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began to turn and then stopped herself.
    “I want the door left open.”
    “Aye, milord,” she said on a sigh, as though familiar with the strange requests of nobility.
    Alyce left the room and positioned the door so that it was open. Christian could breathe more easily now. Closed spaces and rooms without windows left him breathless and nervous. Rising from the chair, he walked to the tub and tested the water with his fingers. Stepping carefully over the side of the tub, he allowed his legs to become accustomed to the heat. As it permeated his muscles, he sat and then slid even lower until he was covered up to his neck.
    He dipped below the water and wet his hair. Scooping out some of the soft soap in the bowl, he lathered and scrubbed his head until it tingled from his efforts. It would take more than a few baths to remove the squalor and filth of months without them, or at least the feel of those months and that filth. After his hair was soaped and rinsed several times, he settled back in the still-steaming water to relax his tense muscles.
    Christian pulled a towel into the water and over his body to keep the warmth close to him. His thoughts drifted and soon he could feel sleep overtake him.
     
    “What do you mean he asked for the door to remain open?”
    “’Tis just as I said, milady. When I was leaving the room, he called out to me and told me to leave the door ajar.”
    Emalie believed her maid, she just did not understand the request. Only the lord’s and lady’s chambers gave any measure of true privacy and that was due to the stout doors at their entrances. To leave the door open was to invite intrusion…or to simply invite.
    “Was he in his bath when you left?” Emalie demanded. At Alyce’s nod, she added, “And was he alone?”
    “Aye, milady. Fitzhugh knows Lyssa and her tricks. He ordered her out before the lord undressed.”
    Was he leaving the door open so the maid could return to him? Was he taking his pleasure with the servants in her keep even before it was his? ’Twas a fine way for the new lord of Greystone to begin.
    “I will take the ointment to him.” Emalie decided to look into this herself. If her new husband was going to make shaming her a regular occurrence, she would know it now.
    “But, milady, I told him I would bring it. Mayhap you should wait until this evening to meet him, as the queen suggested?” Alyce frowned at Emalie’s attempts to take the pottery jar from her grasp. Emalie stopped trying and held her hand out for Alyce to relinquish the jar. With a sigh, her maid finally did. Emalie picked up one more bottle, gathered her skirts and left her workroom, heading to the lord’s chamber. Alyce’s huffing and puffing followed close behind. Stopping in front of the room, Emalie leaned closer and peeked in.
    “Go quietly, milady.”
    Now it was her turn to frown. “What do you mean, Alyce?”
    “Poor lad, looked nigh to fainting from exhaustion, he did.”
    “Poor lad? That poor lad is le Comte de Langier, ” Emalie whispered in her best French accent, “one of Poitou’s finest, fair of face, and warrior extraordinaire, according to the queen.”
    “He looked like a man worn down by life to me,” Alyce answered with a snort. “Step lightly and do not disturb him if he rests.”
    Emalie gaped openly at her maid. Alyce’s softness toward this man was frightening to her. If Alyce backed him, who would stand by her side? Deciding it was time to meet this poor lad, Emalie pushed the door open a bit more and stepped into the room. The humid air swirled around her as she approached the hearth and tub. The man in the tub did not move as she walked closer.
    His head lay turned to one side and he snored lightly. She smiled as she thought of how innocent her father had appeared in sleep. Now, as she looked at Dumont, no frowns marred his strong brow and face. His hair looked to be a dark brown, but the wetness made it difficult to tell. Her gaze moved down his face and