Immortal Champion by Lisa Hendrix Page B

perfectly to his, as he’d known it would.
    “I dreamed of you,” she whispered against his mouth. “So many nights, I wished you would come. Wished you would take me—” Muffled voices in the passageway made her stop short. “Ah, curse it. She is too quick.”
    She pushed out of his arms, whirling to face the hearth just as Lucy came in, followed by two maids whose arms were laden with clothes.
    Gunnar stood there half stupefied, Eleanor’s taste lingering on his lips, her words ringing in his skull. Wished you would take me. Oh, yes, he would happily do that. But the sane part of him, the part not in rut, said she hadn’t finished the thought. Surely she hadn’t been so boldly asking him to take her. Trying to regain control, he stalked over to the table and poured himself a cup of wine.
    Eleanor turned to Lucy with an easy smile, the roses in her cheeks looking like they might well come from the heat of the fire. “You were quick.”
    “I knew you were anxious, my lady.”
    “Aye, I am. And so, Sir Gunnar, I may at last give you your gifts.” Eleanor motioned one of the maids forward, her cool manner giving no sign of the heat they’d shared, a fair measure of which still clung to Gunnar like cobwebs. “First these. I began them when I heard that you had left without waiting for new clothes from the duchess. I knew yours were burned and that you would need something warm for your travels. However, I did not know it would take so long to give them to you.”
    Garment by garment, she showed him a heavy winter traveling cloak and a full set of clothes to go with it, draping each piece in turn over the high-backed chair that Lucy pulled near. Then the other maid stepped forward, and Eleanor showed a second set of clothing, finer this time, cut from velvet and figured silk rich enough for a great lord. Together, they made up more clothing than Gunnar had owned at one time since he’d left home. They must represent months of work. Perhaps years. His lust faded away as he absorbed it all.
    “You sewed all this?” he asked, stunned, when she had finished. “For me?”
    “For no one else.”
    “Every stitch by her own hand, monsire ,” added Lucy. “She would not accept even my help, beyond the measuring and cutting.”
    “My lady,” said Gunnar, and then could say no more. She’d sewn for him. No one had sewn for him except for pay since before he’d sailed. He swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump that clogged his throat, but it only thickened.
    She rescued him by taking the wine cup from his hand. “Come. I had to guess at the size from what I remembered and what Lucy could add. Let us see if I came close, or if I must make changes.”
    “But I—”
    “Try them, monsire ,” urged Lucy, and Gunnar found himself shedding his worn gown. Lady Eleanor stepped forward holding his new chemise. Ever aware of his scars, he kept his back to the wall while he stripped off his old one and pulled on the new in a single motion.
    He smoothed and tested it and nodded in approval. “If you guessed as well with the other things, they will fit very well.”
    “I used ties rather than hooks or buttons, as they are more forgiving if I guessed poorly,” explained Eleanor as he reached for the long-sleeved doublet that Lucy held out. “And everything fastens in front, to make it easier for you in your travels.”
    “It will be that,” he assured her. With each tie he tied, the doublet formed itself to his body, until it fitted more closely than any garment he’d ever worn. It was time, he supposed. He’d been avoiding the new style of clothes in the fear they would bind, but the old, loose gowns were more and more the mark of cottars and not knights. When he flexed his arms and shoulders, testing, he found more than enough ease. “It is comfortable.”
    “You sound surprised. Have you no faith in my skills? Let me see.” She stepped around behind him and ran her hands over his shoulders to check the fit of