His steady confidence did much to make her trust in this fresh start of which he’d spoken. And Hamish and Niall would be fine. She sagged with relief, draining the rest of her wine.
“Feel better now?” he asked.
“Immensely.” Everything was working out perfectly.
“Good.” He rose and took the goblet from her hands. Was that a gleam she saw in his eyes, she wondered, or was it only that she wasn’t used to seeing them so clearly?
She got her answer when he began ripping off his clothes.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“Joining you,leannan. I’m grubby as hell.”
“B-but…together?” She half rose out of the tub.
With a hand on her shoulder, he pushed her back down. “Together.”
“You’re jesting,” she said. “And you’re hurt.”
But as his gaze held hers, his words that first night in Scotland slipped through her thoughts:I’d like to see all of you wet.
And she knew he wasn’t jesting at all.
“Aye, I hurt a bit,” he admitted. “But I trust you’ll be gentle.” Opposite her, he stepped into the water.
“Your bandage!”
“Stop being such a worrywart, lass. I’m more comfortable with it on.” As he lowered himself, he nodded toward her tattered chemise. “There’s another where this one came from.”
She sat motionless as his legs slid beneath her own, then gasped when he grasped her by the waist to bring her up and onto his lap. But his small grunt of pain didn’t seem to signal any loss of enthusiasm. His lips went to hers immediately, the kiss deepening while he reached back to arrange her legs around his body.
Lulled by his mouth and his hands roaming her wet skin, she pressed closer. Below, where her body met his, a hot stab of desire took her by surprise.
Dear heavens, he was right there, almost inside her.
He smiled against her lips. “Not yet,leannan. We haven’t washed.”
“I’ve washed already.”
He reached for the soap behind her head. “Then you can wash me,” he suggested, holding it out.
At the silky tone of his voice, her heart pounded wildly, and when she took the soap, it slipped from her fingers and plunged to the bottom. His knowing smile only flustered her further while she fished in the water for the hard-milled ball. But when she brought it up and its scent wafted to her nose—her lavender fragrance, not his sandalwood—a wicked idea took hold in her mind.
Languidly, she passed the soap back and forth in her hands. “I’ll wash you,” she told him, “but only if you promise not to move. Not your arms, not your legs, not anything.”
“Not even my head?” He lurched forward and stole a kiss.
Her lips tingled as she firmly pushed him back. “Not even. Not even one inch.”
Contemplating that, he ran his tongue over the chip in his tooth, and she wished it were her tongue, instead. “Why?” he asked.
“You’re injured. You mustn’t strain yourself. And besides…” Her lips curved in a calculating smile. “I wish to play Poseidon and rule these waters. Because I owe you. For the dungeon.”
“Sweet Mary,” he breathed as she lathered her hands. Dropping the soap on purpose this time, she smoothed her palms over his shoulders, tracing circles down his back until her fingers met the binding around his ribs. Then up again, slowly, slowly, as his eyes slid shut and his head tilted back.
“Don’t move,” she reminded him, a little breathless. Feeling daring, she ran her hands down his chest, skimming the bandage until they met warm skin below. And down. All the way down.
That part of him moved—more than an inch—before his eyes flew open. “Are you sure I didn’t drown?” he husked out.
