her modesty. He would see her soon enough when she had to exit their bath. “Let me wash your hair first,” he suggested.
“You?” She was surprised.
“Your tresses are beautiful, Averil, and in as much need of soap and water as were my unruly locks,” he told her.
She hesitated a moment, but then said, “Very well, my lord.” Then she stood quietly as he unpinned her long hair, rubbed in the soap, lathering it into suds, rinsing it, soaping and rinsing a second time. When he had finished Averil twisted her rope of golden hair free of water, and pinned it up once more.
“Now you smell like a field of flowers,” he said with a small smile.
“Let me wash you now, my lord, as I have been taught,” she replied. She took up another brush, soaped it, and began to scrub his back. Her hands moved swiftly, sliding beneath the warm water to wash with the cloth what she could not see. After she had laved water over his clean skin she turned him about, and washed his face, his neck and ears, his chest and his arms. “Now,” she said as she finished, “you must do the rest.”
“Will you not do it?” he asked. “Your mother said you knew well how to bathe a man, Averil.”
“Would you have me handling the private parts belonging to our guests, my lord?” she countered.
“I am not a guest, Averil. I am your husband. Now finish your task, wife, or I shall have to tell your parents that I am displeased with you,” he threatened. “And, Averil, from now on you will wash no other men. Only me.”
She swallowed hard. Then taking up the soft cloth she soaped it again, and plunged it beneath the water. She swirled her cloth about his flat belly, moving down to his groin. She rubbed gently over his pubic mound, which was covered with thick wiry hair. Delicately she washed his manhood and the pouch of life beneath it. The manhood was large, and it was very hard. It seemed to have a life all its own as it throbbed in her hand. Averil swallow nervously again. “I believe I am done,” she said, low. Then she began to wash herself.
“I want to take you here,” he said in a rough voice, and his lips were pressing against the damp nape of her neck. He pulled the cloth from her hand, and soaping it began to rub it over her breasts. “You are so damned tempting, Averil. I am not sorry that I stole the wrong girl.” His arm fastened about her waist, and he pressed himself against her body. “Did you ever think you would lose your virginity in a tub of warm water, my beautiful young wife?”
“You cannot!” she gasped. “You will shame me if you do this now!”
“How?” he demanded. The cloth had dropped away, and he was fondling her round little breast, squeezing the soft flesh, pinching the nipple lightly to make it pucker.
“There will be no bloody sheet for my da to fly. People will assume you had me when you first stole me. Or they will say I was no virgin at all, and speculate if I had a lover. Please, Rhys FitzHugh! Not here! Not now! If my virtue is questioned my sisters may suffer as well.”
He groaned. For just the briefest moment he had forgotten that she was a virgin. She was so incredibly desirable. “Get out of the tub, Averil, and wrap yourself in a drying cloth,” he said.
“But I must dry you, my lord,” she protested.
“If you put one more finger on me, wife,” he told her, “I cannot prevent myself from having you, here and now. If you want that bloody sheet displaying your innocence to fly from your father’s tower in the morning, you will do what I tell you. Now!”
Averil scrambled from the tub, taking one of the large drying cloths and wrapping herself in it, her back to him, as she toweled herself free of water. Her body was tingling, especially her breasts. The blood coursing through her veins right now boiled, she was convinced. She had been but briefly kissed. Lightly fondled. But she knew she was more than ready to lie with this man. He might not have her love yet, or her trust, but he had certainly engaged her lusts.
“Come out, now, my lord husband,” she finally told him. “I think you can trust me to dry you without further ado.”
“Aye,” he agreed as he climbed from the water. “I have managed to quiet my big boy, but not for very long, Averil. This union of ours must be consummated, you will agree.” His manhood still looked very dangerous.
“I do,” she admitted as she swiftly and efficiently dried him off. The conversation was perturbing, she considered. There had never been a man in her life before but for her father, her brother, the keep’s servants and men-at-arms. No one had ever looked at her with desire. Averil was the Dragon Lord’s eldest daughter. She was untouchable until Rhys FitzHugh had stolen her away, and ruined her chances of a rich marriage. She should be angry at this man, and she was. Yet he excited her, and the teasing glimpses he had given her of what lay ahead in their marriage bed were tempting.
He took the drying cloth from her and wiped his face. “What are you thinking?” he asked her.
Caught in her reverie she looked at him and said, “You need to scrape the whiskers from your face, Rhys FitzHugh. You look like a bear just come from its winter cave. You will find what you need on the shelf there. I must go to the chamber I share with my sisters and dress now. I will send my mother to bring you clean clothing.” And Averil hurried from the bathing room.
Outside she met her mother. “He will need clean clothes,” she said.
“Where are you going, daughter?” Gorawen asked.
“I must dress myself, Mother,” Averil replied.
“Your possessions are no longer with your sisters. While you are here you will sleep with your husband in the small room at the top of the west tower. It is already made up. Go and put on fresh garb. When you are presentable you may both return to the hall where a feast will be set to celebrate your marriage.”
Averil nodded, for she suddenly found she could not speak. She was to no longer be with Maia and Junia. She was to sleep with this husband she had gained in so reckless a manner. She almost ran up the narrow staircase to the tower chamber. Inside she found her clothing and brushes and her dower trunk. She pulled a clean chemisette from it, and removing the drying cloth from about her form she pulled it on. Her gown was of olive green silk with long tight-fitting sleeves. Over it she drew a sleeveless tunic of the same shade embroidered with gold threads. She had never before seen these garments, but she knew they were gifts from her mother on her marriage. Gorawen had exquisite taste, and was known for her generosity.
Sitting down on the bed Averil undid her hair, and taking up her brush began to brush out the long damp mass until it was reasonably dry. Then plaiting it she wrapped the braids about her head, afixing them with polished bone hairpins. She had never before dressed her hair this way but now she was a married woman, and might. She found slippers to match her gown, and slipped them on. Then she looked about for Rhys FitzHugh’s clothing, but she could find nothing for him. Hurrying from the tower room she sought her mother.
“There are no fresh garments for my husband in our chamber,” she told Gorawen.
“He has no clean garments,” Gorawen said. “Have you not noticed that he has been wearing the same clothing since you left for Aberffraw? You are his wife. It is up to you to see what garments he has are made presentable before he dresses again, Averil.”
“He must have a clean chemise and leg coverings, Mother, or washing him will have
