir Thorne and the black-haired kitchen wench. She saw them locked together, doing that which she had heard described, but which she had never been able to fathom anyone wanting to do—and then imagined herself in the wench’s place.
    The longing, the pulsing void deep within her belly, came as a shock. She wanted him to enter her, to consume that void. Never in her life had she felt so empty.
    “The bath smells heavenly,” Felda said. “What was that you put in the water?”
    “Lovage and oil of rosemary,” Martine murmured.
    “I seen all them oils and powders when I unpacked your bags. Beda said you had enough to set up a stall on market day.”
    Martine opened her eyes. Her chamber, barely illuminated by the light from a single oil lamp, was but a cell within the thickness of the keep’s massive stone wall. It was so small that there was barely room in it for a modest chest, the stool, and a narrow, curtained rope bed, upon which Loki now slept. The bathtub took up nearly all the remaining space.
    She took the bar of lavender-scented soap that Felda handed her and began washing up. “Some of my herbs are from the garden at the convent, some from the Paris physicians who taught at the university. I used to sneak into their lectures. One of them even let me assist him with his patients.”
    “Sit up now, dear. Let me do your hair.” Felda poured steaming water over Martine’s head, then lathered her hair with the lavender soap. “Stand up now.”
    Martine stood, and Felda poured a bucket of hot water over her to rinse her off, then began drying her with a large linen cloth. No one had ever done such things for her before, but self-consciousness soon gave way to the novel pleasure of being pampered.
    Felda tossed the damp linen into an empty bucket and helped Martine on with her wrapper. “Sir Edmond’s going to be one happy young stag when he gets your gown off on your wedding night and sees what he’s got himself. He’ll have mounted you twice before you can make it to the bed.”
    “Felda, really.” Martine regretted the reproach the moment she uttered it, but Felda’s comment had summoned afresh those disturbing mental pictures of Sir Thorne and the kitchen wench.
    “Oh, I’m sorry, milady. My big mouth is always getting away from me. Here I promised Sir Thorne I’d be such a good lady’s maid and I go prattling on about such things, and you a convent girl.”
    The boys who had poured Martine’s bath were now playing dice on the other side of the chamber’s leather curtain. Felda called them in to empty and remove the tub, then took a fresh linen and toweled Martine’s hair with it. “You must be hungry.” She handed her mistress a piece of bread and a cup of buttermilk, sat her down on the stool, and began combing her damp hair. “‘Twill be a warm night. You hair should be dry by morning.”
    The bread tasted fresh, the buttermilk smooth and tangy. Felda seemed like a good sort. Like someone Martine could talk to, someone she could ask questions of and expect candid answers. Attempting a nonchalant tone, she asked, “What is he like, by the way? Sir Edmond?”
    “He likes to hunt, milady,” Felda said, handing Martine a slice of cheese.
    “Yes, but what else? Doesn’t he do anything else?”
    Felda combed in silence for a while, then said, “You see, it’s the way he was raised. After his mum died. The Lady Beatrix, God rest her soul.” She stopped combing for a moment, and Martine knew she was crossing herself.