Lion's Bride - Iris Johansen [25]
“Let me go.”
He pulled her hand forward until it was in his field of vision. “Small,” he murmured. “Clean, well shaped.” His thumb rubbed one of the calluses on her forefinger. “But strong. I like your hands, Thea of Dimas.” He brought it to his lips and lazily licked the palm. “I would have been very angry if they had been crippled.”
She could scarcely breathe. “You would not have known. We would never have met. I’d never have dared to come to Damascus if I’d had only the skills I learned as a child.”
He licked her palm again. “Why would your mother be so cruel as to let her child be used so brutally?”
“My mother wasn’t cruel.” Each time he touched her palm, a strange tingling jolt went up her arm and through her body. “Don’t…do that.”
“The oil on your hands is lemon flavored. I like the taste. Why did she let you be put to that task?”
“She…had no choice. She begged Nicholas to—” She was saying too much. Dear heavens, she was feeling too much. She jerked her hand away and jumped to her feet. “Why are you questioning me? That time has nothing to do with now. My mother is dead.”
“How did she die?”
“Of the fever. Several women died that winter.” She moved hurriedly toward the door. “I will get Omar….”
“Thea.”
She stopped with her hand on the door. “I will answer no more questions.”
“I…thank you.”
Her gaze flew back to him. His big body gleamed like burnished bronze in the water, but it was his expression that held her. Gentleness from the beast?
He quickly lowered his gaze to the water. He said gruffly, “Though I had no need of your services. I was only a little stiff.” He scowled. “Well, maybe more than a little.”
A smile tugged at her lips. He sounded like a cross little boy.
“And I don’t want Omar.” He reached for the soap. “Send me Tasza.”
Her smile vanished. He was not a little boy. He was a rude, lustful brute who used women only as toys.
“As you wish.” The door slammed behind her.
Jasmine was waiting in the hall. Her gaze immediately went to the damp bodice of Thea’s gown. “You are wet. Did he put his hands on you?”
“No,” she said curtly. “I was leaning against the tub. He didn’t touch me.” Yet she felt as if he had. Her breasts felt heavy and ripe, and the palm of her hand still tingled. “I told you that was not my intention.” She turned and moved down the hall toward her chamber. “He wants Tasza.”
“Good. I will go tell her.”
Thea closed her door, then moved toward the window and threw open the shutters. The breeze rushed in, cooling her hot cheeks. Why did she respond in this manner to that man? He was rough and had the barbaric sensuality of a wild animal and was everything that was alien to her. She had thought that if ever a man were to draw her, he would be someone kind and gentle, handsome and smooth as a length of Chinese silk. Ware of Dundragon was more like strong, supple leather studded with spikes. It had been a mistake to try to help him.
Yet she could not have done anything else. He had kept his promise and given her what she needed at evidently some risk to himself. She owed him far more than a momentary easing.
“I’ve brought you another gown.”
Thea turned to see Jasmine standing in the open doorway. The woman shut the door, came forward, and draped a blue cotton gown on the back of the chair. “You cannot wear that one every day. You will soil it, as you did in Lord Ware’s bath.”
“It’s almost dry now.” That sounded ungracious so she sought to make amends. Quickly glancing at the gown, she commented, “It’s a pretty color.”
“Lord Ware gave it to Tasza, but it does not become her.”
“Tasza?” Thea repeated, startled. “She offered me her gown?”
Jasmine shrugged. “She won’t miss it. She has many gowns. When Lord Ware brings a woman to his house from the village, he gives her many presents. When she returns to Jedha, she has a fine dowry with which to make a good marriage.”
“But would a man accept a woman who—” She stopped, afraid to offend Jasmine. It was clear the servant had a fondness for Tasza. “In Constantinople men prize women