She warmed at the low word that seemed filled with promise. Taking a sip of the wine, she positioned her arm so it rested on her breasts, providing them with a bit of cover from his wandering gaze. She didn’t think anything farther down in the tub could be seen too clearly, although it was silly to be modest now when he’d seen everything so very closely the night before.
Had it been only a night since her world had collapsed around her? Perhaps she was being unfair to believe she could recover so quickly.
She watched, mesmerized, as he dipped one of her soft linen cloths in the water at the far end of the tub. His muscles flexed as he squeezed out the excess dampness.
“We’ll start with your face.”
Gently he touched the linen to her forehead. “And where will you end?”
He grinned wickedly. “With your toes.”
Tenderly he skimmed the cloth around her face, along her nose, over her mouth, across her chin. Then he studied her as though he were to take an exam the following day and would be required to draw a likeness of her. “I see no evidence of him.”
She nibbled on her lower lip before taking another sip of the wine.
“You don’t have his chin,” he said quietly. “You look exactly like the woman in the photograph behind whose skirt you were hiding.”
Her smile was small, tentative. “My mum.”
He nodded. “You’re not as old, of course, but all the lines are the same.”
“I’ve been told on numerous occasions that I’m her spitting image.”
“Believe it.”
“But he had to have given me something.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Maybe it’s something deep within me, something that can’t be seen.”
“Your spleen perhaps.”
With a choked laugh, she looked at him, at the twinkle in his eyes, and felt the tiniest spark of joy.
“Definitely not your heart, sweeting.”
Although her heart was beginning to feel as though it wasn’t hers any longer, was beginning to feel as though it might belong to Matthew. He reached for the milled soap, settled it in the palm of his large hand, and dipped it in the water, avoiding her raised knee, avoiding touching any aspect of her. Then he was rubbing it over the cloth, saturating it with the fragrance wafting up as a result of his actions.
He seemed at once intrigued and awed. “So this is why you always smell like oranges.”
“That, and I have one every morning for breakfast. When I was little, I’d stick my finger in the pulp and dab it along my throat, like it was perfume.”
“Imitating your mother putting on perfume?”
“No, she would never spend coins on something so frivolous. She’d put a spot of vanilla behind her ears. Mick brought her an expensive bottle of perfume once. It just sits on her dresser, never used. I think she believes it to be too precious because one of her children gave it to her.”
“She sounds like a remarkable woman, your mother.” With the cloth covering his palm, he glided it over her neck and shoulders, massaging as he went, and she feared she’d never be able to take another bath without reliving these sensations.
He took the cloth only to where the water lapped against her breasts. He didn’t dip there, even though she wouldn’t have objected. He closed his hand around her arm and lifted it from the water. She watched as his jaw momentarily clenched and his eyes shuttered. “You abraded yourself.”
“I scrubbed too hard,” she whispered, “but it made no difference.”
“It’s not harshness that’ll do the trick. It’s tenderness.” He washed her arm with such deliberate care that she nearly wept.
Remarkably, when he was done, she felt as though the skin were pristine. Wherever he touched, she felt renewed, unsullied. Taking the now empty wineglass from her, he proceeded to wash her other arm. “You’re very good at this.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about doing it.”
A jolt of surprise hit her. “You’ve thought about washing me?”
Folding her fingers over his hand, he brought them to his lips and pressed a warm kiss there, all the while holding her gaze, challenging her. “I’ve thought about doing a lot of things with you.”
