She wet her lips. “Take off your shirt and let me see your injuries.”
He never broke eye contact as he unlaced his shirt and reached for the hem. A wild, reckless need to see him unclothed made her breath come too fast. Though there was no fire, the room felt overly warm.
He lifted his shirt over his head, then tossed it. She watched its flight until it landed on the bed. She stared at the bed a moment too long before looking back at Gareth.
Once, Margery had thought he looked like the statue of an angel, but she was wrong. He had the sculpted muscles and physical beauty of a statue, but he was clearly a man: a man with golden eyes that saw through her pretenses to the wildness underneath. If she walked to him, he would take her in his arms.
Then she noticed blood and purple bruises marring the perfection of his skin.
“Gareth!”
His name was barely a whisper on her lips as she saw what damage a blunted sword could do. Bruises dotted his skin, some the exact width of a sword. Red welts oozed trickles of blood.
He stared at her lips. “They look much worse than they feel. An ordinary day’s training can give a man these meager injuries.”
“I’ve lived beside soldiers my entire life, Gareth, and these are not ordinary injuries. Sit down on this stool, please.”
Margery tried to be objective; she had washed and treated many wounds. But the thought of touching Gareth’s bare skin made her feel all hot inside, especially between her thighs.
He wasn’t helping much. He sat down, bringing him to her eyelevel. He didn’t even blink as he stared at her, his eyes molten.
Though it was difficult, she broke their shared gaze and wrung a cloth in the basin of steaming water on her tray. Then she walked around him and stopped at his back. His head turned. She wanted to rest her cheek against his skin, to press her mouth to his. Her fingers itched to reach over his shoulder and trail through the scattered hair on his chest.
Using soft strokes, she washed his back, pausing often to rinse the cloth. She felt flushed and so boneless she could collapse against him at any moment. She dipped the cloth again and moved around to his front.
She didn’t look into his face—she couldn’t. His gaze was like a physical thing. She stood between his knees to wash his wounds, and touched him as she’d only touched one other man. But even that had never affected her like this. She was breathless with longing, with the excitement of doing the forbidden.
Somehow she had to distract herself.
15
Margery said, “My suitors have decided to return to London after the celebration.”
Gareth listened to her voice, husky, low, arousing. Never had he let a woman affect him so. Though she was only tending his wounds, a shudder moved through him as if she were making love to him.
He stared in surprised fascination at her hands. She took a fresh cloth and dipped one edge in wine. Her free hand rested on his shoulder as she dabbed the welt on his arm. He was light-headed from the smell of roses, and the danger of her secrets seemed far away.
“Why did the noblemen decide to leave?” he finally asked. He knew he had the upper hand, yet his voice sounded dazed.
“I think your battle this morning brought to light a division among themselves. They found it amusing to court me as a group, but never considered how competition could divide them.”
“They’ve been divided? It hasn’t seemed that way to me.”
Her eyes glistened with angry satisfaction as she dried him off with a towel. “Gareth, they’ve become so quarrelsome that some were backing you this morn.”
“Hard to believe,” he murmured. His gaze followed the tumble of her hair down to her breasts. If he reached out now, he knew she’d let him touch her. He could barely resist dragging her to the floor beneath him. He wanted to pull her clothes off and lick her body as if it were the sweetest marzipan candy.
“I’ve promised that I would see them all again at Avery Cabot’s annual tournament. Have you attended before?” She reached into a glass jar until her fingers were coated in something gray, like old grease.
“Until they refused to invite me. What is that?” he asked, grabbing her wrist before she could touch him.
“A salve to protect your wounds,” she said in a bewildered, dreamy voice.
He watched her eyes drop down his body. “I won’t need it,” he said. “Besides, it will get all over the bed.”
What would she do if he led her there now? Once again, they were alone in a bedchamber. Her blushes were lovely.
“I have bandages,” she said. “And why did the Cabots refuse to invite you?”
