A Ranger's Temptation
Chapter Four
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The
soapy, slightly scented water felt good to Aragorn as he immersed himself
to the neck in its cloudy depths, and then dunked his head under briefly.
When he surfaced again and settled back against the tub's edge, his arms
resting casually on its sides, he found that Meredith had turned around,
and was now watching him with a look both oddly innocent and hopeful. He
smiled warmly. "Thank you for this," he said, hoping his genuine gratitude rang clear in his voice. With the elves, he had been accustomed to bathe frequently, but his life as a Ranger now made it difficult. He had grown used to going without bathing, and did not mind its absence; however, it still felt good when he was able to have a bath, even if he was not the first to use the water. He took up the bar of soap and prepared to wash his hair. A soft touch on his shoulder made him start, and he looked around to see Meredith standing behind him. "Shall I wash your back for you?" she asked. Her words were plainly spoken; she seemed to want very much to do the Ranger this small service, and he was inclined to let her have her way. Still, though, there was the matter of Bill Ferny in the deep recesses of Aragorn's mind. He sighed--imperceptibly, he hoped--and decided the girl meant well. After a short pause, he said, "Certainly," and leaned forward somewhat in the tub. He could feel her behind him, sense her presence long before he felt the gentle press of her hands on his wet skin. He felt her move the cloth she held in slow, gentle circles along the tense muscles of his back, and closed his eyes, willing himself to relax and enjoy the bath. And with his eyes closed, the room around him faded away, replaced by a fantasy mixed with memory, of an elaborate chamber in Rivendell, of long elven fingers working a cloth across his back--no, rubbing his shoulders directly--and of Arwen's delicate scent. He drew a sharp intake of breath at the sudden rush of emotion swelling within him. Aragorn's brief reverie was broken when he heard Meredith take up the bar of soap, dip it into the water and lather her hands well. He felt her rub the soap into his hair with firm but gentle strokes, her hands seeming almost to caress his head. She was good at this, he conceded. But still, she was not Arwen. And yet, though the Ranger missed his betrothed, he found this woman's presence, disturbingly, a comfort. He realized that, strangely, he felt nearer to her now than he had when the two of them had shared a bed. Without opening his eyes, he asked her softly, "Meredith...how did you come to be here? Why did your family disown you?" He heard her drop the bar of soap into the water abruptly, felt her fingers cease their motions through his hair. He opened his eyes and leaned his head back, craning to find her face, to see her reaction to what he'd asked played out therein. Even upside-down, he could see the reaction was not a favorable one. She had a soapy hand pressed to her lips, and her pale cheeks had gone crimson with emotion. Aragorn squirmed around in the tub, until he was somewhat facing her, and took her trembling hand from her mouth, pressing it between his own. "I am sorry if my question caused you pain," he said gently. He searched her emerald eyes, now liquid with brimming tears. "No, Sir--I mean, Strider. I shall tell you, as you've asked. Not more than six months ago now, I had the love of a young lord--not a prince or anything, mind you, but still the son of a man of a good family--a better one than mine. My parents encouraged our courtship, as it would've improved our social standing somewhat. And oh--I did love him!" Aragorn saw how her vision unfocused with memory, how her features glowed with a forgotten fondness for the boy she'd loved. He smiled at her, knowing full well she was too caught in her own reverie to notice. "I did love him, and he was handsome and good to me. He gave me many fine gifts and wrote me little poems and did all the things a good man should do for his lady." Her forest eyes grew dark then, as if enveloped in the clouds of an oncoming storm. "And then he took from me the one gift that he had no right to take--that he would've gotten anyway, when we were wed." Aragorn's smile turned to an indignant scowl. "He raped you?" Again, her pale flesh burned with scarlet heat. "Well...not exactly. I loved him, you see. And so, when he begged of me to...lie with him, I...." She dropped her head to her chest. "And your family discovered this?" he finished for her, as she appeared unwilling to continue. "He fought bitterly with his father over me, but his father claimed me spoiled, and broke off the marriage negotiations," she said finally after heaving a great sigh. "And my family, seeing no gain in keeping a ruined daughter, put me out on the streets. I've lived hand-to-mouth, mostly, until Mr. Butterbur and then Mr. Ferny offered me employment." It was an old, familiar story--one that had been played out countless times and had never left anything but broken hearts and broken lives in its wake. Coming from a comfortable home, she probably had few skills that would be useful for earning a living, Aragorn reflected. It was not surprising that she had ended up as she had. She seemed to pull her thoughts back to the present place and time, shaking her head slightly. "Now then, let me finish with your hair," she said briskly, bending over to fish the soap out of the buttom of the tub. The water was deep enough that she had to plunge her arm in almost to the shoulder in order to reach it. Aragorn felt her questing hand brushing against his thigh, and he hurriedly retrieved the soap himself, handing it to her. He did not wish to travel that road again--not tonight. Or at least, he reflected, in his heart he did not wish it. Before he turned away, she straightened up again, a wet spot spreading across the bodice of her nightshift where it had touched the water, and began once again to lather her hands. "I could wash my own hair?" Aragorn suggested gently, hoping that, to Meredith, it would sound more like a command than the question it had been as it slipped from his lips. "Not at all. You have paid good coin for a bath, and it is my duty to see that you have every service." She said it not playfully, but seriously, as a girl accustomed to doing as she was bidden. He smiled warily. "I suppose I cannot argue with that." Aragorn closed his eyes and settled back against the tub. As she again ran her fingers through his longish dark hair, he pondered the story she had told him, and her insistance on servitude. He was sorry to see it, really; Meredith was comely and resourceful, and she seemed intelligent as well, though her actions were clouded by fear of reprisal from the men for whom she worked--whether as a long-term employee or simply for the evening. He wondered to himself what kind of woman she would be, if that fear were removed. If, perhaps, she would even have the spirit of an elf princess, if the circumstances had been different... Her fingers had slipped from his hair to his shoulders, and she now eased the tension from him with a deft kneading motion that she seemed quite accomplished at performing. Aragorn let a soft moan escape his lips, thoroughly enjoying the comforts Meredith was providing for him, and shuddering at how like they were to another memory of another time. He felt her hands circle down his chest, felt her breath in his ear as she leaned into him further, sliding her hands from his chest to graze his abdomen, and from there to his raised knee and thigh. He trembled a bit from her pleasurable touch, nearly forgetting his earlier thoughts on her need to serve--until her hand slipped down his thigh to his groin. Aragorn's eyes flew open. *Elbereth! The girl is persistant!* he thought, trying hard to ignore her ministrations. Finally--though, to his shame, somewhat reluctantly--he grabbed her wrist, gently but firmly, and pulled her hand away. "But...Strider...," she said, her voice small. "I only wish to please y--" "Let me...," Aragorn began, but his sentence ended there, as he was unsure how to finish it. A part of him wanted this girl to know happiness; he wanted her to have better that Bill Ferny and random men in an inn. And a part of him--a deeper, more primal part of him--simply wanted her. He released her wrist and stood, soapy water dripping from his exquisitely muscled form. Meredith eyes widened for a moment, as he watched her watching him--the curling dark hair of his narrow, but well-defined, chest trailing onto the tight abdominals of his stomach, his arms and legs and body marred here and there with thin white scars where he'd been wounded in fights long since over, and then the trail of hair continuing its dark passage beyond his navel, downward, to where her gaze had rested. He followed her eyes as she surveyed him, and understood in an instant both his own thoughts, and hers. "I would like to borrow your towel, as well," he said evenly, his jaw set. He knew he could not lead her, knew in his mind and his heart that it was wrong to lead her, that it wronged Meredith and Arwen and his own sense of honor and propriety. And still, it seemed like an agonizingly long time before she took up the thin towel and thrust it out to him. "I am sorry it is not dry," she said, though she didn't seem to be apologizing, quite... She continued to watch him, unnervingly, as he rubbed the towel down his lean, muscled legs. At first he could not read the expression on her face, but then he realized that it was a wistful longing. Perhaps she wanted to lie with him again, even if not for coin. And all her life, men had told her what she could and could not have. He wanted to give her the chance to have what she wanted without begging permission for it. And yet, he knew--knew beyond knowing--that this was impossible. He could not give her this. His body, however, seemed in disagreement. He covered his shameful state with the towel, and cursed his mortal's weakness. GO TO Chapter Five BACK to Chapter Index BACK to GypsieRose Index BACK to Fanfic Index BACK to Main Page |